Transcriber’s Note: Stories that were originally split over pages,
with adverts and/or other stories in between, have been recombined.





[Illustration]

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WEIRD TALES

THE UNIQUE MAGAZINE


EDWIN BAIRD, Editor

Published monthly by THE RURAL PUBLISHING CORPORATION, 325 N. Capitol
Ave., Indianapolis, Ind. Application made for entry as second-class
matter at the postoffice at Indianapolis, Indiana. Single copies, 25
cents. Subscription, $3.00 a year in the United States; $3.50 in Canada.
The publishers are not responsible for manuscripts lost in transit.
Address all manuscripts and other editorial matters to WEIRD TALES, 354
N. Clark St., Chicago, Ill. The contents of this magazine are fully
protected by copyright and publishers are cautioned against using the
same, either wholly or in part.

Copyright, 1923, by The Rural Publishing Corporation.

                  VOLUME 1      25 Cents      NUMBER 2




Contents for April, 1923

  SIXTEEN THRILLING SHORT STORIES
  TWO COMPLETE NOVELETTES
  TWO TWO-PART STORIES
  INTERESTING, ODD AND WEIRD HAPPENINGS


    The Scar                                          CARL RASMUS       7
        _A Thrilling Novelette._

    Beyond the Door                                    PAUL SUTER      23
        _A Short Story of Gripping Interest._

    The Tortoise Shell Comb                      ROYLSTON MARKHAM      34
        _A Fantasy of a Mad Brain._

    A Photographic Phantasm                         PAUL CRUMPLER      37

    The Living Nightmare                          ANTON M. OLIVER      38
        _A Night in a House of Death._

    The Incubus                                  HAMILTON CRAIGIE      42
        _A Frightful Adventure in an Ancient Tomb._

    The Bodymaster                                    HAROLD WARD      49
        _An Amazing Novelette._

    Jungle Death                                 ARTEMUS CALLOWAY      70
        _A Story in Which Crocodiles and Voodooism Play the
                             Stellar Roles._

    The Snake Fiend                             FARNSWORTH WRIGHT      75
        _A Tale of Diabolic Terror._

    A Square of Canvas                             ANTHONY M. RUD      81
        _A Story of an Insane Artist._

    The Affair of the Man in Scarlet                JULIAN KILMAN      91
        _A Weird Story of the Thirteenth Century._

    The Hideous Face                                 VICTOR JOHNS      99
        _A Grim Tale of Frightful Revenge._

    The Forty Jars                                RAY MCGILLIVRAY     105
        _A Strange Story of the Orient._

    The Whispering Thing     LAURIE MCCLINTOCK and CULPEPER CHUNN     116
        _A Two-part Novel of Death and Terror._

    The Thing of a Thousand Shapes            OTIS ADELBERT KLINE     139
        _The Concluding Chapters of a Weird Novel._

    The Conquering Will                                 TED OLSON     152
        _Do the Dead Return to Life?_

    Six Feet of Willow                         CARROL F. MICHENER     157
        _The Strange Tale of a Yellow Man and His Beloved Reptile._

    The Hall of the Dead                      FRANCIS D. GRIERSON     163
        _An Occult Story of Ancient Egypt._

    The Parlor Cemetery                              C. E. HOWARD     169
        _A Grisly Satire._

    Golden Glow                              HARRY IRVING SHUMWAY     173
        _A “Haunted House” Story with a Touch of Humor._

    The Eyrie                                       BY THE EDITOR     179

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[Illustration]

“Good-Bye—I’m Very Glad to Have Met You”

But he _isn’t_ glad. He is smiling to hide his confusion. He would have
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mistake that he is making. Do you know what it is? Can you point it out?

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chum—and that she was going to introduce him to one of the most charming
young women he had ever seen. If he had known, he could have been
prepared. Instead of being ill at ease and embarrassed, he could have
been entirely calm and well poised. Instead of blustering and blundering
for all the world as though he had never spoken to a woman before, he
could have had a delightful little chat.

And now, while they are turning to go, he realizes what a clumsy boor
he must seem to be—how ill-bred they must think him. How annoying these
little unexpected problems can be! How aggravating to be taken off one’s
guard! It must be a wonderful feeling to know exactly what to do and say
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[Illustration]

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THE SCAR

_A Thrilling Novelette_

By CARL RAMUS, M. D.


“Thanks for the lift, Edwards. Come in for a minute, won’t you?”

“No. I was up nearly all last night, and must get some sleep.”

“To be sure! But you’ve time for a nip before you go.”

“Well—since you put it that way, and in these arid times——”

“Good! Come along.”

Dr. Herbert Carlson opened the door of his office on the first floor with
his latch key, snapped on the lights, and entered with his colleague, Dr.
Clark Edwards. Carlson hung up his overcoat and hat, and Edwards threw
his own over a chair, and then Carlson produced from an inner room a
bottle, two glasses, and a siphon of carbonic.

“Like the good old days,” smiled Edwards, sipping his glass. “_How_ do
you get it?”

“A voluntary donation from a grateful patient, a second steward on board
the—but that would be telling.”

Edwards took another sip. “I wish I had one or two patients like that!”

“You’re not likely to get them as long as you stick to _your_ specialty.”

“I suppose not—Hello! What’s all that shouting for?”

Both men listened. Newsboys were yelling an “Extra.” Carlson opened a
window, leaned far out, and drew up a paper.

“Just another bank robbery. They’re so common now as to be hardly worth
mentioning.”

“Exactly. Anything new in the Holden case?”

“Let’s see.... O yes! Here it is: ‘Father of Ina Holden gets another
threatening letter.’”

Edwards’ jaw set. “If I had my way,” he said, “every kidnapper would go
to the chair!”

“I’ll go you one better. If I had _my_ way, they’d get the Georgia
treatment!”

“What’s that?”

“Lynching!”

Edwards was silent.

“The trouble is,” Carlson went on, “that we have too much legal red tape,
too much politics, too many lawyers, and too little real law.”

“I suppose so,” said Edwards. “When we haven’t children of our own, it
takes some special circumstance to bring home to us the meaning of a
damnable crime like kidnapping. This Holden case brings it home to me.”

“Indeed!”

“Very much so. It has to do with an unusual surgical case, which I
believe was reported in the International Journal of Surgery or _The
London Lancet_ by Professor Meyerovitch.”

“I don’t remember reading it. Please tell me about it.”

“I will. It was when I was house surgeon at the Presbyterian Hospital in
Chicago. One night a child of seven was brought in with all the signs of
fulminating appendicitis. That child was Ina Holden.”

“Ah!”

“It was a private case of old Meyerovitch’s, and he decided on immediate
operation. Now Meyerovitch was one of the few really good surgeons who
wouldn’t use either the McBurney or Kamerer incision for appendicitis. He
just cut down over the trouble and through everything in one line.”

“Fool!”

“Most of us thought so then, but somehow Meyerovitch always got good
results—_always_.”

“Pure accident.”

“Perhaps so. But, anyhow, when little Ina was under the anaesthetic,
and Meyerovitch had his knife in one hand—his left, by the way—and was
testing the tension of the abdomen with the other hand, he said, ‘I will
need plenty of room here.’ And then he surprised us all by making a
reversed Senn incision.”

“I don’t seem to remember that incision,” said Carlson, after a slight
pause. “What is it?”

“An S-shaped incision devised by Nicholas Senn when he was Professor of
Surgery at Rush Medical College. You young fellows in New York don’t as a
rule know about that incision.”

“But, Edwards, as I remember, Senn recommended the McBurney method in his
book.”

“Yes, for appendicitis. He only used the S in neck operations. And so
when Meyerovitch used it on Ina Holden, it was the first time on record
for appendicitis, and probably the last.”

“Most likely. And how did the case get along?”

“Better than any of us expected. It was a drainage case, of course, and
took some time to dry up. But the wound finally healed perfectly, with no
suggestion of weakness, and left a large scar like a reversed S.”

“Meyerovitch’s bull luck.”

“Yes. I saw the child every day for more than a month and got much
attached to her. She wouldn’t let anyone else dress the wound, and after
she went home, the family often invited me to the house.”

“They’re very rich, aren’t they?”

“They are, now, but they weren’t then. Mr. Holden owned some manganese
land in California, and when the Western Pacific laid its tracks over a
corner of his property, he was a rich man.”

The colleagues silently finished their illegal glasses. Then Edwards
looked at his watch and rose from his chair.

“Good night, Herbert, and many thanks for the drink.”

Carlson, alone, looked at a memorandum that his sister had left on his
desk.

“Nothing more for tonight, thank God,” he thought with relief.

He closed and fastened the windows, bolted the door, and was passing into
his bedroom, when the telephone rang.

“Damn! Why didn’t I muffle it?”

He put the receiver to his ear.

“Well?” he said abruptly.

“Doctor Carlson speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come at once to a very sick case?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. My car is out of order, and I’m not very well
myself tonight.”

“But this case is extremely urgent, sir, and we don’t want anyone else
but you.”

“Thank you, but——”

“Please listen, Doctor. I’ll have a car for you in five minutes, and take
you home afterwards, if you’ll only come.”

“Try another doctor first.”

“We _have_ tried, but can’t find one of the only other two we have
confidence in. Money is no object. Please do reconsider, Doctor.”

“Who recommended me to you? Do I know you?”

“I do not know you personally. But you are highly recommended by the
Brooklyn Hospital. Once more let me say that your fee can be as large as
you like.”

Carlson did not answer for a while.

“All right, I’ll go,” he said at last. “What is it—a medical or surgical
case?”

After a short silence, the voice replied: “Medical, I think. But you had
better come prepared to do whatever is necessary.”

“Very well. I’ll be ready when you call for me.”

Carlson placed his medical and surgical bags on the table, put on his
overcoat and hat, and sat down to wait.

In less than five minutes he heard the _honk-honk_ of an automobile under
the window, and he picked up his two bags, snapped off the lights, and
went down to the waiting car, a large limousine.

As Carlson emerged from the house, the chauffeur got out of his seat and
opened the car door. He wore a wide slouch hat, the brim of which hung
down and so shaded his face from the corner electric light that Carlson
could not make out his features. All he was sure of was a long heavy
moustache. The lower part of the man’s face was concealed in a muffler.
He opened the door and stood as if at attention.

When Carlson was inside with his bags the man closed the door silently,
got into the driver’s seat, and the car was soon rushing up the street.
It turned at the second corner, and after that made so many sharp turns
among small and narrow and dark streets that Carlson began to feel
uncomfortable.

At last they came to a long stretch of vacant lots, and went faster for
half a minute or so, and then slowed down again. The chauffeur sounded
three _honks_—one long and two short. Carlson bent forward and peered
ahead, but could see nothing.

He did not like it at all, and he regretted that he had not brought his
revolver. He was wondering what he had got into, when, suddenly, the car
slowed down with a loud grinding of the brakes, and stopped with a jerk
that threw Carlson violently forward.

A moment later both doors opened together, and he realized that masked
men stood on either side of the car, covering him with revolvers or
magazine pistols.

Then came a few moments of the most eloquent silence that Carlson had
ever experienced. He said nothing and waited.

“Don’t be afraid, Doc,” said a thick voice, obviously disguised. “Just do
as you are told and you’ll be O. K. But if you try any stunts—T. N. T.
for you. Do you get me?”

“Yes. What do you want me to do?”

“You’ll be told later. My partner’ll sit by you now, and I’ll sit facing
you. So——”

They got inside and shut the doors, and the car started forward at high
speed.

“Sorry, Doc, but we’ll have to blindfold you,” said the masked man.

And then a heavy muffler was wound about his face.


_II_

As the car rushed on, Carlson sat still with his captors in a kind of
stupefied silence. Only that morning he had been wishing that his life
was more eventful, less commonplace. Well, here was adventure with a
vengeance.

He was only twenty-seven and he had been two years in the city. The first
year and a half had been slow and discouraging, as often happens with
young doctors. But in the last six months patients had begun to come, in
steadily increasing numbers, until now he had about all he could handle.
He was five-feet-eleven, well-built and athletic. He had clear hazel eyes
with a very direct look, and thick and wavy brown hair, which was much
admired by his women patients. All this, with good and strong features
and a pleasant expression, made an ensemble which expressed health,
confidence and efficiency.

And now what was he in for? It was hardly reassuring, especially when
blindfolded, to know that at least one gun was probably pointed at him
all the time, and that any involuntary move of his might bring a bullet
into his brain.

Yet, for all that, he did not feel exactly fear; it was more like
strained interest, a burning curiosity to know where the adventure was to
lead.

For a long time—or so it seemed—the car sped on what might have been an
isolated suburban road. Occasionally another car passed, going in the
opposite direction, but otherwise there were no other sounds than the
rolling of the limousine.

At last they slowed down and turned off to the right, and from then on,
for perhaps five minutes, the car went slowly over rough ground, turning
so frequently that Carlson lost all idea of direction.

Presently they were on a good road again, and once more traveled very
fast. More and more automobiles passed them, and they went slower and
slower, until Carlson knew they were in a town again. Once they had to
stop for a minute or two, as it seemed, at a crossing, and he distinctly
heard a policeman’s voice allowing them to make a turn to the left on a
side street. After that interruption they moved for the most part rapidly
for another five minutes or so, making several turns and passing many
machines, until they slowed down and came to a full stop.

Carlson could hear people passing to and fro on the sidewalk, talking and
laughing. He sat still, careful not to make any movement that might alarm
his captors, feeling that their weapons were leveled at him.

When at last the voices and footsteps had become almost inaudible, the
voice spoke again.

“Now, Doc—no fooling.”

He put his own slouch hat on Carlson’s head and drew the brim far down
over his face. Then he opened the door toward the curb stone and got out.

“Come along, Doc, give me your hand.”

Carlson took the hand and got out of the car. The man put his hand within
his arm and drew him across the sidewalk. Carlson heard the other man
open an iron gate, and close it again after they had passed through. A
few steps more, and another stop.

He heard a key turning in a lock, and a door open, and he was led into
a warm room. The door _clicked_ after them. A woman’s harsh voice
impatiently exclaimed:

“I thought you’d _never_ come.”

“Shut up!” said Carlson’s guide. “Here’s the Doctor. Take him upstairs.
Step lively, will you! Keep right hold of my arm, Doc.”

Carlson counted three flights of stairs, then he heard a key turned just
beyond the head of the stairway, and he was led into a room.

“Shut the door!”

It was done.

“Now take off the blinder!”

Carlson’s eyes blinked as the muffler was removed. But as soon as his
eyes got accustomed to the light, he realized that the room was only
dimly lighted.

Two men and one woman, all masked, stood nearby. One of the men had come
with him in the car. The other was a huge man, a giant. The woman was
short and rather scrawny-looking, to judge from her hands and neck.

“Now, Doc, a word with you alone,” said one of the men. “Come here!”

He stepped into a small dressing room and Carlson followed.

“Shut the door!”

Carlson obeyed.

“Now, here’s the proposition. We’ve got a sick woman on our hands—damned
sick! But she’s got in trouble with the law and the police are after her.
Get me?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Well, that’s why she dasn’t go to a hospital, and that’s why we had to
get you. Get me?”

“Go on.”

“Very good! Now your job is just this: Look at her and find out what in
Hell is the matter with her, and write out a prescription—No! That won’t
do, either. Somebody might get on to it. You’ve got your medicines with
you, have you?”

“I have some medicines in my bag.”

“Good! You’ll give me the dope she needs, and then get out and away from
here as fast as you can and keep your mouth shut. You’ll be taken home
safe, and you’ll get your money all right. Do you get me?”

“I understand.”

“Good! Just one other thing. You can’t see her face, and there can’t be
any talking, not one word. You understand?”

Carlson felt that the time had come for him to say something, and he said
it:

“You damned fool! What kind of an examination do you think a doctor can
make if he can’t see his patient or hear her talk? Have you never been to
a doctor yourself?”

The man hesitated, fingering his automatic.

“Open that door!” he commanded, after a pause. Carlson did as he was told.

“Teresa!”

She appeared so quickly that Carlson was sure that she had been listening
behind the door.

“The doctor will have to ask her a few questions, and she will have to
answer. Go and tell her. And tell her from me—that if she says anything
she doesn’t have to say—T. N. T. for her! Do you get me?”

“All right, Boss, I’ll tell her.”

She spoke with a cruel chuckle that all but made Carlson shudder. While
he waited for further orders from his captor, he tried to get a line on
the mystery he was involved in. But nothing came to him. Was the sick
woman he was about to visit a fugitive or a captive? Probably the latter;
and if so, why?

He furtively inspected the dressing-room and its contents. It was richly
and beautifully furnished—like the large bedroom it adjoined, as far as
his very brief glance had discovered. It was on a corner and had two
windows, with curtains tightly drawn. At the end, farthest from the door
of entrance, was another door, standing half open and showing a glimpse
of a lavatory and bathtub. Nothing hopeful thus far.

Then he noticed a small black box on the wall nearest the corner, with a
green cord leading from it and disappearing behind a screen. Not until
his anxious glance had shifted elsewhere did Carlson realize the possible
significance of that green cord. Surely, what else could it mean but a
telephone behind that screen! A _telephone_.

The masked woman suddenly appeared at the door.

“She’s ready for the doctor,” she snapped out viciously.

Carlson looked at his masked companion for orders.

“Go with her,” he said. “And don’t ask her no questions that are none of
your damned business! If you do, you’ll go out of this house in two or
three suit cases! Get me?”

Carlson did not answer, and followed the woman to a darkened bedside. The
man also followed, and stood at the foot of the bed.


_III_

In the dim light of a shaded table-lamp Carlson saw a large double bed of
massive and antique construction. At the head was a high and projecting
portion of carved woodwork which overhung like a canopy. On the bed he
saw the outline of a human body through the coverings.

The head showed a mass of thick dark-brown hair, unbound and falling
about the shoulders. The upper part of the face was hidden by a wide
bandage wound several times around the head. The arms were bare and lay
outside the coverlet. They were well rounded, and the hands were small
and beautiful.

Carlson stood silently beside the bed at first, watching the patient’s
deep and rapid breathing, and assembling his professional manner. The
hand nearest him was trembling slightly. As he took it up, to feel the
pulse, the arm jerked and the whole body shook, as if under profound
nervous tension. A thrill of compassion and pity ran through him as he
held the trembling little hand.

“Don’t be afraid, Madam,” he said rather huskily. “I’m the doctor. I want
to feel your pulse.”

Instantly the trembling stopped and her fingers tightened about his. He
noted the pulse rate with his other hand, and found it rapid, about 120.
The hand and wrist were burning hot.

He let go of the hand and took a thermometer from his vest pocket. After
shaking it down several times he placed it in her mouth and closed her
lips with his fingers, saying:

“Hold it that way for five minutes, please.”

Again he took her hand, pretending to count the pulse beats by his wrist
watch, but in reality thinking as hard as he could. The thermometer was
actually a one-minute thermometer, but he wished to gain as much time
as possible. When at last he took it from her mouth and held it to the
light it registered 105. Involuntarily he whistled. Here was a very sick
woman, indeed!

“How long have you been sick?”

“Three days.” The voice was soft, but deep and sweet.

“Is your throat sore?”

“No.”

“Do you cough?”

“No.”

“Have you pain anywhere?”

“I hardly know. I feel sick all over.”

Carlson thought for a minute. Three days sick, and now a temperature of
105! About time for a skin eruption to begin to show, if it was one of
those diseases. He turned to the masked virago who stood beside him.

“I must have more light,” he said abruptly.

The woman hesitated and looked toward the man.

“What about it?” she jerked out.

“What’s the matter with this light?” the man snapped angrily.

“Just that it isn’t enough for me, that’s all! She may have typhus or
smallpox—”

“Hell!” The man jumped backward so quickly that he upset a small table
and chair.

“Damn her!” screamed the woman, retreating to the wall.

Carlson, being a doctor and often in contact with contagious and
loathsome diseases, had not counted on the terrifying effect of the word
“smallpox” on the criminals he was for the moment associated with. But he
instantly realized the advantage it gave him, and decided to capitalize
it to the limit in the mysterious woman’s interests.

After a short but tense silence he said impressively:

“Yes, it may be smallpox. But I cannot say for certain in this light.”

The masked man waited a few uneasy seconds, then went to the chandelier
and raised a hand to the light key.

“Teresa. See that the bandage is tight over her face before I turn on
more light.” His voice was surly.

“I won’t touch her again if she has smallpox!” Teresa’s strident voice
shook.

“Yes, you will, or I’ll brain you.” He took a step toward her.

The woman muttered, but obeyed, though her hands shook as she fumbled
with the bandage. Crossing herself, she said with shaking voice:

“All safe,” and stepped back again to the wall. The light was turned on,
and Carlson bent down to look more closely at his mysterious patient.

A deep, feverish flush was over the arms, neck and the strip of forehead
above the bandage. But Carlson’s trained fingers could not feel even a
suggestion of the “shotty” feeling which goes with the first rash of
smallpox.

“What do you make of it, Doc?” asked the man impatiently.

“Highly suspicious, but I cannot tell certainly until I have finished
my examination. Madam, may I listen to your lungs and heart with my
stethoscope?”

“Yes,” she faintly murmured.

Carlson looked around at the man.

“I am not in the habit of examining women in the presence of strange
men,” he said sharply.

The man mumbled a curse and turned his back. Carlson then looked at the
masked woman.

“Turn down the bedclothes and open her nightgown!”

“Do it yourself! I won’t touch her again!”

Carlson took his stethoscope from his pocket and bared the patient’s
chest. The nightgown was coarse and cheap, but the form within it was
rounded and beautiful. The sleeves of the garment had apparently been
roughly hacked off with scissors.

Carlson’s examination of lungs and heart found absolutely nothing to
account for the very high fever. Then he thought of appendicitis or
peritonitis.

“Now, please let me examine the abdomen for a moment.”

She lay still while he delicately arranged the clothing. The light from
the chandelier showed obliquely, so that the lower part of the abdomen
was in the shadow cast by the rolled-down bedclothes. Carlson felt and
carefully sounded, but she gave no sign of pain or involuntary resistance.

As his sensitive fingers passed over the place under which the appendix
is located, he felt something that broke the smoothness of the perfect
skin. It was a surgical scar. That fact alone should almost certainly
rule out a present attack of appendicitis!

“So you have had appendicitis?”

“Yes.”

“It must have been a bad case—to judge from the size of the scar.”

She did not answer, and he drew the covering a little lower and brought
the scar out of the shadow into full view. Then he started, and,
involuntarily, a gasp escaped him.

The large surgical scar was in the form of _a perfect reversed letter S_.


_IV_

So much had happened to Carlson that night that his mental receiving
instrument was somewhat dulled, and did not immediately register the
momentous significance of what his eyes now saw. That curious scar—that
reversed S—symbol of the great Senn. Great God! _Now_ he remembered.
The only case on record in which that Senn S-incision had been made for
appendicitis was the case of Ina Holden.

He heard the masked man muttering in angry impatience, and then his brain
began to work again. The Holden _child_. Edwards had spoken of her as
“little Ina.”

Though the papers had been full of accounts of the Holden kidnapping case
for the last five days, he, Carlson, had read nothing but the headings,
and his impression from them and from Edwards’ talk was that Ina was a
small girl, quite a child. And yet this was a woman, or a well-grown girl
of 16 or 17 at the least. He looked up at her bandaged face.

“How long ago did you have this operation?”

“I—when I was a child.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About eight or nine years ago.”

“Ah——”

“You’re takin’ a hell of a long time, doc. Has she got smallpox?” The man
still stood with his back to the foot of the bed, but Carlson realized
that he could not temporize much longer.

“Just about a minute more and I can tell you,” he said, as nonchalantly
as he could say the words.

How could he get rid of the kidnappers and telephone for the police? Then
came an idea—a wild, forlorn hope; but he would try it.

“I will have to examine her throat,” he said, with professional voice.

He walked to the table where his medical bags were and took out a
circular mirror with an aperture in the center, a small electric bulb,
and a black elastic band with a buckle in it. Next, he detached a
connecting-plug from a cell battery in the bottom of the bag, being
careful to conceal the battery from the gimletlike eyes of the two men
and the woman. With the plug hidden in his hand he crushed the two
contactors together.

Then he adjusted the elastic band and mirror to his forehead, connected
the two wires with the small bulb on the head mirror and deliberately
unscrewed the bulb from the table lamp. He drew a deep breath; then
quickly inserted the crushed battery plug into the lamp socket.

_Flash!_ The room was in complete darkness. Carlson had short-circuited
the current and fulminated the fuse, probably for the whole house.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed, ostentatiously. “What am I going to do now?”

Almost instantly the beam of a pocket flashlight came from the hand of
the “boss.”

“Take this, doc,” he said, holding it toward Carlson.

He took it, asked the girl to open her mouth, and looked within.

“No good at all. I _must_ have the electric light. Where is the fuse box?”

The “boss” looked at Teresa.

“It’s in the cellar with the meter,” she said.

“Go down and put in a new fuse.”

“I don’t know how. You’ll have to come with me.”

The man hesitated. He glared at Carlson through his mask, and at the sick
girl on the bed, and then at the giant near the door.

“Tony!”

“Huh?”

“Come here!”

The giant slouched nearer.

“Where’s your flash-light?”

He produced it.

“Good! Now stay right here till we come back. If the doctor tries to
leave this room, or if he talks to the girl—you know what to do.”

Tony grunted, and showed a magazine pistol in his other hand. The other
man and Teresa left the room. The man slammed the door and locked it on
the outside.

Carlson felt almost overcome by a feeling of powerlessness and despair.
He and the girl were alone with the giant Tony, who sat stolidly by a
table in the center of the room, flash-light in one hand, the automatic
pistol in the other. His narrow, piglike eyes gleamed through the mask
and seemed never to relax their sinister gaze.

Carlson’s plan was completely frustrated by the baleful presence of this
Frankenstein Monster.

Suddenly he heard the blindfolded girl give a sob, and he saw her
shoulders trembling. At the sound of that despairing sob a new impulse to
action surged through him. Her only hope lay in him. He would not fail
her. He would save her or die in the trying.

He took her nearest and burning hand in both of his.

“There, there. Everything will be all right.”

As her fingers gripped his convulsively, a horrible snarling sound, as
from an angry hippopotamus, came from Tony. Carlson disengaged the girl’s
hand and faced the giant.

“Tony!” he said commandingly.

“Huh?”

“Help me to fix up this head light of mine. Bend those points out
straight—so!”

Carlson had seen some remarkable demonstrations in hypnotism in Zurich,
and he had been told by Professor Jung that he had exceptional personal
power in that line, if he chose to develop it. He remembered that advice
now, and he was trying it on Tony.

The giant hesitated, but at last obeyed the imperative and hypnotic voice
of the young doctor. He laid the pistol and flash-light on the table,
but just within reach of his hand, and then held out one hand for the
electric plug.

“There—twist them out again, right there,” said Carlson in a slow,
monotonous voice. As he spoke, his other hand closed over a heavy glass
paper weight that lay at the farther end of the table. Tony put the plug
on the table and bent his face over it.

Carlson felt that he could soon have Tony completely under his own
hypnotic power. But time was too precious to wait for that. The “boss”
might return any minute. There was only one thing to do, and Carlson did
it.

He raised the paper weight slowly, and just beyond Tony’s field of vision
and then—he brought it down on the giant’s head with all the force he
could put into the blow.

Tony dropped the electric plug and swayed to one side, only slightly
stunned by a blow that would have fractured the skull of another man. But
before he could recover, Carlson dealt him a second, and then a third
blow, the last on the angle of the jaw.

Tony crumpled up and fell face downward across the table. But Carlson, to
make sure, gave him a final and terrible blow, which seemed to give back
a crushing sound.


_V_

He rushed to the door and bolted it; then back to the bedside.

“Are you Ina Holden?”

“Yes!”

“Then get out of bed instantly. I’m going to save you.”

As she started up, he seized her in his arms, lifted her out bodily, and
plumped her into the nearest upholstered chair.

“Take off that bandage as quickly as you can!”

He flew back to the huge bed and began dragging it toward the door. It
was heavy as a safe, and incredibly hard to move. Suddenly it became
easier, and to his amazement he saw that the girl was helping him. When
they had placed it so that the head completely blocked the door, Carlson
ran to Tony.

“Help me drag this carcass against the foot of the bed. Take the feet—so!
That will brace the bed better. Now take this pistol. You know how to use
it?”

“O, yes!”

“Fine! Watch that beast while I telephone the police. If he moves, shoot
him.”

Carlson rushed into the smaller room, kicking two small chairs out of his
way and looked behind the screen. Praise be to God! It _was_ a telephone.
He jerked the receiver to his ear and began jiggling the instrument
frantically. After a few interminable seconds came the blessed words:

“Number, please?”

“Listen, operator—this is a case of life and death. First take down this
number—Cartwright 872.... Yes.... No! No!!—for God’s sake don’t _call_
it. _This_ is it. Now listen. Have you got this number written down?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Listen, I tell you!”

“I am listening!”

“Ina Holden is a prisoner in this house, with telephone Cartwright 872.
Do you know who Ina Holden is?”

“You mean the kidnapped girl?”

“Yes. Now get me police headquarters at once. Then, while I am talking
with them, you look up Cartwright 872 and phone the police station
nearest this place. _Quick_, for God’s sake!”

Another agonizing wait; then—

“Police headquarters speaking.”

“Ina Holden is in a house with phone number Cartwright 872. Mark it down.”

He heard the voice of the officer dictating “Cartwright 872. Ina Holden.”
Then, “What else, sir?”

“There are at least four armed men in the house, and one woman.”

“Where is the house?”

“I don’t know. I’m a prisoner with her myself. Send enough men at once to
surround the house. Look it up in the numerical index.”

Carlson could hear the officer giving rapid orders, and, more faintly,
their repetition being shouted out through the station.

“All right, sir. We’ve located the house, and it will take us about
twenty minutes to get to you. I’m sending out a general alarm, and maybe
some of our men out there can arrive sooner. How are you fixed?”

“I knocked out one of the men. I and the girl are barricaded in a third
floor back room, and we’ll try to hold out until your men come.”

“Good! Stay at the ’phone as long as you can and keep me informed to the
last possible moment. Good luck to you!”

“I’ll put the girl at the ’phone, and stand guard myself. Ina!”

“Yes, doctor.” She came in quickly, the pistol in her hand.

“Please sit down here and hold the ’phone. The police are on the wire.
I’ll call out to you how things go, and you report to them. Has Tony
moved?”

“No. He doesn’t seem to breathe.”

Carlson left Ina at the ’phone and went to Tony. He lay absolutely still,
just as they had placed him at the foot of the bed. Carlson tore off the
mask and turned the face around and listened with his ear to the month.
Not a sound! Then he used his stethoscope over the heart. Silence! Tony
was dead!

Carlson picked up Tony’s automatic, turned off the light plug in the
large bed room, and went back to Ina. She was at her post, her elbows on
the little table, the receiver at her ear. She looked up at him with a
grave smile.

“The police have been asking me a lot of questions. How about the man in
the next room?”

“Dead. I’m sorry I killed him, but there was nothing else to do. Anyway,”
said Carlson, “it makes our work easier. We won’t have to watch him, and
his body will help hold the door a little longer.”

He looked quickly around the room.

“And now for our plan of defense until the police come. The barricade
in the bedroom may hold till then. But, if it doesn’t then we will have
to barricade ourselves again in here. We ought to be able to hold out
easily.”

And then Carlson began dragging furniture from the bedroom into the
dressing room until the latter was nearly full.

“I guess that’ll be enough,” he said. “They’re taking a long time fixing
that fuse, but they can’t be too long for us.” He stood beside Ina once
more, having done all that could be done for the present.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “and their bungling delay probably means our
salvation. Anyhow, there’s nothing for it but to wait—for what is to
come.”

Carlson had been looking at Ina Holden while they were talking, and he
thought he had never seen a more charming girl. Her thick dark hair was
unloosed and uncombed and fell over her shoulders. She was clad only in
the coarse, sleeveless, night garment, which showed beautifully rounded
arms to the shoulders. Her feet were bare. Her eyes were a pure and
brilliant blue, shining under heavy but well arched brows. Her features
were almost faultless, but the strong jaw and firm though adorable lips
expressed unusual force and will power for a woman. A woman worth going
through hell for—Carlson thought grimly.

Her face, neck and arms were deeply suffused as with the flush of high
fever. But her manner and movements were not those of a very sick person.
Carlson was puzzled.

“I confess I don’t know what to make of your fever,” he said frankly.

She half smiled as she replied:

“Of course. I should have thought of that before. It isn’t a _real_
fever, but what the Italians call an _impressione_.”

“What’s that?”

“An effect of a shock.”

“But no mere shock can cause actual fever!”

“That’s what many doctors have said. But the fact is that it _does_
with me. I was always that way. There’s something abnormal in my
constitution. I can even bring on a fever by willing it. I’m ashamed to
say that when I was a child I would sometimes play sick in that way in
order to get what I wanted. But I hadn’t done it for so long that I’d
almost forgotten about it—until this horrible thing happened, and then I
remembered and tried it. But they wouldn’t call a doctor for three days,
not until they got badly scared and thought I might die on their hands.
And that is why they brought _you_ here.”

“I never heard of such a case before,” said Carlson. “Never! To be sure,
there are a few cases on record where the heart and pulse rate were
under the control of the will to some extent; but certainly _not_ the
temperature.”

He then asked: “How does it happen that the kidnappers have a house like
this?”

“This house belongs to a wealthy family named Carriello. They are
traveling in Europe, and have left the house in charge of an Italian and
his wife.”

“The woman Teresa?”

“Yes. The two are black-handers, and their gang figured that the police
would never suspect that I might be hidden in such a place.”

Suddenly the lights flashed out. The fuse was repaired at last. The
kidnappers would be at the door in a few moments!

Carlson gripped Tony’s automatic a little harder, and his left hand fell
almost involuntarily on the girl’s shoulder. They waited thus, tensely,
hardly breathing, and with quickened heart-beats, until they heard
footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Then Carlson drew a deep breath, and
whispered:

“They are coming now—but don’t be afraid.”

She said nothing, but raised both her hands and clasped them over his for
a moment.

He stepped softly into the darkened bedroom, just as a key turned in the
lock. The knob was turned, the door tried—then shaken. There was a short
silence. Then, from the “boss:”

“Open the door, you fool!”

Carlson was silent.

“Tony!”

Silence.

“Tony! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Silence.

A whispered consultation outside the door. Then:

“Tony! Doctor! Open that door or, by God! I’ll——”

More whispering, then a short silence.

“Doctor!”

Silence.

Whispering again; then footsteps running down the stairs; then another
and longer silence. Carlson put his ear as near as he could to the door.
Soon he heard the footsteps returning, but they stopped at the second
floor. A voice called faintly from below:

“I can’t find anything but a hatchet.”

Smothered cursing told that the “boss” was still on the other side of the
door. Then he also seemed to run down stairs. Presently Carlson heard
hammering or pounding, far below, and at last a crushing and crumbling
sound, as if something heavy had given way. _What_ were the scoundrels
doing?

Then footsteps again, coming up the stairs, but more slowly this time.
And as they came, there was an occasional bumping sound, as if they were
carrying some bulky object which now and then struck the walls or stairs.

When they were opposite the door, something heavy hit the floor. Then,
once more, the sullen voice of the “boss.”

“Listen, Doc! I don’t know what you’ve done to Tony, and what’s more I
don’t give a damn, if you open the door now.”

Silence. Carlson thought he could hear their heavy breathing. As a
psychologist he knew that his own silence, and that of Tony, had a horror
about it that was telling severely, even on their hardened nerves.

“This is your last chance, Doc! If you open the door now, you can go, and
take your fee, and be damned. But if you won’t open, I’m going to break
down the door, and then—you’ll leave here in a coupla suit cases. Do you
get me?”

Silence! After about a quarter of a minute, the “boss” said:

“Now then! All together!”

Carlson braced himself. But suddenly the woman screamed, “Stop!”

“Shut up! You—”

“I won’t. Listen!” And though she spoke lower, Carlson could hear her say
something about the doctor and Tony’s pistol!

“I know that,” muttered the man, “but we’ve got to risk it!”

Another voice, Carlson thought that of the man who sat beside him in the
auto, half whispered:

“Wait, Boss! I don’t like this! What did the doc do to big Tony? I
wouldn’t go into that room again if you killed me! I’ve lost my nerve,
let’s chuck this job and make a getaway!”

“No, I won’t! and none of you won’t by God! We’ve gone too far to go
back. We’ll win together, or go to the Chair together! I’ll shoot the
first—”

“But—”

“Take that, will you, and shut up!” a blow, a fall, and a groan, as if
from the level of the floor.

A few seconds of dead silence, then the voice of the “boss”:

“Now, get together and smash that door!”

More shuffling of feet and the dragging of something heavy, then the
muffled voice of the woman:

“Maybe he found the phone—”

“Quick! Bust in that door!”

Carlson held his breath.

_CRASH!_

A terrific blow, as of from a battering ram, shook and shivered the
strong oak door. But door and bolt still held. Carlson knew from the
impact of the blow that some ponderous solid object had been driven
against the door. And he know also that a few more such blows would
shatter it, leaving only the bed and an overturned chiffonier and Tony’s
body as a barricade.

So he quickly began dragging more chairs, tables and what not into the
small dressing-room.

_CRASH!_ The door fell inward against the head of the massive bed.

Carlson dragged a davenport into the little room, and then closed its
door, locking and bolting it.

_CRASH!_

The devastating sound that followed told that the heavy overhanging
canopy of the bed had fallen inward. Carlson kept steadily working away
barricading the second door.

“Thank God _this_ door opens outward!” he said to Ina. She was still at
her post at the telephone.

“Hello!” she said calmly. “They have just smashed in the outer door
and are climbing in over the ruins of the bed and furniture. We have
retreated into a smaller room, and the doctor is piling furniture against
it—” She looked at Carlson.

“The police want to know how long we can hold out!”

“Perhaps another five minutes.”

“Five minutes more—what?... O, I hope so!”

_CRASH!_ This time on the inner door. It held perfectly!

“They are attacking our inner door, Inspector—you heard it?”

_CRASH!_ A panel cracked, all the way down.

_CRASH!_ The panel flew in splinters. One splinter struck the girl in the
face, making a small wound on the forehead, and blood trickled down into
her eyes, but she did nothing more than to wipe it off with the back of
her right hand.

Carlson readjusted the shifting barricade, and glanced at Ina.

“You are hurt!”

“It’s nothing.”

“Into the bathroom, quickly!”

_CRASH!_ Another panel cracked!

She got up calmly, and wiped the blood out of her eyes again with the
handkerchief Carlson pressed against her face; then, his arm around her,
she walked into the bathroom.

Carlson forced Ina into a chair and knelt beside her, indifferent to
everything now but the bleeding cut on her face.

“Let me look at it!”

“It’s nothing at all, I tell you! Go back and attend to the door. We must
barricade ourselves in here in another minute.”

_CRASH!_ The center of the door fell inward against the barricade. As
Carlson ran to pick up a heavy chair for the bathroom defense, a hand and
pistol came through the breach in the door and a shot rang out. He felt a
stinging pain in his side, but kept on with his work. Before he realized
it, Ina was in the room again, dragging another chair into the bathroom.

The barricade crumbled still more, and another shot was aimed at Carlson,
but did not hit him. Ina deliberately crossed the little room to the
telephone and turned off the light.

“They won’t shoot _me_—not yet, anyway,” she said.

The barricade fell to pieces. There was not a moment to lose. Carlson and
Ina rushed into the bathroom and locked and bolted the door and began
stacking the chairs and tables and one small chiffonier against the door.

Carlson felt blood soaking his clothing. He and Ina crouched together in
one corner. He held Tony’s pistol in his right hand, and both of Ina’s
hands in his left.

“Listen, Ina! When they force this door, I will try to pick them off one
by one. If I fall, be ready to snatch the pistol and shoot carefully.
Don’t waste a shot! The police should be here any moment.”

_CRASH!_ The lock and bolt snapped, and the door itself was pressed
inward several inches, but rebounded by the pressure of the barricade.

_CRASH!_ This time the door yielded more than a foot, and in the opening
Carlson could see a man’s form. He fired, and a shriek followed. Four or
five shots were aimed at Carlson, but did not reach him in his protected
corner angle. Suddenly a voice yelled from the outer room:

“The Cops! They’re around the house!”

“Damnation! Get the Girl, at all costs!”

When the next rush brought a man into view Carlson fired, and he knew by
the scream that he had hit once more. The pistol dropped from his hand,
and his body swayed. But the girl realized everything in an instant.
Quick as thought she snatched up the pistol with her right hand as she
knelt beside him, and her other arm went around him.

At that instant a perfect fusillade of shooting sounded from the outer
room, followed by screams, yelling and groaning. Then a masked man with
a pistol in his hand bounded wildly into the half-opened door of the
bathroom. But Ina fired from their darkened corner before he saw them,
and he fell backward among the debris.

Carlson felt everything growing dark.

“Ina?”

“Yes, dear; we’ve won the fight!”

His head sank against her breast, just as two policemen appeared in the
doorway.

She dropped the pistol and put both arms about him.


_VI_

“Miss Holden?” asked one of the officers, turning his bull’s-eye lantern
on them.

She did not answer, but looked long and tensely at Carlson’s white
unconscious face. Then she pressed a kiss on his forehead.

“He saved me!” she said, looking up at the officers. “I owe everything to
him. Please send for a surgeon and have him taken to my home immediately.”

“The police surgeon will be here in a moment, Miss Holden. Let us take
him into another room.”

As they took him from her arms they saw that her garment was soaked with
his blood.

“Who is he?” asked the lieutenant.

“I don’t know. He was brought here by the kidnappers when I seemed to be
very sick. We had no time for anything but defense.”

The lieutenant took off his overcoat and placed it over Ina’s shoulders,
and then they both followed the two officers who carried the unconscious
Carlson out through the wreck of the dressing-room and larger bedroom.

And what a scene of ruin and blood! They had to pick their way through
masses of broken furniture. One masked dead man lay just outside the
bathroom—the man Ina had shot. Another man, his mask torn off, sat
propped up against an overturned chiffonier on the floor of the large
bedroom. He was groaning and trying to wring his manacled hands, as two
officers knelt beside him and searched his pockets.

The mammoth carcass of Tony lay where Carlson and Ina had first dragged
it, but it was now half covered by the mattress and debris of the bed. At
least a dozen policemen in the rooms. The woman Teresa stood sniveling in
a corner, unmasked and handcuffed.

But there was a sudden silence as Ina Holden appeared, her face bloody,
her feet bare, and her form covered by the officer’s overcoat. All
eyes were fixed on the girl, whose name and picture had been in every
newspaper from Maine to California for the last five days.

They carried Carlson through the devastated rooms, into another room and
laid him on a bed. The police surgeon arrived at almost the same moment.
After a glance at the unconscious man on the bed, the surgeon said:

“But where is the _girl_?”

“I am Ina Holden,” she said quickly, “but never mind _me_. Look at _him_!”

“Who is he?”

“The man who saved me. They shot him just before the police came.”

The surgeon quickly tore open the blood-soaked shirt and found the bullet
wound in the right side. He listened a moment to his heart; then looked
up gravely.

“Very serious! There seems to be severe hemorrhage into the pleura. He
must be rushed to the nearest hospital for immediate operation.”

“Doctor,” asked Ina, with shaking voice. “Is he—will he recover?”

“I am sorry to say, Miss Holden, the chances are against him. Quick,
boys! The stretcher. One of you telephone Mercy Hospital to have the
operating-room ready.”

And then another man burst like a whirlwind into the room—a large,
bearded man of about fifty—a man of commanding presence, before whom
everyone made way.

“Ina!—my Girl!—”

Slowly Ina turned her eyes from Carlson and looked at her father. Then
she stood up and held out her arms, and was gathered into his embrace.

“Father, dear!” she panted, as soon as his joyful greetings would allow;
“Listen! I am all right. But that man lying there saved my life. If he
had not come—”

“Yes, my girl! Go on!”

“He was shot defending me before the police could get here. And now—he
may be—_dying_!—” Her voice broke.

Two men entered with a stretcher, just as the surgeon gave Carlson a
hypodermic of some powerful heart stimulant. Deftly they moved him from
bed to stretcher. Mr. Holden drew the surgeon aside and they exchanged a
few earnest words.

“We’ll do our best, sir, that’s all I can say. Good night, sir! Good
night, Miss Holden!” He hurried down stairs after the stretcher.

“Where’s the telephone?” said Holden.

Ina took him to it, and then he called the hospital and several famous
surgeons, telling them that the man who had saved his daughter must be
saved! _Must be saved!_

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“I have found his name, sir. It’s on his surgical bag. He is Dr. Herbert
Carlson of New York.”

“Thank you very much! Please find his ’phone number and I will call his
wife and tell her what we are doing for him.”

As her father was calling Carlson’s telephone number, Ina listened with
strained attention. His _wife_! Somehow, it had never occurred to her
that he might be married!

“Hello! Is this Dr. Carlson’s residence?... Yes, yes, I know he’s
not there now. May I speak with his wife?... What’s that?... _Not_
married?... O, I beg your pardon! His sister?—yourself? Thank you! Now
listen to me, please!...”

Ina did not try to analyze her feelings when her father’s words at the
telephone seemed to prove that Carlson was unmarried. But then she
suddenly remembered, as with a stab at her heart, what the police surgeon
had said! Yes: As her father had ordered, He _must_ be saved! Nothing
else mattered!

At 2:53 A. M. the telephone at the Holden residence rang for at least
the hundredth time that fateful night. The butler had instructions not
to call Mr. Holden except for communications from the police or the
hospital. Ina and her mother, in Ina’s bedroom, heard the muffled buzzer
in the study below, and looked at each other anxiously. Ina snatched up
the extension receiver at her bedside and listened.

“Hospital speaking. I have a message for Mr. Holden.”

It was the second message from the hospital. The first had told the
hopeful news that Dr. Carlson had been successfully operated on, that
hemorrhage had been checked, and that his heart had responded to
stimulants. Mr. Holden, at his desk, lifted the receiver.

“Mr. Holden speaking. Quick! What’s your message?”

“Dr. Carlson slept until five minutes ago. Then he woke up suddenly and
asked: ‘Is Ina all right?’ We told him that Miss Holden was safe at home,
and he said: ‘Thank God!’ and went to sleep again.”

[Illustration]


Thrillers Make Audiences Warm

It has been discovered that thrilling mystery or “spook” plays, of which
there have been an unusual number lately, have a tendency to increase
the temperature of those who witness them. Prof. Edward F. Miller of
the Massachusetts Institute of Technology conducted a number of tests
among various audiences and found this to be true. His assertions were
substantiated by Chicago theatre managers, one of whom said:

“The excitement created by mystery plays starts the blood to circulating
so quickly that heightened temperature is the result. I notice that
the theatre warms up at the end of the first act, when the play is an
exciting one. We have to watch the temperature of our theatres more
closely when a play, that is exciting or has a great emotional appeal is
being given.”

The owner of a motion picture theatre disagreed with this, but said that
a comedy film always means a rising temperature.

“Five minutes of laughing,” he said, “will send the thermometer up,
unless provision is made to keep the temperature the same. The reactions
of each audience are identical, and we know when an audience is going
to laugh more than usual, and so I push the button on the thermostat
that throws in more cool, washed air, and the audience does not feel the
effect of the heat-producing laughter. Normally, there is a complete
change of air every three minutes, but when the piece is particularly
funny it is changed oftener. There is real activity when the theatre
patron laughs, but when other emotions are aroused he sits quietly, and
no excess energy is created.”




_Creeping Horror Lurked_

Beyond the Door

An Unusual Story

By PAUL SUTER


“You haven’t told me yet how it happened,” I said to Mrs. Malkin.

She set her lips and eyed me, sharply.

“Didn’t you talk with the coroner, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” I admitted; “but as I understand you found my uncle, I
thought——”

“Well, I wouldn’t care to say anything about it,” she interrupted, with
decision.

This housekeeper of my uncle’s was somewhat taller than I, and much
heavier—two physical preponderances which afford any woman possessing
them an advantage over the inferior male. She appeared a subject for
diplomacy rather than argument.

Noting her ample jaw, her breadth of cheek, the unsentimental glint of
her eye, I decided on conciliation. I placed a chair for her, there in my
Uncle Godfrey’s study, and dropped into another, myself.

“At least, before we go over the other parts of the house, suppose we
rest a little,” I suggested, in my most unctuous manner. “The place
rather gets on one’s nerves—don’t you think so?”

It was sheer luck—I claim no credit for it. My chance reflection found
the weak spot in her fortifications. She replied to it with an undoubted
smack of satisfaction:

“It’s more than seven years that I’ve been doing for Mr. Sarston, sir:
Bringing him his meals regular as clockwork, keeping the house clean—as
clean as he’d let me—and sleeping at my own home, o’ nights; and in all
that time I’ve said, over and over, there ain’t a house in New York the
equal of this for queerness.”

“Nor anywhere else,” I encouraged her, with a laugh; and her confidences
opened another notch:

“You’re likely right in that, too, sir. As I’ve said to poor Mr. Sarston,
many a time, ‘It’s all well enough,’ says I, ‘to have bugs for a hobby.
You can afford it; and being a bachelor and by yourself, you don’t have
to consider other people’s likes and dislikes. And it’s all well enough
if you want to,’ says I, ‘to keep thousands and thousands o’ them in
cabinets, all over the place, the way you do. But when it comes to
pinnin’ them on the walls in regular armies,’ I says, ‘and on the ceiling
of your own study; and even on different parts of the furniture, so that
a body don’t know what awful thing she’s agoin’ to find under her hand
of a sudden when she does the dusting; why, then,’ I says to him, ‘it’s
drivin’ a decent woman too far.’”

“And did he never try to reform his ways when you told him that?” I
asked, smiling.

“To be frank with you, Mr. Robinson, when I talked like that to him, he
generally raised my pay. And what was a body to do then?”

“I can’t see how Lucy Lawton stood the place as long as she did,” I
observed, watching Mrs. Malkin’s red face very closely.

She swallowed the bait, and leaned forward, hands on knees.

“Poor girl, it got on her nerves. But she was the quiet kind. You never
saw her, sir?”

I shook my head.

“One of them slim, faded girls, with light hair, and hardly a word to say
for herself. I don’t believe she got to know the next-door neighbor in
the whole year she lived with your uncle. She was an orphan, wasn’t she,
sir?”

“Yes,” I said. “Godfrey Sarston and I were her only living relatives.
That was why she came from Australia to stay with him, after her father’s
death.”

Mrs. Malkin nodded. I was hoping that, by putting a check on my
eagerness, I could lead her on to a number of things I greatly desired
to know. Up to the time I had induced the housekeeper to show me through
this strange house of my Uncle Godfrey’s, the whole affair had been a
mystery of lips which closed and faces which were averted at my approach.
Even the coroner seemed unwilling to tell me just how my uncle had died.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Did you understand she was going to live with him, sir?” asked Mrs.
Malkin, looking hard at me.

I confined myself to a nod.

“Well, so did I. Yet, after a year, back she went.”

“She went suddenly?” I suggested.

“So suddenly that I never knew a thing about it till after she was gone.
I came to do my chores one day, and she was here. I came the next, and
she had started back to Australia. That’s how sudden she went.”

“They must have had a falling-out,” I conjectured. “I suppose it was
because of the house.”

“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t.”

“You know of other reasons?”

“I have eyes in my head,” she said. “But I’m not going to talk about it.
Shall we be getting on now, sir?”

I tried another lead:

“I hadn’t seen my uncle in five years, you know. He seemed terribly
changed. He was not an old man, by any means, yet when I saw him at the
funeral—” I paused, expectantly.

To my relief, she responded readily:

“He looked that way for the last few months, especially the last week. I
spoke to him about it, two days before—before it happened, sir—and told
him he’d do well to see the doctor again. But he cut me off short. My
sister took sick the same day, and I was called out of town. The next
time I saw him, he was—”

She paused, and then went on, sobbing:

“To think of him lyin’ there in that awful place, and callin’ and callin’
for me, as I know he must, and me not around to hear him!”

As she stopped again, suddenly, and threw a suspicious glance at me, I
hastened to insert a matter-of-fact question:

“Did he appear ill on that last day?”

“Not so much ill, as——”

“Yes?” I prompted.

She was silent a long time, while I waited, afraid that some word of mine
had brought back her former attitude of hostility. Then she seemed to
make up her mind.

“I oughtn’t to say another word. I’ve said too much, already. But you’ve
been liberal with me, sir, and I know somethin’ you’ve a right to be
told, which I’m thinkin’ no one else is agoin’ to tell you. Look at the
bottom of his study door a minute, sir.”

I followed her direction. What I saw led me to drop to my hands and
knees, the better to examine it.

“Why should he put a rubber strip on the bottom of his door?” I asked,
getting up.

She replied with another enigmatical suggestion:

“Look at these, if you will, sir. You’ll remember that he slept in this
study. That was his bed, over there in the alcove.”

“Bolts!” I exclaimed. And I reinforced sight with touch by shooting one
of them back and forth a few times. “Double bolts on the inside of his
bedroom door! An upstairs room, at that. What was the idea?”

Mrs. Malkin portentously shook her head and sighed, as one unburdening
her mind.

“Only this can I say, sir: He was afraid of something—_terribly_ afraid,
sir. Something that came in the night.”

“What was it?” I demanded.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“It was in the night that—it happened?” I asked.

She nodded; then, as if the prologue were over, as if she had prepared my
mind sufficiently, she produced something from under her apron. She must
have been holding it there all the time.

“It’s his diary, sir. It was lying here on the floor. I saved it for you,
before the police could get their hands on it.”

I opened the little book. One of the sheets near the back was crumpled,
and I glanced at it, idly. What I read there impelled me to slap the
covers shut again.

“Did you read this?” I demanded.

She met my gaze, frankly.

“I looked into it, sir, just as you did—only just _looked_ into it. Not
for worlds would I do even that again!”

“I noticed some reference here to a slab in the cellar. What slab is
that?”

“It covers an old, dried-up well, sir.”

“Will you show it to me?”

“You can find it for yourself, sir, if you wish. I’m not goin’ down
there,” she said, decidedly.

“Ah, well, I’ve seen enough for today,” I told her. “I’ll take the diary
back to my hotel and read it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

I did not return to my hotel, however. In my one brief glance into the
little book, I had seen something which had bitten into my soul; only a
few words, but they had brought me very near to that queer, solitary man
who had been my uncle.

I dismissed Mrs. Malkin, and remained in the study. There was the fitting
place to read the diary he had left behind him.

His personality lingered like a vapor in that study. I settled into his
deep morris chair, and turned it to catch the light from the single,
narrow window—the light, doubtless, by which he had written much of his
work on entomology.

That same struggling illumination played shadowy tricks with hosts of
wall-crucified insects, which seemed engaged in a united effort to crawl
upward in sinuous lines. Some of their number, impaled to the ceiling
itself, peered quiveringly down on the aspiring multitude. The whole
house, with its crisp dead, rustling in any vagrant breeze, brought back
to my mind the hand that had pinned them, one by one, on wall and ceiling
and furniture. A kindly hand, I reflected, though eccentric; one not to
be turned aside from its single hobby.

When quiet, peering Uncle Godfrey went, there passed out another of
those scientific enthusiasts, whose passion for exact truth in some one
direction has extended the bounds of human knowledge. Could not his
unquestioned merits have been balanced against his sin? Was it necessary
to even-handed justice that he die face-to-face with Horror, struggling
with the thing he most feared? I ponder the question still, though his
body—strangely bruised—has been long at rest.

The entries in the little book began with the fifteenth of June.
Everything before that date had been torn out. There, in the room where
it had been written, I read my Uncle Godfrey’s diary.

    “It is done. I am trembling so that the words will hardly form
    under my pen, but my mind is collected. My course was for the
    best. Suppose I had married her? She would have been unwilling
    to live in this house. At the outset, her wishes would have
    come between me and my work, and that would have been only the
    beginning.

    “As a married man, I could not have concentrated properly,
    I could not have surrounded myself with the atmosphere
    indispensable to the writing of my book. My scientific message
    would never have been delivered. As it is, though my heart is
    sore, I shall stifle these memories in work.

    “I wish I had been more gentle with her, especially when she
    sank to her knees before me, tonight. She kissed my hand. I
    should not have repulsed her so roughly. In particular, my
    words could have been better chosen. I said to her, bitterly:
    ‘Get up, and don’t nuzzle my hand like a dog.’ She rose,
    without a word, and left me. How was I to know that, within an
    hour——

    “I am largely to blame. Yet, had I taken any other course
    afterward than the one I did, the authorities would have
    misunderstood.”

Again, there followed a space from which the sheets had been torn; but
from the sixteenth of July, all the pages were intact. Something had come
over the writing, too. It was still precise and clear—my Uncle Godfrey’s
characteristic hand—but the letters were less firm. As the entries
approached the end, this difference became still more marked.

Here follows, then, the whole of his story; or as much of it as will
ever be known. I shall let his words speak for him, without further
interruption:

    “My nerves are becoming more seriously affected. If certain
    annoyances do not shortly cease, I shall be obliged to procure
    medical advice. To be more specific, I find myself, at times,
    obsessed by an almost uncontrollable desire to descend to the
    cellar and lift the slab over the old well.

    “I never have yielded to the impulse, but it has persisted
    for minutes together with such intensity that I have had to
    put work aside, and literally hold myself down in my chair.
    This insane desire comes only in the dead of night, when its
    disquieting effect is heightened by the various noises peculiar
    to house.

    “For instance, there often is a draft of air along the
    hallways, which causes a rustling among the specimens impaled
    on the walls. Lately, too, there have been other nocturnal
    sounds, strongly suggestive of the busy clamor of rats and
    mice. This calls for investigation. I have been at considerable
    expense to make the house proof against rodents, which might
    destroy some of my best specimens. If some structural defect
    has opened a way for them, the situation must be corrected at
    once.”

    “July 17th. The foundations and cellar were examined today by a
    workman. He states positively that there is no place of ingress
    for rodents. He contented himself with looking at the slab over
    the old well, without lifting it.”

    “July 19th. While I was sitting in this chair, late last night,
    writing, the impulse to descend to the cellar suddenly came
    upon me with tremendous insistence. I yielded—which, perhaps,
    was as well. For at least I satisfied myself that the disquiet
    which possesses me has no external cause.

    “The long journey through the hallways was difficult. Several
    times, I was keenly aware of the same sounds (perhaps I should
    say, the same IMPRESSIONS of sounds) that I had erroneously
    laid to rats. I am convinced now that they are mere symptoms
    of my nervous condition. Further indications of this came in
    the fact that, as I opened the cellar door, the small noises
    abruptly ceased. There was no final scamper of tiny footfalls
    to suggest rats disturbed at their occupations.

    “Indeed, I was conscious of a certain impression of expectant
    silence—as if the thing behind the noises, whatever it was, had
    paused to watch me enter its domain. Throughout my time in
    the cellar, I seemed surrounded by this same atmosphere. Sheer
    ‘nerves,’ of course.

    “In the main, I held myself well under control. As I was about
    to leave the cellar, however, I unguardedly glanced back over
    my shoulder at the stone slab covering the old well. At that, a
    violent tremor came over me, and, losing all command, I rushed
    back up the cellar stairs, thence to this study. My nerves are
    playing me sorry tricks.”

    “July 30th. For more than a week, all has been well. The tone
    of my nerves seems distinctly better. Mrs. Malkin, who has
    remarked several times lately upon my paleness, expressed the
    conviction this afternoon that I am nearly my old self again.
    This is encouraging. I was beginning to fear that the severe
    strain of the past few months had left an indelible mark upon
    me. With continued health, I shall be able to finish my book by
    spring.”

    “July 31st. Mrs. Malkin remained rather late tonight in
    connection with some item of housework, and it was quite dark
    when I returned to my study from bolting the street door after
    her. The blackness of the upper hall, which the former owner
    of the house inexplicably failed to wire for electricity, was
    profound. As I came to the top of the second flight of stairs,
    something clutched at my foot, and, for an instant, almost
    pulled me back. I freed myself and ran to the study.”

    “August 3rd. Again the awful insistence. I sit here, with this
    diary upon my knee, and it seems that fingers of iron are
    tearing at me. I WILL NOT go! My nerves may be utterly unstrung
    again (I fear they are), but I am still their master.”

    “August 4th. I did not yield, last night. After a bitter
    struggle, which must have lasted nearly an hour, the desire to
    go to the cellar suddenly departed. I must not give in at any
    time.”

    “August 5th. Tonight, the rat noises (I shall call them that
    for want of a more appropriate term) are very noticeable. I
    went to the length of unbolting my door and stepping into the
    hallway to listen. After a few minutes, I seemed to be aware of
    something large and gray watching me from the darkness at the
    end of the passage. This is a bizarre statement, of course, but
    it exactly describes my impression. I withdrew hastily into the
    study, and bolted the door.

    “Now that my nervous condition is so palpably affecting the
    optic nerve, I must not much longer delay seeing a specialist.
    But—how much shall I tell him?”

    “August 8th. Several times, tonight, while sitting here at my
    work, I have seemed to hear soft footsteps in the passage.
    ‘Nerves’ again, of course, or else some new trick of the wind
    among the specimens on the walls.”

    “August 9th. By my watch it is four o’clock in the morning. My
    mind is made up to record the experience I have passed through.
    Calmness may come that way.

    “Feeling rather fatigued last night, from the strain of a
    weary day of research, I retired early. My sleep was more
    refreshing than usual, as it is likely to be when one is
    genuinely tired. I awakened, however (it must have been about
    an hour ago), with a start of tremendous violence.

    “There was moonlight in the room. My nerves were ‘on edge’,
    but, for a moment, I saw nothing unusual. Then, glancing toward
    the door, I perceived what appeared to be thin, white fingers,
    thrust under it—exactly as if some one outside the door were
    trying to attract my attention in that manner. I rose and
    turned on the light, but the fingers were gone.

    “Needless to say, I did not open the door. I write the
    occurrence down, just as it took place, or as it seemed; but I
    can not trust myself to comment upon it.”

    “August 10th. Have fastened heavy rubber strips on the bottom
    of my bedroom door.”

    “August 15th. All quiet, for several nights. I am hoping that
    the rubber strips, being something definite and tangible, have
    had a salutary effect upon my nerves. Perhaps I shall not need
    to see a doctor.”

    “August 17th. Once more, I have been aroused from sleep. The
    interruptions seem to come always at the same hour—about three
    o’clock in the morning. I had been dreaming of the well in the
    cellar—the same dream, over and over—everything black except
    the slab, and a figure with bowed head and averted face sitting
    there. Also, I had vague dreams about a dog. Can it be that my
    last words to her have impressed that on my mind? I must pull
    myself together. In particular, I must not, under any pressure,
    yield, and visit the cellar after nightfall.”

    “August 18th. Am feeling much more hopeful. Mrs. Malkin
    remarked on it, while serving dinner. This improvement is due
    largely to a consultation I have had with Dr. Sartwell, the
    distinguished specialist in nervous diseases. I went into full
    details with him, excepting certain reservations. He scouted
    the idea that my experiences could be other than purely mental.

    “When he recommended a change of scene (which I had been
    expecting), I told him positively that it was out of the
    question. He said then that, with the aid of a tonic and an
    occasional sleeping draft, I am likely to progress well enough
    at home. This is distinctly encouraging. I erred in not going
    to him at the start. Without doubt, most, if not all, of my
    hallucinations could have been averted.

    “I have been suffering a needless penalty from my nerves for
    an action I took solely in the interests of science. I have no
    disposition to tolerate it further. From today, I shall report
    regularly to Dr. Sartwell.”

    “August 19th. Used the sleeping draft last night, with
    gratifying results. The doctor says I must repeat the dose for
    several nights, until my nerves are well under control again.”

    “August 21st. All well. It seems that I have found the way
    out—a very simple and prosaic way. I might have avoided much
    needless annoyance by seeking expert advice at the beginning.
    Before retiring, last night, I unbolted my study door and took
    a turn up and down the passage. I felt no trepidation. The
    place was as it used to be, before these fancies assailed me.
    A visit to the cellar after nightfall will be the test for
    my complete recovery, but I am not yet quite ready for that.
    Patience!”

    “August 22nd. I have just read yesterday’s entry, thinking to
    steady myself. It is cheerful—almost gay; and there are other
    entries like it in preceding pages. I am a mouse, in the grip
    of a cat. Let me have freedom for ever so short a time, and I
    begin to rejoice at my escape. Then the paw descends again.

    “It is four in the morning—the usual hour. I retired rather
    late, last night, after administering the draft. Instead of the
    dreamless sleep, which heretofore has followed the use of the
    drug, the slumber into which I fell was punctuated by recurrent
    visions of the slab, with the bowed figure upon it. Also, I had
    one poignant dream in which the dog was involved.

    “At length, I awakened, and reached mechanically for the light
    switch beside my bed. When my hand encountered nothing, I
    suddenly realized the truth. I was standing in my study, with
    my other hand upon the doorknob. It required only a moment, of
    course, to find the light and switch it on. I saw then that the
    bolt had been drawn back.

    “The door was quite unlocked. My awakening must have
    interrupted me in the very act of opening it. I could hear
    something moving restlessly in the passage outside the door.”

    “August 23rd. I must beware of sleeping at night. Without
    confiding the fact to Dr. Sartwell, I have begun to take the
    drug in the daytime. At first, Mrs. Malkin’s views on the
    subject were pronounced, but my explanation of ‘doctor’s
    orders’ has silenced her. I am awake for breakfast and supper,
    and sleep in the hours between. She is leaving me, each
    evening, a cold lunch to be eaten at midnight.”

    “August 26th. Several times, I have caught myself nodding in my
    chair. The last time, I am sure that, on arousing, I perceived
    the rubber strip under the door bend inward, as if something
    were pushing it from the other side. I must not, under any
    circumstances, permit myself to fall asleep.”

    “September 2nd. Mrs. Malkin is to be away, because of her
    sister’s illness. I can not help dreading her absence. Though
    she is here only in the daytime, even that companionship is
    very welcome.”

    “September 3rd. Let me put this into writing. The mere labor of
    composition has a soothing influence upon me. God knows, I need
    such an influence now, as never before!

    “In spite of all my watchfulness, I feel asleep, tonight—across
    my bed. I must have been utterly exhausted. The dream I had was
    the one about the dog. I was patting the creature’s head, over
    and over.

    “I awoke, at least, to find myself in darkness, and in a
    standing position. There was a suggestion of chill and
    earthiness in the air. While I was drowsily trying to get my
    bearings, I became aware that something was nuzzling my hand,
    as a dog might do.

    “Still saturated with my dream, I was not greatly astonished. I
    extended my hand, to pat the dog’s head. That brought me to my
    senses. I was standing in the cellar.

    “THE THING BEFORE ME WAS NOT A DOG!

    “I can not tell how I fled back up the cellar stairs. I know,
    however, that, as I turned, the slab was visible, in spite of
    the darkness, with something sitting upon it. All the way up
    the stairs, hands snatched at my feet.”

This entry seemed to finish the diary, for blank pages followed it; but I
remembered the crumpled sheet, near the back of the book. It was partly
torn out, as if a hand had clutched it, convulsively. The writing on it,
too, was markedly in contrast to the precise, albeit nervous penmanship
of even the last entry I had perused. I was forced to hold the scrawl up
to the light to decipher it. This is what I read:

    “My hand keeps on writing, in spite of myself. What is this? I
    do not wish to write, but it compels me. Yes, yes, I will tell
    the truth, I will tell the truth.”

A heavy blot followed, partly covering the writing. With difficulty, I
made it out:

    “The guilt is mine—mine, only. I loved her too well, yet I was
    unwilling to marry, though she entreated me on her knees—though
    she kissed my hand. I told her my scientific work came first.
    She did it, herself. I was not expecting that—I swear I was
    not expecting it. But I was afraid the authorities would
    misunderstand. So I took what seemed the best course. She had
    no friends here who would inquire.

    “It is waiting outside me door. I FEEL it. It compels me,
    through my thoughts. My hand keeps on writing. I must not fall
    asleep. I must think only of what I am writing. I must——”

Then came the words I had seen when Mrs. Malkin had handed me the book.
They were written very large. In places, the pen had dug through the
paper. Though they were scrawled, I read them at a glance:

    “Not the slab in the cellar! Not that! Oh, my God, anything but
    that! Anything——”

By what strange compulsion was the hand forced to write down what was in
the brain; even to the ultimate thoughts; even to those final words?

       *       *       *       *       *

The gray light from outside, slanting down through two dull little
windows, sank into the sodden hole near the inner wall. The coroner and I
stood in the cellar, but not too near the hole.

A small, demonstrative, dark man—the chief of detectives—stood a little
apart from us, his eyes intent, his natural animation suppressed. We were
watching the stooped shoulders of a police constable, who was angling in
the well.

“See anything, Walters?” inquired the detective, raspingly.

The policeman shook his head.

The little man turned his questioning to me.

“You’re quite sure?” he demanded.

“Ask the coroner. He saw the diary,” I told him.

“I’m afraid there can be no doubt,” the coroner confirmed, in his heavy,
tired voice.

He was an old man, with lack-lustre eyes. It had seemed best to me, on
the whole, that he should read my uncle’s diary. His position entitled
him to all the available facts. What we were seeking in the well might
especially concern him.

He looked at me opaquely now, while the policeman bent double again. Then
he spoke—like one who reluctantly and at last does his duty. He nodded
toward the slab of gray stone, which lay in the shadow to the left of the
well.

“It doesn’t seem very heavy, does it?” he suggested, in an undertone.

I shook my head. “Still, it’s stone,” I demurred. “A man would have to be
rather strong to lift it.”

“To lift it—yes.” He glanced about the cellar. “Ah, I forgot,” he said,
abruptly. “It is in my office, as part of the evidence.” He went on, half
to himself: “A man—even though not very strong—could take a stick—for
instance, the stick that is now in my office—and prop up the slab. If he
wished to look into the well,” he whispered.

The policeman interrupted, straightening again with a groan, and laying
his electric torch beside the well.

“It’s breaking my back,” he complained. “There’s dirt down there. It
seems loose, but I can’t get through it. Somebody’ll have to go down.”

The detective cut in:

“I’m lighter than you, Walters.”

“I’m not afraid, sir.”

“I didn’t say you were,” the little man snapped. “There’s nothing down
there, anyway—though we’ll have to prove that, I suppose.” He glanced
truculently at me, but went on talking to the constable: “Rig the rope
around me, and don’t bungle the knot. I’ve no intention of falling into
the place.”

“There _is_ something there,” whispered the coroner, slowly, to me. His
eyes left the little detective and the policeman, carefully tying and
testing knots, and turned again to the square slab of stone.

“Suppose—while a man was looking into that hole—with the stone propped
up—he should accidentally knock the prop away?” He was still whispering.

“A stone so light that he could prop it up wouldn’t be heavy enough to
kill him,” I objected.

“No.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Not to _kill_ him—to _paralyze_
him—if it struck the spine in a certain way. To render him helpless,
but not unconscious. The _post mortem_ would disclose that, through the
bruises on the body.”

The policeman and the detective had adjusted the knots to their
satisfaction. They were bickering now as to the details of the descent.

“Would that cause death?” I whispered.

“You must remember that the housekeeper was absent for two days. In two
days, even that pressure——” He stared at me hard, to make sure that I
understood——“with the head down——”

Again the policeman interrupted:

“I’ll stand at the well, if you gentlemen will grab the rope behind me.
It won’t be much of a pull. I’ll take the brunt of it.”

We let the little man down, with the electric torch strapped to his
waist, and some sort of implement—a trowel or a small spade—in his hand.
It seemed a long time before his voice, curiously hollow, directed us to
stop. The hole must have been deep.

We braced ourselves. I was second, the coroner, last. The policeman
relieved his strain somewhat by snagging the rope against the edge of the
well, but I marveled, nevertheless, at the ease with which he held the
weight. Very little of it came to me.

A noise like muffled scratching reached us from below. Occasionally, the
rope shook and shifted slightly at the edge of the hole. At last, the
detective’s hollow voice spoke.

“What does he say?” the coroner demanded.

The policeman turned his square, dogged face toward us.

“I think he’s found something,” he explained.

The rope jerked and shifted again. Some sort of struggle seemed to be
going on below. The weight suddenly increased, and as suddenly lessened,
as if something had been grasped, then had managed to elude the grasp and
slip away. I could catch the detective’s rapid breathing now; also the
sound of inarticulate speech in his hollow voice.

The next words I caught came more clearly. They were a command to pull
up. At the same moment, the weight on the rope grew heavier, and remained
so.

The policeman’s big shoulders began straining, rhythmically.

“All together,” he directed. “Take it easy. Pull when I do.”

Slowly, the rope passed through our hands. With each fresh grip that
we took, a small section of it dropped to the floor behind us. I began
to feel the strain. I could tell from the coroner’s labored breathing
that he felt it more, being an old man. The policeman, however, seemed
untiring.

The rope tightened, suddenly, and there was an ejaculation from
below—just below. Still holding fast, the policeman contrived to stoop
over and look. He translated the ejaculation for us.

“Let down a little. He’s stuck with it against the side.”

We slackened the rope, until the detective’s voice gave us the word
again.

The rhythmic tugging continued. Something dark appeared, quite abruptly,
at the top of the hole. My nerves leapt in spite of me, but it was merely
the top of the detective’s head—his dark hair. Something white came
next—his pale face, with staring eyes. Then his shoulders, bowed forward,
the better to support what was in his arms. Then——

I looked away; but, as he laid his burden down at the side of the well,
the detective whispered to us:

“He had her covered up with dirt—covered up....”

He began to laugh—a little, high cackle, like a child’s—until the coroner
took him by the shoulders and deliberately shook him. Then the policeman
led him out of the cellar.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not then, but afterward, that I put my question to the coroner.

“Tell me,” I demanded. “People pass there at all hours. Why didn’t my
uncle call for help?”

“I have thought of that,” he replied. “I believe he did call. I think,
probably, he screamed. But his head was down, and he couldn’t raise it.
His screams must have been swallowed up in the well.”

“You are sure he didn’t murder her?” He had given me that assurance
before, but I wished it again.

“Almost sure,” he declared. “Though it was on his account, undoubtedly,
that she killed herself. Few of us are punished as accurately for our
sins as he was.”

       *       *       *       *       *

One should be thankful, even for crumbs of comfort. I am thankful.

But there are times when my uncle’s face rises before me. After all, we
were the same blood; our sympathies had much in common; under any given
circumstances, our thoughts and feelings must have been largely the
same. I seem to see him in that final death march along the unlighted
passageway—obeying an imperative summons—going on, step by step—down the
stairway to the first floor, down the cellar stairs—at last, lifting the
slab.

I try not to think of the final expiation. Yet _was_ it final? I wonder.
Did the last Door of all, when it opened, find him willing to pass
through? Or was Something waiting beyond that Door?


Murderous Sheik Flees to Forest

After attempting to kill a woman who scorned his attentions, Mohammed
Ben Asmen, a Moroccan sheik, fled to the Argenteuil Forest near Paris
and there defied the efforts of the police to capture him. When the
sheik first saw the beautiful Mme. Sophie Bolle he was smitten, and he
followed her to her home and demanded that she leave her husband and flee
with him. She ordered him away, whereon he attempted to kill her. He
was frightened away, but returned and again tried to slay her. Then the
police were called, but he eluded them in the forest.




_The Tortoise Shell Comb_

The Fantasy of a Mad Brain

By ROYLSTON MARKHAM


“Well, the ghosts of the men hung at Is-Sur-Tille have company. For
myself, I wouldn’t even want a photograph of the place. No, sir, not
me. I can remember it without that. That’s why they’ve put me in this
hospital with all these crazy people. Yet a tortoise shell comb is as
good an alibi as any....

“What? Ghosts? No sir, of course not; I don’t believe in ’em, not on
_this_ side of the Atlantic ... who ever told you _I_ believed in ghosts.

“The hospital intern?... If they’d kept me ’round that chateau in the
woods at Is-Sur-Tille, it might ’a’ been different. It had a queer story
about it, that chateau. That’s what set _me_ off; that and the fact that
I never did like Captain Bott.

“He was hardboiled, that guy was. No, sir; he didn’t own that French
chateau, although at one time he acted as though he thought he did....
I’m coming to that.

“Over there the frogs said the original owner of the place, in his youth,
had fallen madly in love with a young girl and married her. He must ’a’
been crazy about her all right because, according to their story, he
often was seen combing her hair—yes, sir, the French folks are like that;
that’s romance—combing her long red hair as it hung over the back of her
chair, touching the floor.

“I particularly remember that they said her hair was long, very long,
and red, like copper is red in candle light. After a year, she died,
suddenly, of heart disease—‘killed by love itself,’ one of the frogs
said; that’s romance, and he, her husband, the owner of that chateau
there in the woods at Is-Sur-Tille, left that part of the country on the
very day of her funeral. The place, probably, is there yet, like it was
when I saw it, late in the summer of 1918.

“The house was set back from the road among the trees. It looked, then,
as though it had been deserted for a long time. Most of the furniture had
been removed from it, except in one room—I’m coming to that—and the gate
leading into the yard had fallen open on one rusty hinge. Grass filled
the paths; and you couldn’t tell the flowerbeds from the lawns except by
the weeds.

“Nobody had used the place, even in wartime, until our outfit was
billeted at Is-Sur-Tille. That ghost story of a dead bride begging some
one to comb her hair had kept the Frenchies off the place. But Captain
Bott was a hard-boiled guy.

“We went into the house late one afternoon, Captain Bott and me. He led
the way into the kitchen and through the first floor into a large hall,
where the stairs went up to the floor above. Dust was over everything.
The only room in the house that looked at all as though it had been
occupied in years was that bedroom upstairs where, they had told us, the
bride had slept and died. We recognized it because it was the only room
in the house where the door was shut.

“We opened it—that is, Captain Bott did—and went in. I stood in the
doorway until he swore at me and ordered me to follow him in. The room
smelled moldy. It smelled dead. It was a fine room for a ghost. It was
dark in there, but gradually my eyes got accustomed to the gloom enough
to make out that there was a bed in it. On the captain’s orders, I went
to the window to open it for light, but I had to break the rusty hinges
of the outside shutters before I could loosen them.

“At the court martial inquiry they wouldn’t believe me when I said that
was the only reason I went into the room, and on the captain’s orders.

“The room was on the north side of the house and the sun was setting, so
opening the window didn’t help much. There was pillows and a mattress and
sheets—yellow sheets, yellow with age—on the bed. The chairs seemed all
in confusion. There was another door in the room, probably leading to a
closet. It was closed.

“Captain Bott went over and felt of the mattress and patted the
pillows—the pillows on which they had said the bride’s head, nestled in
its mass of copper-colored hair, had rested when she died. Captain Bott
was hard-boiled, like I just said. He didn’t believe in ghosts.

“He said it was the best shakedown he’d seen in weeks.

“‘I’ll damned soon get a good night’s rest,’ he said.

“And he ordered me to go for some candles and his stuff; and, when I got
back, I was to clear the place up. I went. I was glad to go. But I hated
like hell to return.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“When I did get back into the house, it was twilight and, inside, as dark
as a black cat’s belly. Downstairs, in the kitchen, I lighted one of the
candles and held it before me in one hand, the other being occupied with
the captain’s luggage. Then I went through the first floor into the large
hall where the stairs went up to the floor above.

“In the light of my candle at the landing I saw that the door into the
bedroom was closed again, as it had been the only room in the house
where the door was shut when we first went up there together—the captain
who didn’t believe in ghosts and I, who did, over there.... No sir, of
course not; I _don’t_ believe in ’em, not on _this_ side of the Atlantic.
But, in the woods, at Is-Sur-Tille at night, that’s different.

“And it must be worse, since they hung those men there ... and with
Captain Bott who thought the bed of a dead bride was a handsome billet.
He was sure hard-boiled, that guy. I hated him for it.

“When I left him to go for the candles, that door had been open. When
I returned, it was closed. I didn’t like to open it again. But he was
alone there in the dark in that bedroom. I knew that if I waited for him
to come to open the door, stumbling across chairs and things, he sure
would cuss me out—that’s the hell of being a private and a servant to an
officer; no white man likes it—so, finally, I opened the door, with the
hand which held the candle.

“Everything seemed as before, but so quiet. My ears were straining for
sound like they used to do at the sudden cessation of barrage-firing. But
I heard nothing, nothing at all. And the place smelled moldy. It smelled
dead. It was a fine room for a ghost. I thought of it then.

“And, as I stepped across the threshold, I noticed that that other door
in the room, probably that of a closet, was open. It had been closed.
I thought perhaps that the captain had opened it while I was gone. It
wasn’t so dark when I left him as when I returned, and maybe he would ’a’
been snooping around a bit, out of curiosity, perhaps. _I’m_ not curious
like that. But Captain Bott was hard-boiled. And he didn’t believe in
ghosts....

“All these things I’m telling you about what I saw and thought and felt,
they wouldn’t hardly listen to at the court martial inquiry....

“I don’t know how long it was from the time I lighted the candle in the
kitchen downstairs until I stood with it in the doorway of the bedroom
of the dead bride. Not very long, probably, because the melting candle
grease was just beginning to run hot onto my fingers when I turned to
glance toward the bed, wondering why the captain had kept so damned
quiet. It wasn’t like him.

“And there he was, lying across the bed on his back, the tips of his
shoes just touching the floor. Asleep? No. I don’t know how I knew he
wasn’t asleep ... the court martial inquiry kept asking me that....

“But I saw he had something wound round his neck, something that glinted
in the candle light like the braid of a woman’s copper-red hair. And his
hands were above his head. One of them clutched a tortoise-shell comb. I
knew he wasn’t asleep. I knew he was _dead_!...

“How I knew, I couldn’t tell you nor any damned court martial inquiry on
earth. God knows they drove me crazy enough asking me that and what else
I saw....

“Didn’t I see nothing else? No, but I thought I _heard_ or _felt_
something move near that black hole where that other door opened yawning
into a closet. My candle went out—maybe it was only the night wind from
the window—and I dropped it. I dropped the bundle of things belonging
to Captain Bott. I crossed the threshold. I went down the stairs in the
dark, running.

“I fell at the bottom. I remember that.... And I told the court martial
inquiry so; ’twas about the only thing those smug guys believed that I
told them.... But I was on my feet and out of that house before I knew I
had fallen....”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Ha! I can see it! You, too, think I’m soft-boiled.... So did the court
martial inquiry. That’s why they sent me here, among these crazy people.
But say, Buddy, don’t believe what the hospital interne tells you. He’s
crazy, like the rest of ’em. He’s as hard-boiled, too, as Captain Bott
was. And _that_ guy was so hard-boiled he didn’t believe in French ghost
stories.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“That nut you just talked with tells his story to anyone who will
listen,” the interne remarked casually, as we returned to the office of
the commandant of the Army and Navy Insane Asylum. “Probably you think
you’ve heard a crackin’ good ghost story, but what you really heard was
the confession of a crazy murderer who ought to have been the third on
the gallows at Is-Sur-Tille.”

“Isn’t there a haunted chateau at Is-Sur-Tille, and didn’t the officer he
tells about die in the bedroom there?”

“_Oui, mais certainement!_ as the frogs have it. If that chateau isn’t
haunted, it ought to be. There’s a story in the village of the bride’s
death there. And Captain Bott died there all right enough. But that thing
they found twined around his neck ‘like the braid of a woman’s copper-red
hair’ was, in fact, real copper—copper wire stolen from a lineman’s kit.
It might _look_ like hair to a crazy man.”

“But that comb?” I persisted. “What about that tortoise-shell comb?”

“That? Oh, the nut stole that, too. It belonged to one of the girls of
the town whom the private knew before the captain beat his time with
her.”




_A Photographic Phantasm_

_By Paul Crumpler, M. D._


I have always believed that there is a simple and natural explanation for
all seemingly supernatural happenings; but I recently had occasion to
question this belief.

I cannot doubt my own personal knowledge, nor can I deny what my own eyes
have seen, therefore, I cannot dismiss it as a figment of imagination.
The facts are as follows:

There is a rural section near me into which I frequently make visits in
the practice of my profession as a physician. The people are a quaint,
simple and kindly sort, honest, unsophisticated.

I was called, not long ago, to see a little girl in this neighborhood
and found her very ill and with a poor chance for recovery. She was the
younger of two children of a very intelligent farmer and his wife, the
latter, however, having a rather nervous temperament. I had treated the
woman before the little girl was born, and, although she, too, was above
the average in intelligence in her neighborhood, she was a person who
would be classed medically as a neurasthenic.

Realizing the seriousness of her child’s sickness, she was becoming
very nervous, so much so that I found it necessary to leave her some
sedatives. She was worrying a great deal because she did not have a
picture of the little girl. It seemed that the family had planned on
several occasions to have a group picture made in the village, but each
time something had prevented their doing so. This, she informed me, was
preying on her mind and accentuating her grief.

The child died and I heard nothing more from the family until about two
months later. This time my call was to the mother. I found her in a state
of hysteria bordering almost on insanity. She was holding a number of
photographs to her breast, and alternately laughing and crying; it was
impossible to get any coherency into her actions.

Her husband, however, told me that just before he sent for me, the Rural
Mail Carrier had delivered the photographs which had been taken of
himself, his wife and the remaining little girl about six weeks after the
death of their child.

After much persuasion we were able to get the photographs from her and
after glancing at them we saw the cause of her hysteria. THE DEAD CHILD
WAS PHOTOGRAPHED IN THE GROUP ALMOST AS PLAINLY AS THE OTHERS.

She was sitting on her mother’s lap, and on her feet were the little
white shoes which had been bought after her death to satisfy the mother,
who did not want to bury the child in the old and ragged pair which were
all she had. She was dressed exactly as when she was buried, wearing the
dress that the mother had made for her to wear when the family group was
to be photographed.

Did this phenomenon happen by mental telepathy from the mother to the
camera? The mother had grieved unusually and her mind was entirely filled
with thoughts of her child. If the explanation is not to be had from this
line of reasoning, I am unable to solve it.

The picture is there, and also the photographer to verify the truth of
this. The picture shows two children and the mother and father. The
photographer is ready to swear that only one child was visible to his eye
when he made the negative.




_One “Creepy” Night in a House of Death_

The Living Nightmare

By ANTON M. OLIVER


“You mean to tell me,” demanded Jim Brown, “that those people left town
and expect you to stay in that house alone tonight?”

“Why, yes,” said MacMillen, preparing to leave. “They’ve gone to Virginia
and will be back Thursday, when the funeral will take place.”

“And they left the body lying in the living-room?”

“Of course. Where did you expect them to leave it—on the porch?”

“And you are going to sleep in that house alone—with the corpse?”

“Yes. What of it? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Taking his hat and coat, MacMillen departed.

“Pleasant dreams!” called Brown, as the door slammed behind him.

The night was cold and the atmosphere was clear and “hard.” The snow
crackled under his feet as he walked.

“Silly idea,” he muttered; but he couldn’t help wondering why the
Mitchells, with whom he made his home, had left the house on the same day
that Mrs. Mitchell’s grandmother had passed away.

In his mind he went over Mrs. Mitchell’s explanation. She had told him
that they were going to Wheeling, the deceased lady’s old home, where
a sister lived, and would remain there until the funeral. And she had
asked, “You are not afraid to stay here alone, are you?”

No, of course, he was not afraid; but it was strange that they should
leave the corpse in his charge and depart.

Then it came to him. Funny he hadn’t thought of it before. The Mitchells
must be superstitious. They probably had some silly notion about a house
being haunted while a corpse was in it, or something of that sort. That
must be it. But how ridiculous!

Still, the Mitchells were a little queer anyway, reflected Mac, as he
turned up the ice-covered path of the Mitchell residence.

It stood, surrounded by high buildings and stores, in a section of town
which in days gone by had been the very heart of the city’s social life.
It was one of the largest and oldest homes in the city. And now it was an
outcast, so to say, among the monuments to industry and progress. Built
years ago by the husband of the woman who now lay dead within its walls,
it was in a style of architecture long since abandoned. Everything about
it was high and narrow—the building itself, the windows and doors, the
porch columns, and the roof high up among the tree branches.

Mac walked unhesitatingly toward the big dark house. But, somehow, the
formidable brick walls that always looked so inviting seemed cold and
inhospitable tonight. Strange shadows were playing in the windows.

He looked up at his own window. He didn’t exactly fancy the idea of going
past the room where lay the dead woman, he admitted to himself, but he
certainly was not afraid. Not he!

With grim resolution, he thrust the key, which he had taken from his
pocket while coming up the walk, into the lock of the front door. The
huge, glass-paneled door squeaked as he did so, and he was almost
startled by his own reflection in the shining glass. He turned the key in
its lock and threw the door wide open with unnecessary vigor.

A hot wave of air greeted him. The house was warm, surprisingly so,
considering that it had been unoccupied all day. His heart, for some
unexplainable reason, was beating rather fast as he entered the dark hall.

He turned sharply to the left and reached for the electric light switch.
His hand had often turned that switch, had often found it instantly
in the dark; but tonight he had to feel for it. He turned it once,
twice—three times—_but the hall remained dark_.

The dark suddenly seemed to give him almost physical pain. Listening
acutely, he tried to account for this. Why were the lights out? The
street lights were on, and there was light in several of the homes he
had passed. He stood motionless. There was no sound. The dark house was
buried in deathlike silence.

Then, with nerve-shattering suddenness, came a sound as real as that of
his heart, which was beating so that the blood was throbbing in his ears.
He whirled to face it, but, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
With clenched teeth and damp forehead, Mac stood motionless. Then it came
again—a sound like the distant scream of a siren.

Gradually he collected his senses, and reason took the place of
bewilderment. He reached for his matches, and, striking one, he stepped
over to the gas chandelier, turned the valve, and presently a blue flame
leaped high from the lamp, which had not been adjusted for months.

With somewhat trembling hands, he turned the air adjustment, then the
gas, until finally the familiar yellow light illuminated the hallway.
Then he again heard the noise—this time a little louder and _nearer_.

His decision to investigate suddenly left him. He stood motionless,
unable to move, for he not only _heard_—he also _felt_! Then, with a
sudden resolve, he stepped swiftly to his room, which was on the same
floor and adjoined the library.

The light from the hall cast a long, distorted shadow on the floor before
him. It was so still now that the silence surged in his ears. Lighting
his own gas lamp, he locked and bolted his door. His pipe lay on the
dresser, and he lit it nervously. Then he looked at himself in the mirror.

“How ridiculous!” he said, half aloud, with a forced laugh. Then he began
slowly to undress.

All was quiet and peaceful here in his own room. How foolish to let
himself get so excited. The lights had probably gone out all over the
city since he had entered the house, and, as for that noise, it was
probably outdoors somewhere and in his mind he had associated it with the
perfectly harmless corpse lying in the next room.

“Darn Brown!” he murmured. “He got me all wrought up over nothing with
his kidding.”

And, having finished undressing he retired, leaving his light on full,
however. In spite of the fact that his own explanation of the origin of
the strange sounds had, in a measure, satisfied him, he lay awake for a
considerable length of time.

He was drifting off on the first soft currents of sleep when he suddenly
sat up with a jerk. He had heard a noise!

His lamp was flickering weirdly and he could hear its faint
singing—barely audible—yet it seemed to his ears like the mighty rush
of steam from a boiler, for his ears were strained to hear a different
sound, a sound he _must_ hear again, the source of which he _must_ locate.

His body began to ache from sitting rigidly in one position. Still all
was silent.

Suddenly, with a sense of being jerked to consciousness, he again heard
the noise, like the shriek of a siren. It seemed distant, yet close. His
heart labored so hard that he could feel its beat all through his body.
The shriek continued for several moments, and then all was silent again.

He wanted to rise, but he could not.

He was not afraid, he told himself,—and yet....

Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps—steps that seemed to come from
the interior of the wall, pass through his room and die away gradually.
Holding his breath, he listened.

The big clock in the front room struck the hour of midnight. He counted
each beat as it rang through the house. He was wide awake now. The white
curtains seemed to glimmer like sunlit snow, and the clock chimes, in the
deathly silence, sounded like those of a mighty tower clock.

As the last note died away, Mac suddenly remembered that _the clock had
been stopped by Mrs. Mitchell_ as a mark of respect to her, who, in the
adjoining room, was awaiting burial.

       *       *       *       *       *

A sudden feeling of relief came over Mac. It was clear now; somebody had
come back, Mr. Mitchell perhaps. That explained everything.

Confidently, Mac got out of bed and, unlocking his door, stepped into
the hall. How different everything looked, how natural and homelike! The
light that had had such a ghost-like appearance, a short time ago, seemed
friendly and quite natural now. At the foot of the stair Mac stopped and
called. He called louder and louder, but all remained silent. Suddenly,
for some inexplicable reason, he approached the door of the room next to
his, seized the doorknob resolutely and, with a sudden push, swung the
door open. The rays of the gas light in the hall fell directly into the
room, and what they revealed sent a cold shudder of horror through him.
Before him stood two _empty pedestals_. The body had disappeared!

Turning violently, he almost ran to the front door and pulled it open.
An icy gust of wind hit his thinly clad body. For several moments he
stood breathing the cold night air, then, with a sudden determination, he
slammed the big oak door shut.

As the door slammed, there came a sharp report, like the snapping of a
wire, followed by a thunder and crashing and wailing. The electric light
came on, and the same footsteps that had sounded through the house before
came closer and closer. He felt a sharp pain, like the thrust of a knife,
between his shoulder blades.... And then he fell in a swoon.

       *       *       *       *       *

Weeks passed before Mac was well again. Excessive exposure had brought
on pneumonia. As soon as he recovered he summoned me to the hospital and
begged me to find a new lodging for him and remove his belongings from
the Mitchell home.

I tried in vain to explain that he had misunderstood Mrs. Mitchell
regarding the disposal of the corpse, for they had taken the body with
them for burial in Wheeling, and it was not in the house at any time
after their departure. But Mac was resolute. He listened indulgently,
patiently, then, laying his white, hot hand upon my shoulder, he looked
earnestly into my eyes, and with a voice that carried conviction he said:

“I know what I felt in that room that night. It had a _hold_ on me, and
it is waiting for me, and I am not going back!”

Mac is well again now, and one can see him at the club most any night.
But whenever anybody starts to speak of the Hereafter he rises and
hurriedly leaves the room.


Has “Tut’s” Tomb Really Been Found?

The opening of King Tutankhamen’s tomb, with its attendant world-wide
publicity, has brought upon the head of Lord Carnarvon and his brother
Egyptologists a good deal of sharp censure. Prof. W. A. Hammond, dean
of Cornell University, deeply deplores the motive “that leads men
like Lord Carnarvon to show such utter irreverence for dead men’s
bones.” Other critics declare that the Englishman and his party waxed
over-enthusiastic, and that their discovery, after all, wasn’t as
important as they thought it was.

“The Twentieth century,” said Prof. Hammond, addressing his class in
philosophy, “shows too little reverence. How would you like it if, 3,000
years from now, the Saracens had superseded our civilization and had
broken into George Washington’s tomb at Mount Vernon? How would you like
it if Abraham Lincoln’s bones were carried off to Constantinople and
placed on display in a Saracen museum? Yet that is precisely what Lord
Carnarvon now is doing, while the scientific world applauds. What we
need is more conservative scientific investigation, coupled with more
reverence for departed human life.”

Meanwhile, Senor Schiaparelli of Turin, Italy’s greatest Egyptologist,
makes the assertion that the tomb is not really Tutankhamen’s, but is
merely a storehouse of precious objects, placed there either by the
jealous successor of the dead king or saved from destruction by his
partisans. This Italian archaeologist—and he is supported by Réne Ple
of the Louvre and Georges Benedite of the University of Paris—believes
that “Tut’s” tomb was destroyed by his successor, Armais; and he points
out that the tombs of Rameses III and Rameses IX, when opened, disclosed
vastly more wealth and luxury, although “Tut’s” reign is known to have
been of greater splendor.

Prof. Roger W. Rogers of Drew Theological Seminary, an authority on
archaeology, says that the jewels and ornaments found in the tomb are
stolen goods, hidden there by native priests, who took them from some
wealthy corpse. It was the custom of the priests in ancient times to
remove valuable articles from a tomb they feared would be looted and hide
them elsewhere.




_A Man’s Frightful Adventure in an Ancient Tomb_

The INCUBUS

_By_ HAMILTON CRAIGIE


Fear beset Gerald Marston at the very moment of his entry into the
chamber—an intense, gripping horror which laid an icy hand upon his
forehead and fingers of a damp coldness about his heart.

It was as if one invisible from within had reached forth to make him
prisoner to its atmosphere, which, heightened physically by the slimy
walls, the velvet darkness, and the ceaseless, slow dripping of liquid
upon stone, chilled his soul with a nameless foreboding, a daunting
menace of unutterable dread.

And yet that Something, as he told himself, was behind him—his victim,
the man whom he had killed.

Even now It walked, rather, upon the surface of the oily night, felt,
but unseen, driving him forward inexorably, pitilessly—so that now he
stood in the entrance to this lesser blackness, his huge bulk shaking in
an anguish of uncertainty but one degree removed from the panic which
had ridden him until, at length, distraught and near to madness, he had
stumbled into this subterranean oubliette in his frantic flight.

It seemed a week since he, together with Professor Pillsbury, had
descended into this whispering labyrinth of tombs—long galleries of
Aztec construction vying in completeness with the catacombs of early
Rome—sinuous corridors crossing and re-crossing in a maze of underground
warrens of apparently interminable extent.

It had been the Professor himself, an archaeologist whose devotion to
his calling amounted almost to an obsession, who had suggested the
exploration—nay, insisted on it—nor had he, in his singleness of purpose,
remembered that it had been Marston, his friend, who had, as it were,
with a very triumph of casualness, implanted in his mind the first tiny
seed of suggestion.

Scarcely a month before Marston had felicitated his friend upon the
latter’s engagement to Lucille Westley, beautiful and imperious, but
there had been death in his heart. Perhaps, however, he had fancied, with
the perverted hope which had grown in his heart like a green and pallid
flame of lust, that, given his chance, he might have possessed this
incomparable creature for his own.

And so, like a destroying fire, his obsession had mounted until, with
the cunning of his twisted brain, he had evolved a plan, or, rather,
deep within his consciousness, had spawned a thought: foul, slimy,
furtive—even to himself half-born—an abortion, in truth, and yet....

       *       *       *       *       *

As they had passed from the clean sunlight into the Stygian darkness of
the cavern, somehow, unbidden, there had arisen in Marston’s mind an echo
of the classroom—a fugitive whisper which, he could have sworn, took on
suddenly the form and substance of mocking speech: “_Facilis decensus
Averni_,” it whispered in his ear, as in a dim current of the whispering
wind.

Marston had brought with him a ball of stout twine as a necessary
precaution in threading the uncharted deeps of the underground corridors.
This he had knotted firmly in a clove hitch (for Marston had been a
sailor). There could have been no fear of its working loose, and less
danger of its fraying out against the rough walls of the passageways,
since at all times it would be loosely held. Like a thin snake, it spread
itself behind them, and like a snake....

The accident had been impossible to foresee. He had _known_ that it could
not happen; and yet....

The Professor, leading the way with lantern held well aloft, had
exclaimed aloud at the vivid beauty of a stalactite in his path, adjacent
to a broad, deep ledge some three feet in height.

“Ah, Gerald!” he had cried. “It is _alive_—it writhes with motion—observe
how it has grown, layer upon layer of smooth perfection! And the ledge—a
perfect replica of an ancient sarcophagus! Look—”

But he was destined never to complete the speech.

For with the words he stumbled—a bight of the line snaked out to coil
around his ankle—tottered, even as from behind him something moved,
flashed, descended upon his head—something cold and hard. He fell, with a
sodden crash, face downward in the mold.

And with his fall the lantern crashed to the floor of the cavern,
sputtered a moment feebly in a brief spark of life, and then died
abruptly. And at the feet of Marston that which had been sentient, alive,
now lay still and motionless in the dust.

Marston stood for a moment, with groping fingers extended into the void
about him; his head sang, his eyes blurred. The velvet black became
suddenly, as it were, endowed with life and movement, mysterious,
whispering. Near at hand there sounded abruptly a horrible, fetid
panting—a gross intake of whistling breath which, in a sudden,
overmastering panic, he did not recognize as his own labored breathing.

“God!” he cried, insanely, and then, in panic-struck terror at the sound
of his voice, fell silent and stood shivering like a frightened horse.

With fumbling fingers he felt in his pockets and produced a box of
matches, finally, after many attempts, lighting one which he held
tremblingly above his head. He did not glance at the figure at his feet,
but over and beyond it, where his shadow, monstrous and grotesque, seemed
flung headforemost into a shallow niche, within which there rested a flat
slab of rock perhaps three feet in height.

To his distorted imagination the sudden suggestion seemed filled with
a vague menace—as if the brooding shadow of death had reached forth to
touch, to summon, to beckon with an imperious, chill finger there in that
stifling abode of changeless dark.

Abruptly, as the quick flame ate downward to his finger-tips, he made
a short, backward step—stumbled—and the box fell from his nerveless
hand, the match winked out, and at one stride the dominion of the dark
enveloped him.

He bent swiftly, with frantic fingers searching in the mold, scratching,
clawing in a fever of anxiety.

He found—nothing. Then, as if impelled from behind by an inexorable
Force, he began to ran, stumbling, falling, bruising himself against the
sharp, unseen angles of the passageway along which he fled....

Time had merged into an eternity of physical pain and mental torture,
of corroding fear which left him in a sweat of agony as he fared onward
in his blundering flight. The sense of direction which in the pitch
blackness renders the familiar outlines of one’s very bed-chamber
strangely distorted—this had become confused in his first headlong rush
away from the scene of that which was branded upon his heart in letters
of fire.

Now, in his warped and twisted brain the germ of a thought grew,
expanded, flowered abruptly in an insane cacophony of sound.

A laugh, reedy, discordant, cackling echoed in his ears, beginning in a
low chuckle, then rising all about him in a furious stridor of sound. It
was as if the demons of the place were welcoming him to their midst as
one worthy of their company.

Again he fell prone, groveling in the mold in an ecstasy of terror at the
unrecognizable mouthings which issued from his throat. But even as his
insanity peopled the void about him with shapes of terror, in especial
the hideous Shape which he knew even now followed him, he got somehow
to his feet, arose, and lurched headlong into a recess in the rocky
corridor, which would have been familiar could he have but beheld it even
in the brief flaring of a match.

It was then that he heard the ceaseless, slow dripping that smote
him afresh with an indescribable, crawling fear, beside which his
previous insane panic had been as nothing. For a moment he heard also a
gibbering—a squeaking, a rustle which with his coming ceased abruptly
in a faint shadow of sound. For the moment, he could have sworn that a
slinking, furtive, Something, unbelievably swift, had brushed past his
leg, touched him lightly as with the faint, fugitive contact of a dead,
wind-blown leaf.

That slow, continuous dripping—too well he knew its meaning, or thought
that he did. And in the same breath he became aware of the place in
which he stood—_recognized_ it for what it was even in the enveloping
blackness.

At any other time he would have known that measured dripping for what
it was: the curiously suggestive rhythm of the stalactite’s slow
_drip-drip_, like the sluggish dripping of blood.

In his headlong flight, cleaving an unimagined depth of Cimmerian
darkness, through which it seemed he was breathing the oily tide of a dim
nightmare of viscid flood, all sense of direction had been completely
lost.

Now, as he stood, within this fearsome catacomb, of a sudden he stumbled,
knelt, put forward a groping hand, and then recoiled with a windy
shriek—as his shaking fingers encountered _the clammy surface of a human
face_!

       *       *       *       *       *

He had returned, willy nilly, as it seemed, to the body of his victim. It
was the face of Pillsbury, cold, clammy, silent, unresponsive.

Doomed! He was doomed, then, to kneel there, in that groping blackness of
this frightful charnel—alone, yet prisoner to that silent figure—forever
to hear that ceaseless dripping, regular as the beating of a heart, of
a heart that was stilled forever, yet strangely pulsing in its slow
_drip-drip_—inexorable, insistent, ever louder, as it seemed—rising in a
veritable thunder against the low-hung curtain of the dark.

Trembling, urging his will by the severest effort he had ever known, in a
sudden lucid interval he passed an exploring hand over the rigid outlines
of the body, which lay, as upon a bier, on a sort of rocky shelf,
perhaps three feet in height, just level with his shoulders as he bent
before it. But it had not been there before! When he had left it in his
overmastering panic _it had been lying, face downward in the mold_!

But it did not occur to him to question its position; the strange
significance of the fact affected him not at all, for, curiously enough,
with the contact there came a measure of reassurance: the Thing which
had been Pillsbury, his friend—the Thing which he had left behind—had not
been following him; it had existed merely in his coward imagination. Or,
if it had hunted him through the maze of corridors, it was now returned
to its chosen resting-place. There it was, under his hand!

It was absurd to think that he had been followed, for dead men did not
walk, save in dreams, and he had returned to prove that it lay where he
had left it, silent, cold, incapable of movement without volition.

On his hands and knees, his questing fingers, tracing the rigid outline
of the limbs, came suddenly upon a length of line, knotted about the
ankle. _Ah!_

Feverishly he felt about him in the blackness, clawing forward on hands
and knees. Yes, the line ran clear, unbroken, _away_ from the niche. He
was saved!

In his sudden revulsion, he gave way to primitive emotion—he chuckled,
moaned, cried, wept, laughed in a horrible travesty of mirth.

Like a drowning man, he seized upon it with clutching fingers as if
by some sudden magic he might be drawn, on the instant, out of this
labyrinth of black terror which was eating into his soul with the
corroding bite of an acid. For at the other end of that thin thread lay
sunlight and life and liberty. He held that within his shaking grasp
which was in truth a life-line, a tenuous yet certain means of safety,
of escape from a death, the grisly face of which had but a moment before
leered at him out of the tomblike depths.

In his eagerness to be gone, he straightened from his kneeling posture
with a convulsive movement, his fingers holding the line, jerked it
violently, and, before he could rise, there came a rustle, a thud, and
a suffocating weight descended upon his back. As he fell, face downward
in the mold, he squeaked like a rat as, out of the dark, two hands went
round his neck and clawlike talons encircled his throat.

Curiously alive they seemed, and yet—with his own hand he had accounted
for that life. It was not possible—no, it could not be!—it was
unthinkable....

For a space he lay, inert, passive, but, notwithstanding his terror, his
fingers still clutching the line, spread out before him in the blackness.
Presently, when his panic had somewhat abated, when he found that he was
still alive, unharmed, by slow stages of tremendous effort he rose to his
knees, tottering under the Incubus upon his back.

Now that he knew what it was, after an interval he attempted to disengage
the fingers about his neck, but he could not. He found that grip rigid,
unyielding. Like a bar of iron, it resisted his utmost efforts.

It was as if a Will, implacable, inexorable, had informed those stiffened
talons with purpose; it was as if the last sentient effort of an
Intelligence had, by some supernatural quality, _bequeathed_ to those
fingers a message, a command to be performed. _Rigor mortis_—that was
it—the unbreakable hold of those implacable fingers: Pillsbury’s vengeful
fingers, reaching out, even after death, in a dreadful cincture of doom!

But Marston rose slowly to his feet, staggering, swaying beneath that
frightful burden whose fingers wrenched by a superhuman effort from his
neck, bit into his shoulders like hooks of steel.

“God!” he mumbled, again, in an unconscious travesty—a hideous burlesque
of supplication.

It _was_ the end, then. Weakened as he was, his nerves a jangle of
discordant wires, his mind a chaos of bemused and frantic thought, he
stood, helpless, swaying, foredone, beaten, trapped by the insensate clay
of his own making.

No longer a man but a beast, his brain wiped free of every thought but
the blind, unreasoning impulse to live, like an animal he drew, from some
unsuspected physical reservoir within him, the strength to proceed.

Tottering, swaying, he reverted to the brute, and, with the dumb, inhuman
impulsion of the brute, roweling even his apelike strength to superhuman
effort, he continued to advance, falling at times, and rising as with the
last spent effort of a runner at the tape, yet somehow going on and on,
feeling his way along that thin thread whose other end, miles distant,
centuries away, stretched into the ether of Heaven!

In a nightmare of suffocating blackness, shot through at times with the
red fires of the Pit, he fared onward, and now he saw, with a sudden,
agonized return to the perception of the human, that those fires were all
about him. They were Eyes, venomous, hateful, red with the lust of unholy
anticipation....

He heard about him the slither of gaunt bodies, the patter of innumerable
feet—rats they were, but of an unconscionable size, huge and voracious,
such as infested this underground kingdom of the dead.

While he moved he knew that they would not attack him. While he lived,
even without movement, he believed that he was safe.

But why had they refrained from that which he had given them to feast
upon, the Thing which even now flapped about him, the inanimate yet
strangely animate shell which he had transformed at a stroke from life
to death, its legs striking against his as he moved, as if to urge him
onward, rowel him forward as in a race with death?

The sounds that he had heard, the squeaks, the gibbers—as of ghouls
disturbed at a ghastly rendezvous—could there have been any significance
in these? Somewhere he had heard of drunken miners, asleep in the deep
levels of coal, brought to a sudden, horrid awakening by cold lips
nuzzling cheek or neck, but his brain considered this dully, if at all.

An odd hallucination began to possess him; dimly he dreamed that his
dreadful burden was alive, but unconscious, insentient. But he knew that
it was an hallucination.

He would make no immediate effort to rid himself of the Thing he
carried—not now, at any rate. When he became stronger he would bury it,
hide it. Years might pass—perhaps a chance party might discover in one
of the innumerable corridors a moldering skeleton—but the body of his
guilt would be a _corpus delicti_—there could be no conviction without
evidence, and no murder without a victim produced as of due process of
law.

But in a moment it seemed this thought gave place to the overmastering
panic terror of escape. Instinct alone held him to his course. If there
had been light one might have seen the foam which gathered on his lips,
the glassy stare of his eyes.

Again he fell, and this time he fancied that the narrowing circle had
drawn nearer. Even to his dulled brain he was aware of an intelligent
rapacity in those burning eyes, an anticipation which sprang from
_knowledge_.

Somehow, once more, he rose upright, after a multiplied agony of
straining effort, but he felt, deep within his consciousness, that he was
but a puppet in the hands of a ruthless fate, doomed to wander forever
under his detestable load.

Of a sudden, also, an illumination, like a fiery sword, cut through the
dulled functioning of his intelligence: the beast that was Marston reeled
with the suggestion that penetrated the surface of his physical coma.

What if the line he followed led, not into the clean brightness of the
outer air, but, by some frightful mischance, still farther into the womb
of the hills, deeper and deeper into oblivion, down and down into the
uttermost hell of one’s imagining?

In the flux and reflux of images which had taken the place of coherent
thought he saw all this, he felt it to be a possibility, and with the
terror of the brute he strove once more to rid himself of this insensate
tyrant, this incubus which rode him, roweling his sides with grotesquely
dangling feet, spurring him on in a mad welter of fear and pain from
which he could not escape.

But it was useless. Try as he would, he could not disengage that grip of
steel, and thewed mightily as he was, he found that every last ounce of
his great strength was needed to go on. He was just weak enough to render
futile any effort to dislodge those clinging fingers, and just strong
enough to continue his progress, like a mole in the dark—and that was all.

He must go on and on until flesh and blood could endure no more, the
victim of his own contriving, the veritable bond-slave of his passionate
soul. And when at length he should fall, no more to rise, then would
come, not swift oblivion, but death, indeed, lingering, horrible,
unthinkable, even for a beast....

       *       *       *       *       *

Time had ceased, feeling had ceased; thought remained only in the faint
spark which glowed somewhere within him, flickering now, glowing at the
core of his being even as about him there narrowed the fell circle of the
blazing eyes.

_Slap—slap—shuffle—slap...._ With the infinite slowness of exhaustion,
his feet moved, dragged, went forward, while ever at his back those other
lifeless feet rose and fell in a grotesque travesty of life, of movement,
spurring forward his all but fainting soul.

Dimly he perceived that the floor upon which he moved had taken an upward
trend; he felt the line go suddenly taut; then, abruptly, before him,
for a single instant, a pale glimmer flickered and died as from dim
leagues of distance.

Summoning the last remnant of his strength, he began to run, or thought
that he did, but in reality he moved by inches, and by inches the faint
glimmer grew, expanded, broadened to a luminous grayness.

Stumbling, slipping, swaying from side to side, the sight of that pale
shadow of the day intoxicated him with a feverish exultation, despite the
weakness which seemed to dissolve his being to water. He was saved.

By a last, titanic effort, a tremendous wrenching of the will, he fell
rather than staggered into the outer air—beheld, with lack-lustre eyes,
the ring of faces about him, all staring eyes and white lips and working
faces.

Then he sank abruptly to his knees as eager hands relieved him of his
burden. He heard voices, meaningless, yet filled with meaning....

He fell instantaneously down a long stairway to the deep, enveloping
mercy of unconsciousness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Presently, after a timeless interval, he opened his eyes, and then closed
them again, blinking owlishly at the strong sunlight. He heard a voice,
incoherent, babbling, which, after a moment, he recognized as his own:

“The stalactite—it was the stalactite that killed him, I tell you.... It
was an accident—an _accident_....”

He rolled his eyes wildly from right to left; and at what he saw a
strangled, mad cry of sudden comprehension—of understanding—issued from
his throat ere the thick veil of a retributive insanity descended upon
him forever:

“_The rats_ ... knew....”

Before him, his face death-white, his hands scarred from the rough
stone up which he had clawed to the rocky shelf, a clean bandage about
his forehead, was the face of Pillsbury. In that brief instant, like a
lightning flash, illumination seared into the brain of Marston, and, by
its very white-hot intensity, shriveled it to the dust of a gibbering
madness:

The drunken sleep of the miners....

The nibbling of the rats.... Pillsbury’s awakening to consciousness....
His instinctive, _upward_ effort to escape to the ledge from which, with
the half-conscious, and then wholly conscious grip that would not be
denied, he had fallen upon Marston....

Potential murderer that he was, Marston himself, by a poetic irony of
justice, had been the unwitting savior of his intended victim!


More About the Egyptians

The recent discovery of King Tutankhamen’s tomb has created a very
general interest in that most fascinating science, Egyptology. The
authorities tell us that there is in existence a drawing which shows the
Princess Sedel and Prince Nereb of the Fourth Dynasty, which began about
4748 B. C.

The laws of the ancient Egyptians were codified, and while most of these
are lost, yet it is known that the administration of justice was well
organized. Efforts were made to discover the offenders, the case set
forth in writing, the defendant permitted to state his case, witnesses
were called and judges considered the matter. No pleading was allowed, as
the Egyptians considered that eloquence, by affecting the emotions, might
be detrimental to justice.

Murder was punishable by death; so also was perjury. For treachery the
punishment was loss of the tongue; for forgery, the right hand was cut
off. Noblemen and high officials found guilty of a crime were bound as a
matter of honor to commit suicide. One document, relating to a court of
special inquiry, states: “They found him guilty. They sent him back to
his own house. He took his own life.”

All citizens were registered, the name, address and occupation being duly
reported. A full description of the person was added for identification
when deeds were drawn up: “Panouthes, aged about forty-five, of middle
size, dark complexion and handsome figure, bald, round-faced and straight
nosed.”

Perhaps one of the strangest details of the Egyptian penal law was their
method of dealing with robbers. All professional thieves sent in their
names to the Arch-thief, and always informed him of the goods stolen,
giving details. If, therefore, a robbery took place, the victim at once
lodged a complaint with this chief of the thieves, stating the nature and
value of the missing objects, and the time of the theft. The articles
could thus be identified, and after paying one-quarter the value the
owner received them back uninjured.

                                                                     J. K.




_An Amazing Novelette Filled With Weird Happenings_

_The_ BODYMASTER

_By_ Harold Ward


_Foreword_

_Perhaps I have been suffering from an hallucination. Possibly during the
weary months that I was lost to family and friends I was wandering about
the country, my brain in the ferment which afterward developed into the
attack of brain fever from which I have just recovered._

_Yet the maggots of madness inside my skull could not have created all
that I have seen. The proof of my sincerity lies in the fact that within
these pages I have confessed complicity in crimes for which the law
can hang me if it so desires. I am willing to admit that to the man of
science my tale bristles with errors—errors of interpretation, but not of
fact—for I am a detective, not a scientist._

_Did such a man as The Bodymaster really exist? Or was it only the
writhing of my tortured imagination which transformed Doctor Darius
Lessman, theologist and philanthropist, into a fiend incarnate? His lair
is gone. A pile of charred ruins now occupies the place where it stood.
Its inmates died with it. The Bodymaster is no more. But is he really
dead?_

_Time alone will tell. The records of the police department of the City
of New York will bear out my story up to a certain point. From there on
the affair is a puzzle to me. It is from this that the reader must draw
his own deductions. I can give only the facts._


_CHAPTER I._

Through the thick tangle of underbrush and trees, which surrounded Doctor
Darius Lessman’s private sanitarium just outside the city of New York,
dashed a young man, coatless, hatless, his shirt and trousers torn to
shreds by the thorns and brambles.

With blood streaming from a hundred scratches on his face and hands,
he presented a savage, almost inhuman, aspect as he leaped before the
automobile rapidly coming down the smooth asphalt pavement.

His face was drawn, haggard, contorted; and the snow-white hair, which
crowned his youthful face, was matted and unkempt. His eyes bulged from
their sockets like those of a maniac as he glared at the oncoming machine.

The afternoon, which was just drawing to a close, had been unusually hot;
the storm, hovering over the countryside, filled the air with a strange
foreboding—an unusual degree of sultriness. The sky was dull save when an
occasional flash of lightning tore through the lowering heavens. Not a
breath of wind. Not the rustle of a leaf. Yet the teeth of the man in the
roadway rattled like castanets, and upon his clammy brow the cold sweat
of terror stood out in beads.

The driver of the big machine brought it to a stop with a sharp grinding
of brakes. As he caught a glimpse of the ghastly face of the man before
him he involuntarily hunched his body back further into his seat.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed.

The other leaped to the side of the machine and fumbled clumsily—his
fingers shaking like those of a man with the palsy—at the catch of the
door.

“Quick!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “He—the Bodymaster—is after me! Get me to
the police station. I must—Oh, my God! I _must_ tell my story before he
seizes me again!”

He managed to open the door and stumble into the machine. The driver
turned to him.

“All right, old man,” he said in the soothing tone that one uses in
addressing a lunatic. “We’ll get you there in a jiffy. Are you from
the big house up yonder?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the
sanitarium.

An involuntary shudder ran through the young man. His eyes dilated. He
shrank away from the motorist.

“My God! Not there! Not there again!” he implored. “Please don’t take me
back to that den! You think that I’m a madman. I can see that you do.
I’m sane—as sane as you. But heavens knows why—after the hell I’ve been
through!”

He turned to the driver and grasped him by the arm.

“Give her the gas!” he exclaimed. “Can’t you see that I’m doomed? But no.
You know nothing of the Bodymaster and the strange hold he has over his
subjects. He is after me—he, the Bodymaster! It is to save others from
the same fate that I must tell what I know!”

With a sudden bound he leaped forward, his eyes wild, his hair in a
tousled mass, his hands stretched out, the fingers clawing wildly, his
whole body quivering. Then he dropped to the floor of the machine as if
hurled by unseen hands.

“He is _here_! _The Bodymaster is here!_” he shrieked. “Drive—for the
love of God, dr——”

The words ended in a dull, throaty gurgle as he writhed upon the floor of
the machine at the other’s feet. The driver, bewildered by the strange
scene, threw in the clutch, and the machine dashed madly down the
pavement.

The young man was on his back now, his knees drawn up, his face ghastly
and twisted, his eyes bulging, his fingers clawing as if unseen hands
were gripping at his throat. His mouth was open—gaping as he fought for
breath.

With a wild yell of terror, the driver leaped from the machine. The
automobile swerved, skidded—then hurled its weight against a nearby tree.

Summoning his courage, he rose to his feet from the side of the road,
where his fall had thrown him among the brush and brambles, and
approached the wreck.

In the bottom of the car the stranger lay dead!

_And upon his white throat were the black marks of fingers!_


_CHAPTER II._

John Duncan was arrested, charged with the murder of the unknown young
man.

He had no defense. The evidence was all against him. The body of the
stranger had been found in his damaged car. Death was the result of
strangulation. The marks of fingers were upon the dead man’s throat.

The defendant admitted that the deceased had been alive when he entered
the machine. And the story he told was so strange, so unbelievable, that
even his own attorney scoffed at it. How, then, could a judge believe his
tale?

Doctor Darius Lessman was called upon to testify at the preliminary
hearing. Tall, gaunt, saturnine, his raven hair, slightly tinged with
gray, brushed back from his high forehead, he looked the student, the man
of research, and as such he impressed the jury.

Carefully, painstakingly, he made an examination of the body. To the best
of his knowledge and belief, he testified, he had never seen the man in
life. How he chanced to be wandering about the grounds of the Lessman
sanitarium he did not know. He added to the already favorable opinion
formed of him by the judge and jury by asking that he be allowed to pay
the funeral expenses of the ragged stranger.

One man alone believed the tale told by John Duncan. He was Patrick
Casey, captain in command of the homicide squad of the Metropolitan
Police Department.

The alleged murder had happened outside of Casey’s jurisdiction; but the
captain chanced to be present at the hearing. Immediately afterward he
sought an interview with the defendant.

For a second time he heard the story, questioned Duncan closely and,
at the close of his visit, advised the accused to retain the private
inquiry agency of which I am the head. He even interested himself to the
extent of calling me up, telling me of what he had done and asking that I
take the case as a personal favor to him.

John Duncan, being a wealthy man, accepted the policeman’s advice. And
thus I became a figure in what I am forced to believe was the strangest
series of happenings that ever fell to mortal man.

I admit that I am ashamed of the part fate forced me to play. The reader
will probably term me either a fool or a lunatic. I am certain that I am
not a fool. As for being a lunatic—as I have stated in my foreword, I do
not know. But I digress.

Three days later, armed with letters of introduction from some of the
most celebrated alienists in the city, all vouching for my character and
ability, I applied to Doctor Darius Lessman for a position as attendant.

I secured the position.

       *       *       *       *       *

An uncanny, eerie, ghost-like place, this sanitarium of Doctor Lessman’s.

My first glimpse of it recalled to mind a description I had read
somewhere of a ruined castle “from whose tall black windows came no ray
of light and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the
moonlit sky.” It had been built—some half century before—for a mad-house.
Its owner, a better physician than a business man, had lost his all
before its completion, and it had fallen badly into decay when Lessman
purchased it.

It stood in the midst of an arid thicket of oaks, cedars and stunted
pines. Lessman, evidently, had done little to improve the place or its
surroundings save to finish that part that had been left uncompleted by
the former owner, and year after year it had grown more gloomy and less
habitable. The state highway ran a scant half mile away, crowded on both
sides by the stunted forest, a macadamized driveway which wound about
through the trees, leading to the house. The nearest habitation was
several miles away.

How such a place could be approved by the state as a hospital for
the cure of nervous disorders has always been a question to me. Yet
investigation proved that Lessman had a state license, although to the
best of my knowledge his institution had no patients, nor did it seek
them. It was a sanitarium in name only.

In my character of a man seeking employment, I thought it best to walk
the last lap of the journey. Dismissing my chauffeur at the edge of the
forest, lest some one from the house discover my means of transportation,
I sent him home and trudged down the pathway toward the ancient pile.

_I must digress long enough to state that this was the last time I was
seen until I made my reappearance months afterward, to all appearances a
raving maniac. Naturally, after several weeks had passed and nothing was
heard from me, my family and friends commenced an investigation. Doctor
Lessman was able to prove to them that I had never reached his place, in
spite of the statement made by Hopkins, the chauffeur. The latter was
arrested and would probably have been held for my murder had it not been
for my timely reappearance. But more of this later._

I approached the great door, studded with iron nails and set in a
doorway of massive brick and stone. There was no sign of a bell, and I
was finally forced to resort to my knuckles to hammer a tattoo on the
weather-beaten panel.

I had almost decided to try the door in the rear, when I heard the
approach of a heavy step. There came a sound of rattling chains and the
clanking of massive bolts. Then a key was turned with a grating noise,
and the big door swung back.

Something told me to flee; but I shook off the feeling as unworthy a man
of my profession and stood my ground. Had I but obeyed that impulse Had I
but obeyed that impulse I would have been a happier man today!

Doctor Lessman, clad in a faded bathrobe, his forefinger between the
pages of the volume he had been reading, greeted me. For an instant his
gaze traveled over me from head to foot, then went past me as if seeking
my means of approach. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he took
my letters of introduction and read them carefully, questioning me on
several points.

With a gesture of his slender hand he invited me to enter—_the lair of
the Bodymaster_!


_CHAPTER III._

What better proof that I was not insane during those horrible months
than that during my rational periods I kept a diary? Fragmentary though
it is, showing as it does the awful strain under which I was placed, the
detective instinct must have been uppermost at all times.

I remember nothing of writing it. Yet here it is in my own handwriting.
Evidently so deeply impressed upon my subconscious mind must have been
my mission—the fact that I was there to save an innocent man from the
gallows—that, like a man in his sleep, I wrote, not knowing that I
did, obsessed with the one idea—to preserve the evidence which I was
accumulating against Darius Lessman. Why he did not destroy the diary
I do not know. Possibly I had it too well hidden. Or he may not have
thought it worth while, believing that I would never escape.


THE DIARY.

“The ragged stranger was right. Lessman _is_ a Bodymaster. Already he
holds me in his power. My body is his to do with as he wills. Those
into whose hands this writing may fall will probably think me demented,
for the human mind declines to believe that which it can not understand.
And while I am under his uncanny power I may do some act—commit some
deed—which, under happier circumstances, would fill me with loathing.
Do not judge me too harshly. Remember that Lessman’s is the will which
forces me.”


ANOTHER ENTRY IN THE DIARY.

“Last night I killed a man. Of this I am almost certain. I, a man sworn
to avenge crime and to track down criminals, have the brand of Cain
upon my brow. My hands are dripping with blood. I should be in a cell
in murderers’ row, waiting for an avenging law to hang me, instead of
breathing the air of freedom. But am I free? No! A thousand times no! I
am as much a prisoner as I would be behind the bars of a felon’s cage.

“As one watches a motion picture thrown upon the silver screen, I see
myself with Meta by my side.... We cross a darkened thoroughfare....
The details are fragmentary—occasional. I know that we are near a
house. A window is open. We enter. At her command, I approach the safe
placed in the wall. It seems to open to my touch.... Meta is holding a
flashlight—And yet it is not Meta! It is another—a girl, fair-haired,
sweet of face—yet her will is the will of Meta. Meta’s is the driving
force behind her actions, just as my body is driven onward by the iron
will of the Bodymaster....

“Some one is approaching. We step behind the curtain. He enters and snaps
on the light. At sight of the open safe, he turns. He is about to give
the alarm.... There is a knife in my hand.... I strike! God in Heaven! _I
have killed him!_... We seize the jewels from the safe and escape....”

“There was the stain of blood on my hand when I awoke this morning. I
am a murderer! Oh God! I pray that it was all a dream. Yet it was so
realistic that I am forced to believe that it is true.

“I have discovered the evidence which I set out to find. But what a
terrific price I have paid for what I have learned. Under his will, my
brain is a vacuum, rattling around within its pan like a pebble in a tin
bucket, functioning only when he so commands. But wait! This can not be
entirely so. I must still have some reasoning power left, else I would
not be writing these lines. Thank God for that!

“Yet even as I write I know that The Bodymaster is planning my death.
He has it within his power to drive my soul from out my body—to usurp
this tenement of clay with his own polluted brain. How he works his
wonders I will describe later if I am able. It is hard for me to think
consecutively.

“Lessman’s is the greatest brain, his the most wonderful intellect,
the world has ever known. His is the accumulated wisdom of the
centuries—since Jesus of Nazareth trod this earth there has been none who
could accomplish the wonders he has performed. Think what a power for
good he might have been!

“I must publish his devilishness to the world. John Duncan lies festering
in a felon’s cell, perhaps to stretch a hempen rope for a crime that
Lessman committed. I must save him if I can. Yet who will believe me?
Wise judges and learned counsel scoffed and jeered at what Duncan had to
tell. What, then, will they say when they read these lines? I see them
smile derisively and tap their bulging brows in token of my madness.

“Meta is the lure he used to hold me in his power. My instinct told me to
flee the minute I crossed the threshold. Would to heaven I had! Lessman
must have read my thoughts, for he pressed the bell which summoned her to
his side.

“One glimpse of Meta Vinetta and I was lost.

“Lessman introduced me to her as his sister. I know now that she is more
to him than that—that she is his soul mate, his affinity. She is his
accomplice in all the devilish schemes which incubate within his wondrous
brain.

“Together they can rule the world. Lessman holds that the body is a
shell, a house built only to hold the soul, deriving its power from the
spirit, the will. To him there is no crime in murder, for his theology
holds that the snapping of the thread of life is merely the release of
the soul which soars away to realms on high. His is the belief that
might is right. He needs the bodies of his victims in order to practice
his devilish arts. He has the power to take them, and he uses it to
the utmost. He holds that the body is not a prison house, but a slave
to will. In his philosophy, it is simply a useful tool over which the
spirit possesses absolute control. He is neither a spiritualist nor a
theosophist. His is a theory all by itself and of itself.

“_Lessman has elected to live forever!_ Of that I am certain. He and
Meta—the woman he loves.”


ANOTHER ENTRY.

“There are other poor dupes here—at least a dozen of them. Some of them
are maniacs; and Lessman is holding them, I think, with the hope that he
can cure their awful malady. For, as I understand it, he has no power
over a diseased brain. It is only those that are normal that bow to his
bidding.

“We have compared notes. Collins, of Chicago, has rational streaks during
which he is able to talk freely. He, like myself, was a detective. I
remember reading of his strange disappearance over a year ago. He was
on a robbery case, and certain clews led him to New York. Instead of
reporting to the police, he thought to take all the credit and capture
the criminals himself. He trailed them to Doctor Lessman’s place. He,
like myself, fell a victim to the wiles of Meta. Now he is at intervals a
jibbering idiot.

“Several of the poor devils, Collins tells me, were placed here by
distant relatives. Lessman, wearing the garb of sanctity, talks of his
desire to cure them of their nervous disorder, and their relatives, poor
fools, glad to rid themselves of the millstones around their necks, turn
the wretched creatures over to him. He charges a low rate for their board
and medical treatment.

“To one and all he is known as ‘The Bodymaster.’ He teaches them to call
him that. They fear him like the very devil. They talk occasionally of a
revolt. But when he is near they tremble at his frown. His hold over them
is absolute—complete.”


_CHAPTER IV._

_Evidently several weeks elapsed between the last entry in the diary and
what follows. This is to be inferred from the fact that several things
are mentioned as having happened of which there is no record. In all
probability, I was in a semi-somnambulic state during the interval, as a
result of Lessman’s strange power over me. During my entire incarceration
there were times when everything was a blank; at other times, I remember,
there were dim, hazy vistas of things into which I peered. They seem like
dreams. Yet, if they were dreams, of what was their substance? A dream
must have some foundation._


FROM THE DIARY.

“The unforeseen has come to pass. That which I have just witnessed God
never intended that mortal eyes should see. At the very thought of it my
body trembles and every nerve tingles as if from electric shock.

“Where is Lessman? Did the Bodymaster and his female accomplice perish
in the ruins of their own diabolical art? I hope so. It is better that
I—that all of us—die of starvation, locked as we are in this horrible
den, than that others should share the fate which has been meted out to
us.

“_Last night I am almost certain that we exchanged bodies—the Bodymaster
and I!_

“At least, my waking consciousness tells me that we did. Yet it is all so
hazy that I can remember only fragments of what happened. Perhaps I only
dreamed. I tell only what I can remember.

“At his command, I slunk from my narrow cell like a mangy, half-starved,
dope-filled circus lion from its cage. And, like the king of beasts,
beaten into servitude in the arena, I fawned at my master’s feet, ready
to do his bidding. Such is the state that I have reached. For my body
is not my own. It is his—his to do with as he wills. Fight as I may, an
unseen force compels me to do his bidding.

“They were together, he and Meta. From another door entered a girl—young,
beautiful, fair-haired. She is, I am certain, the woman who accompanied
me on that other occasion of which I have a recollection—the night I
found the blood upon my hand and knew that I had killed a man. I dream of
her nightly. She is Meta’s dupe. Like me, her mind is not yet a blank.
She entered slowly, reluctantly, as if every fiber in her body rebelled
against the awful crime in which she was to take a part, her great blue
eyes staring straight ahead.

“Like a woman who walks in her sleep, she approached Meta’s side. For
an instant they stood there—the fair-haired girl and the beautiful,
raven-tressed woman. Lessman’s hands hovered over them.

“She screamed! God in heaven, how she shrieked! Then the body of Meta
staggered to a nearby chair and dropped into its recesses.

“_And from the throat of the fair-haired girl with the angel’s face came
the voice of Meta!_

“‘_It is done!_’

“He, the Bodymaster, turned to me. My whole being fought within me
against the sacrilege which was being committed. As well attempt to stem
the oncoming tide. I felt my body in a convulsion. Something seemed to
be tearing at my very vitals. My mind reeled. My brain was filled with
fire. The face—the devilish, diabolical, mocking face of the Bodymaster
appeared before me. I could see nothing else. His baleful, gleaming eyes
seemed to burn into my very core. My body seemed to be hurled through
space.... Then came oblivion.

“I must have been unconscious but an instant. I stood leaning against
the table, my fingers pressed against my aching brow. Dazed, I passed
my hand across my face. I was bearded. _It was the face of Lessman, the
Bodymaster!_

“The clothes were his. _I was inhabiting his body!_

“My startled gaze turned across the room. To all intents and purposes it
was I who stood there, my arm about the waist of the golden-haired girl.

“I knew that it was not I—that it was Lessman, the Bodymaster, who
offered his foul caresses to the beautiful face upraised to his. I knew
that the rich red lips were not those of the girl whose slender body he
had defiled. It was Meta—Meta and Lessman, not the girl and I....

“A burst of rage swelled up within me. Something snapped. For an instant
a flood of red appeared before my eyes. I leaped forward, the lust for
killing within my brain.

“Lessman’s body is fat with nourishment, his muscles fed by good living,
while mine is half famished, ill-nourished, weak as a result of worry and
nerve strain.

“It was my own body I was punishing. Yet Lessman’s was the soul that
inhabited it. As a man sees his face in a mirror, so did I see my face
before me. I hurled my stolen body to the floor. Screaming with rage, I
showered blow after blow upon it. It writhed with pain.

“And all the time, within me, there was being waged a terrible struggle
for mastery. I felt the will of Lessman commanding me to desist. Yet the
love of a woman was stronger than his power. I gouged at the gleaming
eyes which stared up into mine, the while I choked at the throat—_my
throat_—which lay beneath my fingers.

“The woman was screaming. I knew that it was Meta who was cursing me, who
sought to pull me from my victim. Yet it was the body of the unnamed girl
I loved, her face contorted into a frenzy of malignancy, who showered
blow after blow upon my bared head....

“I awoke to find myself here in my cell again. My head aches. My face is
covered with bruises. My hair is matted with blood. Lessman must have
conquered. I wonder how fared the girl with the mass of shimmering,
golden hair. Surely, with all these bruises, it could not have been a
dream.”


_CHAPTER V._

MORE FROM THE DIARY.

“She loves me! We met today for the first time, unfettered by the
insidious chains the Bodymaster has woven about us. Her name is Avis—Avis
Rohmer. She has told me all.

“Perhaps it is a part of his diabolical plan to allow us to see each
other. He knows that I will never seek to escape until I can take her
with me. Since my rebellion of the other night—I know not how long ago it
was, for time is as nothing in a brain that is partly dead—he has been
more careful.

“She, Avis and I, alone of all those who have fallen under his
supernatural power, still retain our minds. The others are mental wrecks,
their skulls mere empty shells in which their addled brains sizzle and
froth like half-worked wine in kegs. She has begged me to protect her.
And I have sworn to take her from this den of iniquity, although God
alone knows how I can ever keep my promise. For I am as completely under
his power as she.

“Victory makes him careless, while failure makes him redouble his
efforts. That is why this narrative appears piecemeal. I am like a man
sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, waking up occasionally for food,
then dropping off again. What he is doing during the intervals when I am
not myself I can only imagine.”


ANOTHER ENTRY.

“I must work fast if I am to save Avis. I care not for myself now—since
I have felt love. She is an orphan. She came here from a western state,
determined to make her fortune on the stage. Like thousands of others,
she found that her talent was mediocre. She sought to make a living
in other ways when she found that all that was open to her was the
downward path. Meta—again it was Meta who served as the lure—read her
advertisement. Meta appeared before her as the Good Samaritan—a woman,
wealthy, refined, seeking a companion. She brought her here.

“Lessman allows me to see her every day now. What devilish plan has he in
view that he should torture me with her sufferings?”


_CHAPTER VI._

_Occasionally through the clouds of obscurity there appears some
incident which I remember distinctly. Strange as it may appear, there
is no record of these occasions in my diary. I can explain this only
by the supposition that at such times Lessman withdrew his power over
me, while on all other occasions I was, as I have said before, in a
semi-somnambulic state._


THE DIARY CONTINUES.

“I awoke as one awakens from a horrible nightmare. My brain was as
clear as a crystal. For an instant I imagined that I was in my own
apartment—that the suffering I had gone through were but the conjurings
of my own mind.

“A single glance at the barred window brought me back to a sudden
realization of my condition. But my mind was my own. I was freed from the
horrible thing that had obsessed me.

“On the table in one corner of the room was food. I ate ravenously. I do
not remember how long it had been since I had eaten. My meal completed,
I looked about me for some means of escape. Once I could find a way out
of the accursed place—some weapon with which to defend myself—I would
return, free Avis and flee.

“It must have been midnight. Outside, the rain was falling in torrents.
It beat a regular tattoo upon the window. Cautiously, lest I be heard, I
tiptoed to the door and tried the knob.

“The door was unlocked!

“In an exultation of excitement, I peered out. There was no one in sight.
My mood was detached, strange, vague—marked by an indescribable something
I could not explain. Save for the single kerosene lamp, which burned low
in its bracket at the end of the long hallway, the place was in darkness.

“Removing my shoes, I tiptoed my way across the floor. Avis’ room was the
fourth door from mine. That much she had told me. Reaching it, I tried
the knob. It was locked. I tapped softly against the panel. Receiving
no answer, I rapped more loudly. I dared not raise my voice. Failing
to arouse her, I was forced to leave her for a moment to continue my
exploration.

“In one corner of the hallway stood a huge stick—evidently a cane that
had been carried by one of the keepers in the days when the place was
used as an asylum for maniacs. With this in my hand, I felt more secure.

“Where was Lessman? Had he made his escape while I slept, leaving my door
open? Had he forced Avis and the other poor creatures who were under his
command to accompany him? The thought startled me. Grasping the cudgel
more firmly, I took the lamp from its bracket and started on a tour
of investigation. All of the doors opening into the hallway, with the
exception of my own, were locked. The silence was tomblike, uncanny.

“At the end of the long corridor a pair of stairs wound upward. Mounting
them, I found myself in a long passage similar to that which I had just
quitted. One or two of the rooms near the end were open. There was
nothing in them except old furniture, moth-eaten and dusty with age. The
entire floor seemed deserted.

“Continuing onward, I came to a door which, though it seemed to be
locked, seemed to give a little under the pressure of my knee. Setting my
lamp upon the floor, I put my shoulder against it and gave a long, steady
shove. Under this force it opened quite readily.

“My stockinged feet made no noise, while the ease with which I was able
to force the door showed that the hinges had been recently oiled. Inside,
a lamp was burning.

“I hesitated in the doorway. Then my startled gaze made out a second
room, partitioned from the first by curtains, pushed partly back.

“Across my field of vision moved the gaunt figure of The Bodymaster. He
was clad in the faded bathrobe in which I had first seen him, and he
held a lamp in his hand. The light shone upon his thin, cruel face. He
approached the side of the bed and stood gazing down upon its occupant.

“Something seemed to draw me closer. Upon the bed lay a corpse—a
blond-haired giant—stripped to the waist. As Lessman, his evil gaze still
upon the mammoth figure, held the lamp a trifle aloft, _the dead man
writhed and twisted as if in mortal agony_!

“The Bodymaster stretched forth one thin hand. The man upon the bed
stiffened—then sat bolt upright, his bloodshot eyes glaring!

“Involuntarily I took a step backward.

“_As God is my judge, the eyes were those of a corpse—glassy, unseeing!_
And while I still looked, the body slipped backward, the curious writhing
movements ceased, and that which lay upon the bed was only insensate clay.

“Now or never was the time to strike. Grasping my cudgel more firmly, I
raised it over my head. The back of the Bodymaster was turned toward me.
I had him off his guard. I was about to bring the club down across his
head when, without turning his gaze, he spoke:

“‘Sit down, my friend, and throw your cane aside. You can not strike.
Your arm is palsied.’

“The cane dropped from my fingers. I attempted to lower my arm to recover
it. Impossible. I was unable to move. My arm was held aloft as by an
unseen hand.

“The Bodymaster turned toward me with a smile.

“‘Sit down!’ he commanded.

“My arm dropped to my side. Like a drunken man I staggered to a chair.”


_CHAPTER VII._

“Seating himself opposite me, Lessman pushed a box of cigars across the
table.

“‘Help yourself,’ he smiled, selecting one for himself. ‘You are some
sixty seconds ahead of time. I hardly expected you to be so prompt.’

“‘Expected me!’ I ejaculated.

“He nodded. ‘Naturally,’ he responded. ‘How else do you suppose you
got here? You certainly did not expect that I would make so great an
oversight as to leave your door unlocked? I wanted you—wanted to have a
talk with you. My mind willed that you should come, and you are here.’

“He waved his hand with a slight gesture as if dismissing the entire
subject. For a second there was silence. Then he resumed:

“‘Our little fracas of the other night taught me that you are a man of
more than ordinary mental ability; in fact, you are the first who has
ever disobeyed my unspoken commands. And, more than that, you showed me
that you are the man I have been seeking all these years.’

“His eyes burned with enthusiasm as he continued.

“‘Man,’ he went on, ‘my experiments have been a success. True, lives have
been destroyed. But what is life! Your man-made theology teaches you that
life is but a span of a few years in eternity; you snap the cord which
binds you to this earth, and immediately you enter the paradise which
your God has prepared for you. Why, then, prolong matters? I, rather than
being the monster you think me to be, am a benefactor to the human race.
Every man who dies in my hands before his allotted time has that much
longer to spend in heaven.’

“He leaned back in his chair and laughed mirthlessly for an instant.

“‘I am not here to argue the right or wrong of the thing, however,’ he
continued. ‘I am a man born to rule; I would rather be a big devil in
hell than a little angel in heaven—if there be such places as heaven and
hell, which I greatly doubt.

“‘I need help in my work—my experiments. True, I have Meta—but she is
only a weak woman. I need others—men whom I can teach—men whom I can
trust—men with the will to conquer. You have proved to me that you are
such a man. The world is yours—the world and all that it contains—if you
accept.’

“He stopped suddenly and gazed into my eyes as if trying to read my very
soul. In fact, I believe that he did read my mind, for he answered my
unspoken thoughts before I had voiced them:

“‘Yes, the devil took Christ upon the mountain and offered him
everything,’ he exclaimed, his eyes blazing. ‘Call me the devil if you
like—I care not a rap what you term me—I offer you the same. I said
before, and I say again, the world is yours—money, power, pleasure and——’

“As he spoke, as if in obedience to some rehearsed cue, the door opened.
A vague perfume assailed my nostrils—a faint, elusive scent—a zephyr from
the East. Through the opening Meta stepped. She wore a kimona—a soft,
silken, figured affair reminiscent of the Orient. I can only remember
that beneath its folds protruded a glimpse of tiny, bare feet clad in the
smallest of sandals.

“There are silences more eloquent than words. For an instant my eyes
sought hers—deep, dark, lustrous, glowing like great pools of liquid fire.

“She smiled. Then, suddenly, she sprang forward, her arms from which the
folds of the kimona had slipped, bared—outstretched toward me, her rich
red lips upraised to mine.

“I leaped to my feet. My mind was filled with wild, insane thoughts. I
took a half step toward her. Like a frightened bird, she darted backward.
Then, as if filled with a wild abandon, she tore open the neck of her
kimona, revealing to my startled gaze a glimpse of transparent white skin.

“Stretching forth one rounded arm, she displaced the curtain, discovering
to my view a room opposite that in which lay the body of the man from the
grave.

“My God! Crouched in a corner like a frightened animal was Avis! Her
dress was torn, her golden hair matted and unkempt. She shrunk away from
the light as one who fears its rays. Her big blue eyes gazed into mine.
They were wide with fear. Yet her lips moved. It seemed to me that they
were trying to form some message—to convey something to me.

“She held up her hands appealingly. They were fastened together with
chains.

“From behind me came the voice of Lessman:

“‘Choose!’ he commanded. ‘On one hand wealth, luxury, power, beautiful
women; on the other—_this_!

“‘_Choose!_’”


ANOTHER EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY.

“I awoke in my own bed. I have the word of Avis for what happened. She
says that when Lessman made his terrible offer to me that I stood for an
instant like a man too astounded for utterance. Suddenly I turned and
struck him squarely in the face. Meta screamed. Lessman, however, merely
dropped back a step and stretched forth his hand. I had my arm drawn back
to strike him again. I wavered, staggered for a second like a drunken
man, then my knees gave way under me and I fell forward on my face.

“That is all she knows. She was hurried back to her own room by Meta,
where she fell in a swoon.”


_CHAPTER VIII._

_A man suffering from amnesia has, upon his return to normal, no
recollection of what happened while he was in that condition. While I do
not say that I was amnestic in every sense of the word, yet my condition
must have resembled that peculiar malady to a certain degree. I can
positively state that I have absolutely no remembrance of the events
which are described below. Yet they are in my own handwriting in my
diary. My own idea of the subject is that I was in a sort of twilight
sleep, as it were—not completely under Lessman’s influence, yet partly
so. I give the contents of my diary just as they were written, venturing
the assertion, however, that they must have been put down several days
after the events of the previous chapter_:

“A strange thing has come to pass. The Bodymaster evidently bears me no
ill will, for last night Avis and I dined with him. Ordinarily, we are
fed like animals, the food served out to us by a deaf and dumb mulatto
who shoves the edibles through the bars to those who are too dangerous
to be allowed outside their cells, while such of us as Lessman evidently
considers harmless are occasionally permitted to dine at a long, bare
table in the hallway. Here we sit and wolf our food like swine, our only
thought being to fill our bellies quickly, lest the others get more than
their share of the meal.

“Imagine, then, my surprise last night when, an hour before time for
eating the mulatto brought to my room—for I am not yet confined to a
cell, probably because I am not yet stark mad—a dress suit. Everything
was there—even down to the studs. With it was a shaving outfit. Laying
the things carefully upon my cot, he handed me a note. It read:

    “‘_Let us forget our troubles for tonight. Dine with me. I have
    a surprise in store for you._

                                                      “‘_Lessman_’.”

“I was shaved and cleaned and feeling like a new man by the time the
dumb servant called for me. Following him down the stairs, I was ushered
into the large parlor. Lessman, in full dress, seized me by the hand and
greeted me warmly, while an instant later Meta, looking truly regal in an
elaborate décolleté, stood before me. But the real surprise came a minute
later.

“Avis was ushered in!

“Attired in some fancy gown—what man can describe a woman’s dress?—she
looked like an angel from heaven. I pinched myself to see whether I was
awake or dreaming. What object had the Bodymaster in this masquerade?

“How can I describe the dinner which followed? For weeks we had been
on a diet of little more than bread and soup. And now we sat down to a
feast. Lessman was the perfect host; Meta the perfect hostess. Under
their deft manipulations we forgot ourselves—forgot that they were
monsters—remembered only that we were honored guests. Never have I met as
charming a conversationalist as he. The man is a veritable storehouse of
knowledge, with the added ability of imparting it to others. He has been
everywhere, seen everything.

“He is far too subtle for me, for I have fallen a victim to his insidious
wiles. Yet it is for another that I have sold myself, body and soul, to
this monster.

“He knows that I love Avis. My every look shows it. And he is wise
enough to seize the golden opportunity. That is the reason for all these
courtesies, the dinner, the clothes, the brilliant conversation.

“Meta and Avis left the room, leaving Lessman and myself to our cigars.
For weeks I have been without the solace of nicotine. Under the soothing
influence of the weed and the charm of his conversation, I settled back
in my chair, at peace with all the world. Lessman sensed my mood. He
turned to me, his black eyes dancing with energy.

“‘You are the first who has ever been able to combat my power,’ he said
slowly. ‘And instead of being angered, I think the more of you for it.
I need you—need you badly. Without a man of your caliber my work—my
experiments—must temporarily halt.

“‘You love the golden-haired girl in yonder—and if I am not greatly
mistaken, she loves you. She is yours—yours if you agree to my demands.
Otherwise——’

“At a gesture the door opened. Into the room came the mulatto dragging
a woman—a mere slip of a girl. In her eyes shone the light of insanity.
Her hair was matted, her clothes in tatters and covered with vermin. Her
talonlike fingers worked spasmodically as she babbled meaninglessly. I
shrank back from her in horror.

“The Bodymaster stepped across the room and with a sweeping movement of
his hand, drew back the curtain. In the further corner of the adjoining
room sat Avis—a veritable queen among women, in conversation with Meta.
He withdrew his hand and the curtain fell again. He stepped back to his
chair and reseated himself. The mute withdrew, dragging the poor insane
creature with him.

“For a moment there was silence. Then Lessman turned to me again.

“‘Within a fortnight,’ he said, ‘she—the girl in yonder—the girl you
love—will be like _that_! I know the symptoms. Her mind is on the verge.
It is for you to say whether she goes over the abyss.

“‘Obey my commands, give me the assistance I demand, and the girl you
love stays as she is now—the companion of Meta. Luxury, clothes, good
food—everything that a woman cares for—will be hers. Refuse, and she goes
back to her cell—to the squalor and dirt and vermin from which came the
poor wretch you have just seen.

“‘You and you alone can save her!’

“He stopped dramatically. There was but one answer. May God in Heaven
have mercy on my soul! I have become Lessman’s partner in crime—an
accomplice of that foul thing, the Bodymaster—I who have sworn to bring
him to justice!

“But I have saved Avis.”


_CHAPTER IX._

_I judge that several weeks must have elapsed between the time the
foregoing was written and what follows_:

“What does mankind know about psychic phenomena? I remember reading
the attempts of various novelists to exploit the subject. Combining
a smattering of psychology with a vivid imagination, they succeed in
knocking together a readable, though unreliable, story, trusting to the
general lack of knowledge to cover their untruthfulness. And who can
blame them? Secure behind the ramparts of the grave’s grim silence, they
can defy the world to prove them wrong. Their weird hypotheses bring them
gold, power and position in the world of letters. And I—I, the only man
who ever sent his soul hurtling through the realms of space to explore
the mysteries of the great unknown—I must keep silent.

“The human mind refuses to believe what it does not understand. Were I to
make public what I _know_—even if it were possible—I would be derided,
held up to ridicule by press and public. For, despite our vaunted
civilization, we are still slaves to superstition and ignorance, ever
ready like those of old, to strike down one who dares utter the truth.

“Who among the millions on this globe would believe that I have spent
days—weeks—months—in the dim past? As a man looks upon a motion picture
of himself thrown upon the screen, so I have seen myself in the ages gone
by. In shining armor, a plumed lance in my hand, I have ridden with the
crusaders, or fought with the devil-may-care gallantry of the times for
the favor of a damsel’s smile. I have been the head of as bloody a gang
of cutthroats as ever slit a weasand or scuttled a craft.

“I smile when I think of the things that I have been—I who am now the
head of a modern detective agency, hired to run down the man whose
gigantic brain has made these things all possible. I have been among
the best and the worst of them in days gone by. Yet who would believe
such a story? Lessman is too far in advance of his time. Yet there is a
possibility that a few centuries hence some eye may read these lines and
wonder how the men of today could be so dense.

“I am no longer afraid of death. I know now that such fear is only a
superstitious idea. There is no such thing as death. That which we term
death is but a step from one life to another. Lessman has taught me
that life is a cycle and that when we leave it we enter into another
existence, better or worse than the one we are quitting in accordance
with our own actions.

“Lessman! Ah, there is the intellect! It is he who has made it possible
for me to view wonders which no man ever looked upon before. I wonder how
I could have doubted him.

“Lessman is a scientist—a thinker ahead of his time. Now that he has
shown me that there is no death I feel no compunction about taking life,
for by taking life we merely assist nature by a few years, leaving the
body for us to experiment on. He has promised me that some day he will
publish the results of his conclusions in order that the world may know
and study. When he does, I will occupy a star part on the pages. For it
is I who, at the command of Lessman, have explored the realms unknown,
bringing back to him the fruits of my knowledge.

“And I have met Avis again and again. I have found that she has been with
me through the ages—my loved one, my affinity. In every period of the
past she has accompanied me—just as she will in the future, until the
time comes where Divine Intelligence brings all things to an end.

“Let me start at the beginning. No more do I live in a cell-like room,
eating like an animal with the cattle whose brain power is not as great
as mine. With Avis by my side, I dine in state with Lessman and Meta.

“The next evening, immediately after dinner, The Bodymaster summoned
me to his library. He was anxious to commence his experiments. At the
beginning I was nervous, keyed up to the highest pitch, regretting the
bargain I had made with him. But within five minutes he had wrought a
change in my mind, and under the mastery of his words I soon reached a
point where I was as enthusiastic as he.

“Remember, I have dabbled in philosophy to a certain extent myself.
I took a degree at Princeton before I took up the business of crime
detection. But my knowledge is elementary compared with that of Lessman.
But I am getting away from my subject.

“Under the spell of his eloquence, I forgot that I was the servant and he
the master—that I was merely a prisoner, subservient to my jailor’s will.
For an hour we discussed the subject; I was as interested as he. There
is, he claims, no heights to which man can not climb, providing he so
wills. To him man is—or should be—absolutely the master of his own body
and soul.

“His is a mind that has reached on where others stopped. Hypnotism, to
him, is child’s play. Soul transference, the exchange of bodies—these are
the things that this man dabbles with. But he has his limit. He can go so
far and no farther.

“However, with my will submissive to his—with my mind attuned to his—he
believed that he could send me hurling through space. In other words, he
was to be the power station which would furnish me the energy to make the
voyages of exploration.

“I was like wet clay in his hands. With the enthusiasm of a youngster,
I gave myself over to him. Leaning back in my chair, at his command I
made my mind as nearly as possible an absolute vacuum. It was probably
but for an instant—but enough. There was none of the pain that I felt
before on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion when my soul was divorced
from my body. Instead, I felt my soul—my mental being—leave my body. I
stood beside myself sitting there in the chair. There was no fear—nothing
except a feeling of buoyancy....”


_CHAPTER X._

_I must digress from my diary again._

As I have stated elsewhere, I have a recollection of certain things which
transpired while I was in Lessman’s power, although the greater part of
the time that I passed with him is but a blank.

There is nothing in my diary which touches upon my trips into the unknown
under his strange influence, aside from an occasional vague mention. I
am certain that the greater part of the time I was in a sort of daze,
imagining myself in a perfectly normal condition, yet held by The
Bodymaster in a state where I would respond immediately to his will.

Yet even now I can recall, vaguely, incidents which happened to me on
these trips. I remember meeting Avis on numerous occasions and under many
names. Had my adventures happened consecutively, and could I remember
them, they would be interesting food for thought for the men of science.
But, unfortunately, they jump here and there, the story, oft-times,
remaining unfinished.

There are so many, many adventures, the details of which I can not
recall, that I will make no attempt to set them down. Suffice to say that
all the time my brain was steadily growing weaker while I, poor dupe that
I was, imagined that I was again normal.

During my lucid intervals I was constantly troubled by a gnawing
conscience. Here was I, an officer of the law, lending myself to the
worst form of outlawry. I attempted to reconcile myself with the thought
that I was a prisoner, yet I was ever obsessed with the idea that I had
proved a traitor to myself and to my oath. My only recompense was the
feeling that by becoming a traitor I was saving the life and reason of
the woman I loved.

I wonder now why I did not kill Avis and then commit suicide. So great
was Lessman’s influence over me that I sincerely believed that death
was a myth. My own adventures beyond the pale had proved to me the
correctness of his theory. Why, then, I did not end it all is something
that can not be explained, especially when one recollects that from
my warped viewpoint death would have been the easiest solution of
the dilemma. My only explanation is that my mind was not functioning
properly. As I have remarked again and again the reader must form his
own conclusions, draw his own deductions, for I am dealing in facts, not
surmises.

Lessman allowed me the freedom, to a certain extent, of the house. With
Avis by my side, I wandered up and down the long, dusty corridors,
exploring, searching. I told myself that I was looking for evidence—that
sooner or later I would make my escape and bring The Bodymaster to
justice. And I found none—nothing but the poor wretches locked in their
cells, mad—all of them. And who would believe a maniac? No, there was
absolutely nothing that could be used against the monster. It would be my
word and that of Avis against that of Lessman and Meta. Such a case as
that would be laughed out of court.

Why did I not make my escape? I could not. I only know that with the door
wide open an invisible hand seemed to keep me from crossing the threshold.


_CHAPTER XI._

_Again I must resort to my diary_:

“I know now how the stranger was killed—the man for whose death John
Duncan is being held. Who the medium was through whom Lessman worked I do
not know. I imagine that it was Collins, the Chicago detective. I have
questioned him, and he does not remember anything about the affair, so
far gone is his mind. Yet he has a hazy recollection of having at one
time done Lessman’s bidding. Nor have I learned the name of the poor
fellow who met death in the heroic attempt to unmask The Bodymaster.

“The dean of Daggett College is dead—murdered! Another professor has
been arrested as the murderer. Lessman showed me the paper this morning,
chuckling over the gruesome details. There is absolutely no hope for
the poor wretch who has been seized by the police, for the evidence is
all against him. They will hang him, and the law will consider itself
satisfied. I laughed with Lessman at the newspaper account. Is he not
right when he states that both of them are merely being ushered into
paradise ahead of their time?

“I am certain that I killed Professor Ormsby!

“Years before he and Professor Jacobs had been teachers in the same
college where Lessman held a chair. To them Lessman, then a young man,
presented some of his astonishing theories. They turned upon him with
ridicule, rebuked him, and then reported him as a heretic to the head of
the university. It was their testimony which caused Lessman’s dismissal
in disgrace. He swore to get revenge.

“Two nights ago Lessman hurled my ego—my spirit—through space. I am
certain of it, although my memory is indistinct and is growing weaker
every hour. At his command I went to Ormsby’s apartments. Jacobs was
seated with his old friend engaged in a heated discussion, for both were
argumentative men.

“Before the eyes of Professor Jacobs, Dean Ormsby shrieked as an
invisible hand struck him down—then fell writhing to the floor, the
purple marks of fingers upon his throat.

“They arrested Jacobs for the murder. Others had heard them arguing.
Vainly he tried to tell them the truth—that the argument had been a
friendly one and that his friend had been killed by some unseen force.

“They scoffed at his story—for the marks of fingers showed too plainly
upon the dead man’s neck.”


ANOTHER ENTRY IN THE DIARY.

“I wonder if my mind is weakening? I seem to do Lessman’s bidding too
easily. I fall in with his every suggestion. I know that he is using me
in his crimes—that he is getting rich as a result of my efforts—and I do
not seem to recollect what transpires, as I used to. Everything is hazy,
with here and there some specially vivid remembrance standing out amidst
the chaos.

“Occasionally he reads me the papers, or hands them to me after calling
my attention to some mysterious crime of which there is an account. Often
he tells me, with a sneer, that he is the author and I the perpetrator of
these horrible affairs. Innocent men are being made to suffer for things
that I have done.

“The police are on the lookout for a mysterious woman who has been
seen often where strange crimes have been committed. Can it be that
they—Lessman and Meta—are using Avis as they are using me? They both deny
it. And Avis tells me that she has no recollection of such things.... I
wonder....”


_CHAPTER XII._


MORE REMARKABLE THINGS FROM THE DIARY.

“They hanged John Duncan today for the murder of the unknown young man.
And I, the man who swore to save him from the gallows, could do nothing.

“I am an accomplice—an accessory after the fact. Lessman is a fiend,
and if Meta is any better it is only because she lacks his scientific
ability. I am beginning to hate them both.

“I have been tricked. I am but a dupe. My brain is steadily growing
weaker. When they have sucked me dry they will cast me aside, as they
have Collins and the others. I realize this when I am alone, but when I
am with Lessman I do his bidding gladly, happily.

“The papers are often filled with accounts of his work among the poorer
classes. They say that he gives thousands of dollars away yearly. Little
do they suspect that it is money that he has secured through crime—that
he interests himself among the poor only because he occasionally is
able to secure some new type of human brain upon whom he can work his
nefarious experiments.”


ANOTHER EXTRACT.

“Damn the Bodymaster! I hate him! His hold over me is absolute—supreme.

“Vile as I have become, degraded as he has made me, my very being revolts
at the thought of what he has forced me to do. It were better that I were
dead—a thousand times better. But I can not even die. For he, curse him,
will not let me. He owns my body and my soul.

“Yesterday I am certain that I killed another man. It was Johnston, the
broker—a man I knew well in my other days—as kind-hearted an old fellow
as ever lived. Many is the favor that he has done for me. Yet, at the
dictation of Lessman, I took the poor old fellow’s life.

“God in Heaven! What a mixup it was! Lessman planned it all. He might
have made it different—easier for those left behind to bear. But no—that
is not his way. He loves the dramatic, the theatrical. But let me tell it
just as it happened:

“Together, we went to Johnston’s house—Lessman and I. The poor old fellow
has been under the weather for several days, but he has not allowed his
illness to interfere with his philanthropic work. Lessman, in his guise
of a worker among the poor and afflicted, had no trouble in gaining
entrance. He introduced me as another laborer in the vineyard. I have
changed so much as a result of what I have been through that Johnston
failed to recognize me.

“Alone in the room with the old man, Lessman commanded me to do his
bidding. I swear that I tried to withhold my hand, but I was powerless.
It was not I, but another, who seized the scrawny neck in my muscular
fingers and pressed—pressed—pressed against the windpipe until the
haggard white face turned black and the gray eyes bulged forth under
their shaggy white brows like glass beads.

“He tried to fight back—to defend himself—but what was his puny strength
compared to mine? His efforts only incensed me the more. I shook him as
a terrier roughs a rat. And the agonized expression on his face! It was
awful. He tried to shriek for help, but so firm was my hold upon him that
he could only splutter and gurgle.

“Lessman watched it all. He chuckled with glee at the feeble old man’s
weak gasps and urged me to further efforts. Then, when I had laid the old
fellow down upon his couch, it was The Bodymaster who, with a tremendous
show of hypocrisy, shouted for help and jerked frantically at the bell
which summoned family and servants.

“Never shall I forget the look of pathetic grief upon the face of the
dead man’s aged helpmate. Liar that he is, Lessman told her a story of
the old fellow’s sudden choking and of his death before we could summon
help. The servants carried her swooning from the room.”


A FURTHER ENTRY.

“Mrs. Johnston is dying, they say, from grief. Lessman chuckles over it,
thinking it a huge joke. When I am with him, I laugh, too. Away from
him, I can see the horror—the devilish horror of it all.

“Lessman is richer by thousands of dollars. Mrs. Johnston, if she lives,
will be almost a pauper. The sum of which she was filched represented
practically their all—the savings of a lifetime. For Lessman presented
a forged will in which almost everything, except a small amount for the
widow, was left to charity _with Lessman as the administrator_.”


_CHAPTER XIII._

_Following the above, my diary is filled for several pages with
meaningless, childlike scrawls. I seem to have tried to write, but
evidently my brain and hand failed to co-ordinate. Here and there I
can make out a curse against The Bodymaster, but nothing else can be
read. From this I take it that several weeks passed between the time
the last entry was written and that which now follows. During that
time I was probably in one of my trancelike states, so deeply under
Lessman’s influence that I had no control over my actions. At the same
time the fact that I even attempted to write shows that, deep within my
subconscious brain, there was ever that desire to give the horrible truth
to the world._


FROM THE DIARY.

“I have denied the truth. I have betrayed those in whose pay I am, and
now I know the remorse of Judas.

“Can it be that The Bodymaster seeks my Avis? Are those glances which he
darts at her from beneath his half-closed lids intended to be messages of
love?

“Of late she has appeared distracted and filled with a vague melancholy
when I am around. Does she wish to tell me something, yet fears to open
her lips?

“She knows my cataclysmic temper. She has seen me throw off the baleful
influence of The Bodymaster when a wild fit of passion seized me. She
probably fears that I will again rise against him and that he will blast
me where I stand.

“My hands are tied. In turning myself over to The Bodymaster I have
betrayed the woman I love. May Heaven have mercy on my soul!”


ANOTHER ENTRY.

“In prowling about the ruins of the old building today I found the
remains of an ancient chapel. In one end was an altar, tumbling to ruin.
In a little niche, dust covered, was a bottle of Holy Water. I have
seized upon it and have hidden it in my room. Perhaps it will save us
both.

“I wonder if The Bodymaster has sold himself to the devil? I have heard
of such things. No one would believe that such a thing is possible.
Yet who would believe that the happenings which I have recorded in my
diary could have taken place? They sound like witchcraft, so strange, so
diabolical are they. I never believed in such things, but now I am ready
to believe anything.”


A SUBSEQUENT EXTRACT.

“My mind is made up. I talked with Avis again today. She practically
admitted that Lessman has been annoying her with his attentions. Who
knows to what steps he will go while she is under his devilish influence?

“Meta, too, is showing her teeth at poor Avis. Heretofore she has
shielded the innocent girl to a certain extent. Of that I am certain, and
Avis also believes it. But of late she has acted strangely, even showing
her temper on several occasions. Lessman treats her at such times with
amused contempt. He knows the absolute hold that he has over her.

“But she may injure my loved one. How, I do not know. She is a woman
capable of anything. And the ‘green-eyed monster’ has neither brains nor
conscience.

“I am going to be a man at last. I am summoning all of my will power for
the battle which is sure to come within a few days. I must—I will—break
the bonds which he has placed about me. Just as I arose in rebellion
against him on those other occasions, so will I rise against him again
for the sake of the woman I love. But this time there will be no
surrender. I will conquer him and save her, or die in the attempt.

“To die for Avis may mitigate my sin in the eyes of God.

“I feel The Bodymaster summoning me.... My every nerve tingles.... These
may be the last lines I will ever write.... I wonder if these pages
will ever be read by other eyes than mine?... I go now to answer to his
call.... _God help me...._”


_CHAPTER XIV._

_The remainder of my tale is from memory, for the preceding lines are
the final entry in my diary. As I have stated elsewhere, I can recall
certain things which occasionally happened during my trance-like periods.
Remember your dreams—vague, indistinct, hazy—leaping here and there? So
are my recollections of that last hour with The Bodymaster. Probably
many things happened of which I have no memory. In my desire to stick to
facts, I give only that which I remember, leaving the blank places to the
reader’s imagination._

It must have been immediately after making the final entry in my diary
that Lessman summoned me, for the book was in my pocket when I eventually
found myself.

Of this, however, I have no memory. My first recollection is of floating
through space on one of those strange exploring expeditions in the Great
Beyond on which The Bodymaster so often sent me, several of which are
described in my diary. Whether I was just returning, or was on my way,
I do not know. I only recall that something seemed to be dragging me
back—that my whole thought—if thought I could be said to have had—was to
get back to my own body as soon as possible.

My next recollection is of being in the room with Lessman. My body lay
back in an easy chair, cold, stark and deathlike. I attempted to enter
it. But the will of Lessman held me back.

I could see, I could hear, yet I had no visibility. I was but a wraith—an
ego as it were—a thought—a spirit—a vapor!

And I was controlled wholly by the brain of Lessman. Just as the
invisible current sent out by a central station causes the tiny submarine
miles away to hurl itself here and there, so was his magnetic brain
master of my actions.

I knew then—or _felt_ rather than knew, for I do not believe that a
wraith is able to think—I felt that it was Lessman’s will that I should
never return to my body shell. Something—it was his thought—seemed to
hurl me back into space. And at the same time another—an even stronger
thought—seemed to hold me transfixed.

It was the will power that I had concentrated for weeks past, aided by
the desire for help from Avis. Her whole being was calling out for me.

She was in the beast’s arms. For once in his career his terrible will
had no effect upon his victim. Her golden hair was torn from its coils
and lay in a shimmering cloud about her shoulders. Her tiny fists beat
a tattoo upon his face; his black, lustful eyes gazed, snakelike, into
hers, seeking to charm her with their power.

It was awful! I knew that she was calling me—calling me with every bit of
her being. And I was helpless, chained to the floor, unable to regain the
cold form which was myself.

Suddenly, she tore herself from his grasp. Her clothing was hanging in
shreds; across her cheek was an ugly scratch; upon one white, rounded arm
stood a livid red welt where his cruel fingers had seized her. She was
screaming madly. The furniture was overturned.

Now he had her cornered. But she fought herself away from him, striking
him across the head with the leg of a chair that had been broken in the
fray.

He pursued her across the room.... Once more she was in his grasp. I
could hear her breath come gaspingly as she put every ounce of her
strength into a final effort to free herself....

The door opened. Meta entered. Her black eyes were blazing. Her mouth
worked convulsively. She was a raging demon—a woman scorned—cast aside
for another. Like a devil from hell, she threw herself into the fray.
Lessman swept her aside with a single motion of his muscular arm.

For an instant she lay there stunned.... She dragged herself to her
knees, her lips mouthing curses.... She half rose to her feet and
staggered toward them as Lessman dragged his shrieking victim toward the
door which led to the other room. He turned toward her, his fiery eyes
snapping with uncontrolled anger.

For the moment I was forgotten.... Something snapped. I found myself
again within my own body, the lust for battle raging within me....
Lessman, surrounded by his enemies, turned like a stag at bay.... I felt
the currents of his powerful mind surge around me again like great waves
beating against a rock-bound coast.

Every bit of energy I possessed was necessary to hold myself
together. He caught me within the power of his will! I felt myself
slipping—slipping—_slipping_! Everything grew black before me. I could
see nothing save his eyes—burning—_burning_ into my very soul.

Like a man who is fighting an overdose of chloral, I strove to free
myself from the web which his mind was weaving about me. It was of no
avail. Again I felt a wave of fire shoot through my veins.

I lurched against the table. Seizing the lamp, with a final effort, I
hurled it straight at the face of the mocking demon before me.

       *       *       *       *       *

I knew no more until I awoke in the hospital.

They say that the place Lessman called his sanitarium was burned to the
ground the night before they found me wandering, almost a maniac, several
miles away.

As I stated in the beginning, I am unable to distinguish between the
truth and the wanderings of my diseased brain. The reader must draw his
own conclusions.

What happened? Did I kill Lessman? Did he and Meta and Avis perish in the
fire with the other poor unfortunates? Nobody knows.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have just learned that a woman—a golden-haired woman—was found a week
ago in a demented condition in a far distant town. The reports say that
she mumbles something about “The Bodymaster!” Can it be Avis? I leave
tonight for the hospital where she is confined. If it be she, perhaps my
presence will recall her to herself.


THE END.

[Illustration]




_Crocodiles and Voodooism Play Important Parts in_

Jungle Death

_By_ Artemus Calloway


The very atmosphere seemed surcharged with mystery—danger—death.

Even the clear blue sky above seemed to shrink away from The Tropical Gem
Plantation as from a thing accursed. Out in the muddy waters of the Ulua,
apparently as lifeless as a water-soaked log, a sleepy-eyed crocodile
waited—waited as if he, too, sensed impending calamity for the creatures
on shore and intended being at hand to assert his rights should the
threatened catastrophe bring food for his kind.

All this impressed Bart Condon, standing in the protecting shade of the
softly rustling banana jungle, eyes focused on the busy scene across the
river, brain busy with the disquieting events of the past few weeks.

Bart Condon was troubled. Here was something he knew not how to fight,
because it was something he could not see. Until recently, he had thought
himself fairly familiar with Honduras and the trials of a plantation
manager there, but this was something new—something which hid in the
shadows and struck when one was not looking.

First there had been the matter of the cistern water in the laborers’
quarters. Some one had poisoned it—not in a manner to cause death, but
illness. Condon had been mystified by the epidemic which descended upon
the place until the plantation physician made an examination of the
water. Then he was the more at sea. Who could have done this—and why?

Close upon this trouble came whispers—rumors that the place was
bewitched. More than a dozen of the more superstitious blacks and half
blacks slipped away. And their places had been hard to fill.

Then had come the fires, starting no one knew when or how. Once a
manacca shack, in which a sick man lived, burned; and he was brought out
half-stifled, scorched and raving about the devils that infested the
place.

Other things occurred. And there was more whispering, more
dissatisfaction.

And then had come death. A partly devoured body had been found lodged
against a mud bar in the river. The work of crocodiles, Condon had
thought, until examination disclosed the fact that there was a bullet in
the man’s brain. And then he knew that the crocodiles had profited from
the work of a murderer.

And now all the plantation laborers threatened to leave. Somehow Condon
felt that he could not blame them, though he knew that their desertion
meant his ruin.

The activity along the river bank increased. The crocodile moved slowly
downstream. Simultaneously with the arrival of a noisy fruit train on
Condon’s side of the river, another chugged into view on the opposite
shore.

As soon as the trains came to a stop natives commenced transferring
bananas from the cars to the fruit racks at the water’s edge; here they
would later be picked up by the river boat of the big fruit company which
purchased the output of many Ulua River plantations, afterward shipping
the bananas to the States on its own steamers.

Condon saw George Armstrong standing to the right of the train across the
river, and, for some unknown reason he disliked the man more than ever.
There was no real reason why he should dislike and distrust Armstrong.
Yet he did dislike him, and never, from the first moment his eyes rested
upon the man, had he trusted him. For two years now Condon had known the
manager of the Royal Palm Plantation Company, and for that length of time
some instinct had whispered that the other would be a dangerous foe.

True, Armstrong had always evinced the greatest friendliness, frequently
coming across the river, which separated the plantations, to visit
Condon. And occasionally—when common courtesy demanded—Condon had
returned the visits.

Bart Condon had been in Honduras one year longer than Armstrong, and this
year’s experience as manager of the plantation of which he was majority
stockholder had taught him many things of value, which he had passed
on to the newcomer. But Armstrong’s company was stronger financially
than Condon’s, and was desirous of expanding. So, for three months now,
Armstrong had been trying to buy the Tropical Gem. And for nearly that
length of time the Tropical Gem had been having trouble.

       *       *       *       *       *

But it was only this morning that Condon had first commenced wondering
what connection, if any, there might be between Armstrong’s desire for
the Tropical Gem and the trouble which had come to that plantation.
Of course such thoughts were silly. Unworthy. He should be ashamed of
himself.... And yet....

Standing where he was, in the shelter of the tall banana plants which at
a distance resembled a forest of green trees, Condon knew Armstrong had
not seen him. And for some reason, which he himself did not understand,
he did not want the other man to see him this morning.

Bart Condon turned and slowly made his way from the river to a trail
about two hundred yards away. There he paused to watch some men cutting
fruit which would be carried by mule cart to the river, the railroad
being employed only for the longer hauls.

Finally he turned to his pony, fastened to a young avacado tree, mounted
and rode away. Twenty minutes later he was at plantation headquarters.

An hour after reaching headquarters Condon was sitting at his office
desk, a slender young native opposite him. This man—Juan Hernandez—one of
Condon’s foremen, possessed intelligence above the average. He was one of
the very few natives of that section of Honduras who boasted pure Spanish
blood, but at the same time he understood thoroughly the mixed breeds
in whose veins there flowed the blood of African, Indian, Chinese and
others, to say nothing of the full-blood negroes from Jamaica, Barbadoes,
and elsewhere.

Once facing Hernandez, Condon lost no time in getting to the subject:

“The men—they are very much upset?”

Hernandez nodded.

“They are, Mr. Condon,” he replied in perfect English, thanks to a
States education. “They are whispering that there is a curse upon the
plantation; that you are the cause of it; that the spirits are displeased
with you, and I don’t know what else. They——”

Hernandez hesitated. Then:

“Why, they are even beginning to blame you for the death of that man
found in the river, although they don’t know, as we do, that someone shot
him.”

Condon frowned. “Somehow I suspect as much. But you are sure your
information—what you tell me is correct?”

Hernandez nodded. “I am positive of it. Further than that I feel that I
have discovered what is behind it all. You know you told me a week ago to
look into it——”

“Yes?”

“It is voodooism. A witch doctor who lives in the jungle is behind the
trouble here. And a white man is behind the witch doctor!”

Condon started. “You mean—?”

For a moment Hernandez said nothing, staring at the desk before him. Then:

“Armstrong!”

Condon’s hands twitched nervously. “How do you know—or suspect—this,
Hernandez?”

“I am positive, Mr. Condon. I have a man working under me whom I trust
implicitly. He is an Indian—one of those commonly known as a Mosquito
Indian—they live down on the Mosquito Coast, you know——”

“Yes. Go on. What about him?”

“Well, he is a very intelligent fellow. Not a drop of black blood in
his veins. Of course, many of the Indians in this country have their
own superstitious beliefs, but not so this man. For years he has worked
around foreigners—those ideas, if he ever had them, have been supplanted
by those of civilization.

“This man told me that the witch doctor—an old dried-up black fellow, no
telling how old he is—has been coming to the plantation. He was here the
night before the water was poisoned. He has been here since. And lately
the laborers have been going to see him—holding ceremonies and that sort
of thing.

“And tonight——” Hernandez lowered his voice—“they go again! They are to
be there at ten o’clock. The witch doctor is going to tell them that
their lives are not safe on this plantation as long as you have anything
to do with it. Tomorrow they will leave. And no other laborers will come
here. Then—Armstrong thinks he can buy you out. You see, with Armstrong
in charge, the curse will be removed.”

Condon secured a box of cigars from his desk, handed it to Hernandez,
found a box of matches, lighted a cigar himself.

“_Hmm!_ Pretty clever scheme. But—Oh! hang it, Hernandez, do you suppose
this _can_ be correct?”

Hernandez regarded his cigar thoughtfully. “I _know_ it is!”

“Well——”

“Just a moment, please, Mr. Condon. There is one chance for us—only
one. That is to discredit the witch doctor. Once the superstitious
mixed breeds and blacks find that he is not infallible, that there is
something more powerful than he, they will lose confidence in him.
They will believe nothing he has told them. But until that is done the
case is hopeless. You see, many of the men working here were raised on
superstition—on voodooism. The blacks brought it from Africa, and their
descendants in this and the other nearby countries cling to it. And, as I
have said, we have them here from many places.”

“How are we to discredit the witch doctor?”

Hernandez smiled. “Armstrong visits him at eight o’clock this evening, to
pay half the price for running the laborers away from here. He is to pay
the other half when they are gone. Of course, he has paid something all
along for the various little jobs, but this is the big one—the big money
job.”

“What on earth would that old fellow want with money?”

Hernandez laughed. “Square-faced gin. He stays soaked all the time. But I
have a plan——”

“But how,” interrupted Condon, “did your man learn all this?”

“By pretending to believe in voodooism—and by watching. He has attended
the ceremonies with the others. And he has followed Armstrong there when
the witch doctor was alone. That is how he learned of the poisoned water.
He has heard nothing there about the murder of the native, but I am sure
there is a connection there somewhere if we can find it.”

Hernandez made a significant gesture.

“You don’t know the confidence those people have in that old fellow.
He has a pond there in front of his cave. A natural sort of pond. Been
there for centuries, I suppose, and it is full of crocodiles. Sacrifices
to these crocodiles have been hinted at—but of course I couldn’t swear
to that. I do know, however, that the laborers here are blind enough in
their belief of him to do anything he might tell them.”

Condon’s face was wrinkled in thought. “But your plan?” Hernandez leaned
nearer. “Listen....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Seven-thirty o’clock that evening found Bart Condon, Juan Hernandez and
the Indian of whom Condon had been told concealed on the side of the
little jungle hill above the witch doctor’s cave. Almost at his doorway
was the pond of which Hernandez had spoken. An occasional _swish_ of
the water told of life in it. Just in front of the cave, squatted on
the ground beside a faint brush fire, was the witch doctor, an old,
shriveled, dried-up, gray-headed black.

“We can hear from this place?” Condon whispered.

“Yes,” replied Hernandez, “but be quiet. He might hear you.”

Back in the jungle, monkeys chattered. Baboons howled nearby. A macaw set
up a shrill shrieking. Once Condon heard the helpless, hopeless cry of
some small animal as it met the death of the jungle. Some beast of the
tropics slipped past them. Bart Condon gripped his revolver.

And then they heard somebody approaching. Down a little trail—the same
trail which Condon had traveled part of the way—a man was coming. A few
moments later Armstrong was standing before the witch doctor’s fire.

With every nerve on edge, Condon watched. Armstrong and the witch doctor,
both now seated before the blaze, wasted no time on inconsequential talk.

Armstrong was speaking in Spanish: “You understand exactly what you are
to tell those people when they come here tonight.”

“I do.”

“Very well. Here is half the money. You will receive as much
more—provided you get Condon’s laborers away tomorrow—and keep them and
all others away.”

The witch doctor nodded. “They will be away before tomorrow. When they
leave here they will be afraid to return to the man Condon’s plantation.”

“They won’t even return for their things?”

The old man laughed shrilly. “They will believe everything on that
plantation accursed when I have finished with them and will never desire
to see their things again. I intended telling them that they must leave
tomorrow. Now I have decided to have them leave tonight. It is better so.”

Again the witch doctor laughed.

“But——” and now there was something in his voice Condon had not detected
there before—“there is more money to come to me, Senor.”

Armstrong’s tone was impatient. “You get that when the laborers have quit
the plantation.”

The old man chuckled. “But I mean other money.”

“What other money?”

“The money for keeping your secret about the man you shot!”

George Armstrong jumped to his feet. “You’re crazy! I shot no man.”

The witch doctor also was on his feet. “But you did, Senor, I saw you! I
don’t blame you for what you did. The fellow saw you coming from here and
he might have been suspicious. I, also, would have killed him, but you
did the job for me. And now you will pay me for keeping the secret.”

The witch doctor’s words seemed to madden the manager of the Royal Palm
Plantation. Straight at the old man’s throat he sprang. They fought like
wild animals. The witch doctor, for all his frailness, possessed enormous
strength.

Suddenly Hernandez caught Condon’s arm: “Look! Down the trail!” he
whispered.

Condon looked. Then he gasped in amazement. The trail was filled, as far
as he could see, with men.

       *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly Condon’s attention was brought back to the struggle by a scream
of terror, which burst from Armstrong’s lips. And then, locked in
embrace, the plantation manager and the witch doctor disappeared in the
crocodile pool.

There was a sudden rush—horrid grunts—the crushing of bones—and Condon
imagined he could see the water redden. Armstrong and the witch doctor
were no more.

Then, from Condon’s laborers in the trail, came cries of denunciation.
“He is no witch doctor! He fought with the white man and was eaten by
crocodiles—he who told us that he could destroy white men by pointing his
finger at them. He told us that the crocodiles could not harm him.”

Unafraid of that which was now no mystery, some of the bolder ones
advanced to the fire. One picked up some gold pieces, which the witch
doctor had dropped. Another found Armstrong’s purse.

They turned and rejoined their companions. Five minutes later the entire
party had passed out of hearing.

Hernandez touched Condon on the shoulder. “We can go now. And our
troubles are over. The men will remain on the plantation perfectly
satisfied.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Condon slowly, rising to his feet and
rubbing his cramped legs, “why they came so early. I thought they were to
get here at ten o’clock.”

“So Armstrong and the witch doctor thought,” laughed Hernandez. “But the
message was carried by our friend here—and he asked my advice before
delivering it. And he made the hour earlier so they would find Armstrong
here. That alone would have destroyed their confidence in the witch
doctor, for he is supposed to have nothing to do with white men.”

Hernandez smiled.

“They were told, although this man professed not to believe it, that
there was a report to the effect that Armstrong had bought the witch
doctor—had paid him to betray them. That is why they understood
everything so readily when they saw the end of the fight.”

“Voodooism,” said Condon thoughtfully, “loses its strength when it mixes
up with white men.”




_Farnsworth Wright Offers Another Tale of Diabolic Terror_

_The SNAKE FIEND_


Even as a child, Jack Crimi delighted in collecting reptiles, and he
seemed to absorb much of their venomous nature.

His best-loved pet was a large blacksnake; but when it caused him a
whipping by crawling into his father’s bedroom, he roasted it over a slow
fire in a large pot, listening with glee to its agonized hissing and
pushing it back with a stick when it strove to crawl out of the searing
container. It is no cause for wonder, then, that his burning love for the
girl of his dreams turned to fierce hate when she became the bride of
another.

Crimi’s sentiment for Marjorie Bressi was aroused by her fine Italian
beauty, which reminded him of his mother. He could have fallen in love
with any other girl as easily, if he had set his mind to it in the same
way. By dint of comparing her with his mother’s picture, he conceived a
great admiration for her: then he wished to possess her, to be her lord
and master, to marry her. Gazing on her every day with this thought in
his mind, his admiration grew to a burning passion. Of all this he said
nothing to Marjorie, and then it was too late.

Marjorie loved, and was loved by, Allen Jimerson, a young civil engineer.
Crimi neither threatened nor cajoled. He simply accepted the fact, and
meditated revenge. He was all smiles at their wedding, and he gave them a
wedding present beyond what he could reasonably afford, while he planned
to tumble their happiness in ruins about their ears.

After a short honeymoon, Jimerson departed with his wife to take up
his duties as resident engineer of some construction work on a western
railroad. Crimi, his face glowing with friendship and good will, was the
last to clasp Marjorie’s hand in farewell, as the train pulled out of the
station.

“Write to me often, Marjorie,” was his parting injunction. “Send me a
letter as soon as you get settled, and let me know how you are getting
along. I don’t want to lose touch with either of you.”

And he meant it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marjorie was fond of the handsome, manly-looking Italian youth, and
liked him immensely as a friend, although she had never been in love
with him. No sooner was she settled in her new home than she wrote him
a long letter, telling of her husband’s work, the bleakness of the
desert country, and the strange newness of her life. She and her husband
occupied a cabin together, apart from the bunk-houses of the construction
camp, in the sagebrush region of northern California, not far from the
Nevada border.

A fierce joy and exultation leapt in Crimi’s heart as he read Marjorie’s
letter.

    _“You would like the country better than I do.” she wrote.
    “for it is infested with rattlesnakes. The bare desert rocks
    on the ridge four miles from our cabin are swarming with them.
    Ugh! They sun themselves in tangled masses, Allen says, but
    truly I can’t bring myself to go near the place. I get quite
    too much of snakes without that, for we are constantly killing
    them in the sagebrush. This country has never been settled, and
    except for an occasional prospector, there was nobody to kill
    them before the surveyors came. The Indians never bother the
    snakes, but pass by on the other side of a sagebrush and leave
    them in peace.”_

Crimi scored these lines in red ink, word by word, as if to blazon them
on his memory, and he drew little pictures of snakes on the margin. He
burned out Marjorie’s signature with acid, spitefully watching with
minute care as the letters faded, and gleaning a savage satisfaction from
seeing the paper rot away under the venomous bite of the poison. Then he
fed the letter to the flames, as he had roasted his blacksnake, years
before, and watched the missive burn into black ashes and crumble slowly
away, page by page, into gray dust.

Followed Crimi’s pursuit of the pair. His arrival was not expected by
either Jimerson or Marjorie, but it was none the less welcome, for both
of them liked the genial, companionable Italian. Life on the edge of
the desert had few distractions at best. Crimi’s eyes lit with genuine
pleasure at sight of his prospective victims. The joy on both sides was
sincere.

“No, this isn’t a pleasure trip,” he explained to them, “although I
expect to have pleasure enough out of it before I get through. I have
turned from collecting reptiles to studying their lives and habits. I
intend to write a monograph on rattlesnakes. When I got your letter,
Marjorie, I knew that I could do no better than to come here. I expect
to become very well acquainted with that ridge you wrote about, where the
snakes sun themselves in tangled masses.”

Marjorie shuddered, and Crimi laughed.

“Well, don’t bring any of your snakes around here,” she said. “I turn
cold and something grips at my insides every time I hear one rattle.”

Crimi built himself a small cabin about a mile from the Jimersons, in the
direction of the rattlesnake ridge. He adorned the shack tastefully, and
Marjorie’s deft hand gave a distinctly feminine neatness and charm to its
appearance.

He became a frequent visitor at the Jimerson cabin, and evening after
evening he read to them in his melodious, well modulated voice. Sometimes
the draughtsman or transitman would come in, and Crimi would join in
playing cards until late at night.

He seemed to take keen pleasure in the company of Marjorie and her
husband, and his face always lit up at sight of them, especially when
they were together. But it was the joy of a boy who sees the apples
ripening for him on his neighbor’s tree, and knows that they will soon
be ready for him to pluck. He was most happy when he was meditating his
frightful revenge. As his preparations drew near their end, he often
spent whole hours gloating over the fate in store for the couple. For
Marjorie, in loving Jimerson, had aroused him to insane jealousy, and
Jimerson, having robbed him of his heart’s desire, was included in
Crimi’s fierce hate for the girl who had crossed him.

When, one evening, Marjorie and her husband happened in at Crimi’s cabin,
Marjorie expressed her horror at the thought of Crimi wandering among the
snake-infested rocks of the rattlesnake ridge. The snake-hunter seated
her on a box that contained a twisting knot of the venomous reptiles.

Marjorie, serenely unaware, talked on blithely, and Crimi’s merry laugh
pealed out at regular intervals. He was in right jovial mood that
evening, for he was ready to spring the death-trap prepared for his two
friends. He only awaited a favorable opportunity to strike.

       *       *       *       *       *

The opportunity came when the surveyors’ cook, crazed by bad whisky,
smashed up the kitchen. Jimerson discharged him, and the cook muttered
threats of a horrible vengeance.

“Shut up,” Jimerson ordered. “This is the third time you’ve been seeing
snakes, and now you’ve wrecked the cook shack. You ought to be sent to
jail—or a lunatic asylum.”

“It’s _you_ that will be seeing snakes,” the cook spluttered. “You an’
that Italian wife of yours’ll see plenty of ’em—red, an’ green, an’——”

Jimerson struck him across the mouth and sent him on his way. This was
in the evening. The draughtsman and rodman went to town the next day to
hire a new cook, while Jimerson and Marjorie went on an outing up the
headwaters of Feather Creek. It was Sunday, and they intended to spend
the day there.

Crimi declined their invitation to accompany them. It was the moulting
season, he explained, when the snakes were casting their skins. He could
ill afford to lose a day of observation at this time, for he had several
perplexing points to clear up before writing his monograph.

Crimi walked fearlessly from rock to rock of the rattlesnake ridge,
chuckling to himself. The tangled masses of snakes, of which he had been
told, existed only in rumor, although there were snakes in plenty if one
but looked for them. Tangled masses would serve his purpose later, but he
had gathered them here and there, one or two at a time.

By noon the little cluster of cabins occupied by the engineers was
deserted. Marjorie and her husband had been gone since sun-up, and the
surveyors were all in town. Not a soul was stirring in the neighborhood
of the shacks, and the men at the construction camp were mostly lying
around in their bunks, or playing cards.

Crimi nailed fast the windows of Jimerson’s cabin. Then he entered
and secured the bed to the floor so that it could not be moved. He
laboriously carried his boxes of snakes a mile or more, from his room
to the little gully behind the surveyors’ cabins, and hid them in the
sagebrush.

Marjorie and her husband came back from their tramp after dark that
evening, dog-tired. Marjorie cooked a little supper, and by 10 o’clock
the two were asleep. Crimi entered their cabin about midnight. They were
fast in the chains of slumber, and he did not even find it necessary to
muffle his tread. He removed the chairs, shoes, clothes, and even the
hand mirror and toilet articles. Everything that might serve as a weapon,
no matter how slight, he took away.

Then he brought his snakes from the gully, and collected them in front
of the cabin. When he had assembled them all, he knocked the top from
the largest box, carried it into the room, and, in the audacity of his
certain triumph, he dumped the twisting mass of rattlesnakes on the bed
where Marjorie and her husband lay asleep.

The other boxes he emptied quickly just inside of the door, and withdrew,
for he had no wish to set foot among the venomous serpents. Revenge is
never satisfied if retribution overtakes the avenger, and Crimi had
no wish to share the fate of his victims. He locked the door from the
outside, and battened it. Then he removed the boxes that had contained
the snakes, and returned to his cabin and peacefully went to sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marjorie awoke with the first rays of the sun, and lazily opened her eyes.

Her heart leapt suddenly into her throat, and she was wide awake in
an instant. The flat, squat head of a rattlesnake was creeping along
her breast. Its beady eyes were fixed on her face, and its red tongue
flickered before her like a forked flame. For a moment she thought
she was still dreaming, but the familiar outlines of the room limned
themselves in her consciousness, and she knew that what she saw was real.

Her shriek rent the air, as she threw back the bed clothes and sprang
to the floor. She stepped on a coiled serpent, which sounded an ominous
warning as it struck out blindly.

She quickly climbed back on the bed, and stood on the pillow, screaming.
Her husband was beside her at once, hazily trying to understand the
import of the hysterical torrent of words she was sobbing into his ears.
For an instant he thought she must be in the clutch of some horrible
nightmare. Then a quick, startled glance around the room turned his blood
to ice.

There was now a continuous rattling, as of dry leaves blowing against
a stone wall, for Marjorie’s screams had galvanized the snakes into
activity. The room was filled with their angry din. It sounded in
Jimerson’s ears like the crack of doom. The floor seemed covered with the
creeping reptiles. Some were coiled, the whirring tips of their tails
making an indistinct blur as they rattled, and their heads swaying slowly
back and forth. Others writhed along the floor, their venomous squat
heads thrusting forward and withdrawing, and their tongues darting out
like red flames.

On the bed itself there was motion underneath the thrown-back coverlet,
and the ugly, gray head of a thick, four-foot snake protruded from
under it, its evil eyes shining dully, as if through a film of dust. It
extricated itself, and coiled as if to strike, while Marjorie shrank
fearfully against the wall, wide-eyed with horror.

Jimerson attacked the reptile with a pillow, sweeping it from the bed
onto the floor. He quickly looked about him for a weapon, and saw at once
that he was trapped. There was not even a shoe or a pincushion with which
to fight the crawling, rattling creatures.

He tried to rock the bed toward the window, as boys move saw-horses
forward while sitting on them. But the bed was firmly fastened to the
floor, and in his efforts to release it he was bitten on the wrist by the
strike of a large snake coiled near the foot of the bed.

Jimerson flung the reptile across the room, and sprang to the floor with
an oath, crushing a large rattler with his heel as he jumped. He raced
to the door, and wrestled with it for a full minute before he discovered
that he and Marjorie were locked in that serpent-hole.

He sprang to the window, and felt a sharp stab of pain in the flesh of
his calf as the open jaws of another reptile found their mark, and the
poison fangs were imbedded deep in the flesh. The window, like the door,
was nailed fast, but he broke out the glass with his bare fists.

Unmindful of the blood on his lacerated hands, he was back at the
bedside, treading over reptiles with his bare feet. Marjorie lay on the
bed, unconscious.

He lifted her in his bleeding arms and hurled her through the window to
safety. He struggled out after her, tearing open his bitten leg on the
jagged pieces of glass still left in the window frame. The spurting blood
drenched him, and he leaned, faint and dizzy, against the cabin as three
of his surveyors came running up, having been attracted by Marjorie’s
screams.

In almost incoherent words he told them what had happened. He asked them
to make immediate search for the discharged cook, for there was no doubt
in Jimerson’s mind that it was the cook who had placed the snakes in the
room.

Then the sky went suddenly black before his eyes, and he lost
consciousness.

       *       *       *       *       *

At that minute Crimi was waking from peaceful dreams. He recalled what he
had done the night before, and blissfully mused on what must be taking
place in the Jimerson cabin.

A phantasmagoric succession of pictures weltered in his mind—Marjorie and
her husband fighting with bare hands against the serpents—bitten a score
of times by the angry fangs of the rattlesnakes—clinging to each other in
terror—sinking to the floor in agony as the poison swelled their tortured
limbs and overcame them—lying green and blue in death, with rattlesnakes
crawling and hissing over their dead bodies.

It is remarkable how few people die from rattlesnake bites even when
as badly bitten as Jimerson was. Probably not one adult victim in a
hundred succumbs to the venom, although mistaken popular belief considers
rattlesnake poison as fatal as the death-potion of the Borgias.

Jimerson had known too many cases of snake bite to believe his case
hopeless. He did not give up and die, nor did he try to poison his
system with whisky. He knew that his condition was serious but he let
rest and permanganate of potash, rubbed into his wounds, effect a cure.
The bleeding from the lacerated leg had almost entirely washed out the
poison, and there was little swelling. The pain of his swollen wrist,
however, distended almost to bursting, kept him from sleeping, and the
sickly green hue of the bite distressed him. But it did not kill him.

Crimi, careful observer of reptiles though he was, had never known an
actual case of snake bite, and he shared the popular illusion that the
bite of the rattlesnake dooms its victim to death. Hence he was certain
of the complete success of his revenge, and his gloating glee was
unclouded by even the shadow of a doubt that Marjorie and her husband
had been killed in his death-trap. He awaited only the supreme joy of
drinking in the details of his success, to feel the exultant thrill of
complete victory.

As Crimi sat alone, two days after that horrible morning, Jimerson was
limping slowly toward his cabin. His swollen hand still pained him badly,
and there was a dull ache in his ankle when he put too much weight on it,
but he thought the fresh air would benefit him.

Supporting himself with a cane, and leaning heavily on Marjorie at times,
he went painfully toward the young Italian’s desert home. Not once had
his suspicion pointed toward Crimi as author of the crime, for the guilt
of the lunatic cook seemed all too clear. Besides, he liked Crimi for his
genial camaraderie, his joviality and good humor, and his frank interest
in everything that concerned either him or Marjorie.

So intent was the snake fiend on passing the torments of his victims
before his fancy, that he did not hear the knock on his cabin door. His
brain was too busy to heed the message sent by his ears, for he was
feasting on the mental and physical tortures that Jimerson and Marjorie
must have endured before they lay cold in death on the floor of the
cabin, hideously discolored by the venom of the rattlesnakes.

By degrees he became conscious that he was not alone. Two persons stood
before him, and he raised his eyes in eager anticipation, to feed his
revengeful spirit on the story he had waited two days to hear.

Even when he gazed on those whom he had consigned to a horrible death,
the thought that they were alive did not penetrate his consciousness. The
idea of failure had never entered his mind for even an instant. They were
dead, beyond the peradventure of a doubt, and now—_their avenging ghosts
stood before him_!

       *       *       *       *       *

Crimi dropped to his knees in white terror and crawled behind his chair.
He clasped and unclasped his hands in agony of fear. Sweat poured
from his face and bathed his body. He implored mercy. He screamed for
forgiveness. He gibbered like a frightened ape. Half forgotten words of
Italian, learned at his mother’s knee, fell from his lips. He pleaded
and begged for his life, crawling on his face toward the amazed couple in
an endeavor to clasp their knees.

As the meaning of his broken ejaculations was borne in on them, a
tremendous loathing and disgust overcame them. Marjorie clung to her
husband, unnerved at the repulsive sight of the malicious coward
groveling on the floor and trying to kiss their feet.

Crimi shrieked and gnawed his hands as he saw the avenging angels of his
victims leave the cabin.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was impossible for the stern hand of the law to inflict a greater
punishment on Jack Crimi than his own malice had wrought for him. Today
he occupies a padded cell in a hospital for the incurably insane.


Find Skull of Man Million Years Old

The fossilized skull of a man, who lived more than a million years ago,
was recently unearthed in Patagonia, and it antedates by hundreds of
thousands of years any human relic previously discovered. Dr. J. G.
Wolfe, who brought news of the remarkable discovery to Buenos Aires, says
the fossilization was that of Tertiary sandstone, and this means the man
lived in the Tertiary Era, which ended before the Glacial Era began,
which in turn means the skull is considerably more than a million years
old. Except for the lower jaw, which is missing, the skull is almost
perfect. The eye sockets and the teeth sockets in the upper jaw are well
defined. The cranium is long and oval-shaped, the forehead extremely low
and sloping.

Ruins of an ancient fortified town were also discovered by the scientist
in the wild region north of Lake Cardiel, in the territory of Santa Cruz.
This he regards as the remnants of a civilization that was perhaps even
earlier than that of the Peruvian Incas. On one of the walls he found a
carving of an animal that resembled the extinct glyptodon.




_Anthony M. Rud’s Remarkable Story of an Insane Artist_

_A_ SQUARE _of_ CANVAS


“No, Madame, I am _not_ insane! I see you hide a smile. Never mind
attempting to mask the expression. You are a newcomer here and have
learned nothing of my story. I do not blame any visitor—the burden of
proof rests upon us, _n’est-ce-pas?_

“In this same ward you have met several peculiar characters, have you
not? We have a motley assemblage of conquerors, diplomats, courtesans
and divinities—if you’ll take their words for it. There is Alexander the
Great, Richelieu, Julius Caesar, Spartacus, Cleopatra—but no matter. _I_
have no delusion. I am Hal Pemberton.

“You start? You believe _this_ my delusion? Look closely at me! I have
aged, it is true, yet if you have glimpsed the Metropolitan gallery
portrait that Paul Gauguin did of me when I visited Tahiti...?”

I gasped, and fell back a pace. This silver-haired, kindly old soul
the mad genius, Pemberton? The temptation was strong to flee when I
realized that he told the truth! I knew the portrait, indeed, and for an
art student like myself there could be no mistaking the resemblance. I
stopped, half-turned. After all, they allowed him freedom of the grounds.
He could be no worse surely, than the malignant Cleopatra whom I just
had left playing with her “asp”—a five-inch garter snake she had found
crossing the gravel path.

“I—I believe you,” came my stammered reply.

What I meant, of course, was that no doubt could exist that he was,
certainly, Hal Pemberton. His seamed face lighted up; it was plain _he_
believed that establishment of identity made the matter of his detention
absurd.

“They have me registered as Chase—John Chase,” he confided. “Come! Would
a true story of an artist’s persecution interest you? It is a recital of
misunderstanding, bigotry....”

He left the sentence incomplete, and beckoned with a curl of his tapered,
spatulate index finger toward a bench set fair in the sunshine just
beyond range of blowing mists from the fountain.

I was tempted. A guard was stationed less than two hundred feet distant.
Notwithstanding the horrid and distorted legends which shrouded our
memories of this man—supposed to have died in far-off Polynesia—he could
not harm me easily before assistance was available. Beside, I am an
active, bony woman of the grenadier type. I waited until he sat down,
then placed myself gingerly upon the opposite end of the bench.

“You are the first person who has not laughed in my face when learning
my true identity,” he continued then, making no attempt to close the
six-foot gap between us—much to my comfort. “_Ignorance_ placed me here.
Ignorance keeps me. I shall give you every detail, Madame. Then you may
inform others and procure my release. The _cognoscenti_ will demand it,
once they know of the cruel intolerance which has stolen nine years
from my career and from my life. You know——” and here Pemberton glanced
guardedly about before he added in a whisper, “_they won’t let me paint!_

“My youth and training are known in part. Alden Sefferich’s brochure
dealt with the externals, at least. You have read it? Ah, yes! Dear Alden
knew nothing, really. When I look at his etchings of buildings—at his
word sketch of myself—I see behind the lines and letters to a great void.

“At best, he was an admirable camera equipped with focal-plane shutter
and finest anastigmatic lenses depicting three dimensions faithfully in
two, yet ignoring the most important fourth dimension of temperament and
soul as though it were as mythical as that fourth dimension played with
by mathematicians.

“It is not. Artistic inspiration—what the underworld calls _yen_—has
been my whole life. Beyond the technique and inspiration furnished
by Guarneresi, one might scrap the whole of tutelage and still have
left—myself, and the divine spark!

“I was one of the Long Island Pembertons. Two sisters still are living.
They are staid, respectable ladies who married well. To hell with them!
They _really_ believed that Hal Pemberton disgraced them, the nauseating
prigs!

“Our mother was Sheila Varro, the singer. Father was an unimaginative
sort, president of the Everest Life and Casualty Company for many years.
I mention these facts merely to show you there was no hereditary taint,
no connate reason for warped mentality such as they attribute to me. That
I inherited the whole of my poor mother’s artistic predilection there is
possibility for doubt, for she was brilliant always. I was a dullard in
my youth. It was only with education and inspiration that even a spark of
her divine creative fury came to me—but the story of that I shall reach
later.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“As a boy, I hated school. Before the age of ten I had been expelled from
three academies, always on account of the way I treated my associates. I
was cruel to other boys, because lessons did not capture my attention.
Nothing quiet, static, like the pursuit of facts, _ever_ has done so.

“When I tired of sticking pins into younger lads, or pulling their
hair, I sought out one or another of my own size and fought with him.
Often—usually—I was trounced, but this never bothered. Hurt, blood and
heat of combat always were curiosities to me—impersonal somehow. As long
as I could stand on my feet I would punch for the nose or eyes of my
antagonist, for nothing delighted me like seeing the involuntary pain
flood his countenance, and red blood stream from his mashed nostrils.

“Father sent me to the New York public schools, but there I lasted only
six or seven weeks. I was not popular either with my playmates or with
the teachers, who complained of what they took to be abnormality. I had
done nothing except arrange a pin taken from the hat of one of the women
teachers where I thought it would do the most good. This was in the
sleeve of the principal’s greatcoat.

“When he slid in his right hand the long pin pierced his palm, causing
him to cry out loudly with pain. I did not see him at the moment, but I
was waiting outside his office at the time, and I gloated in my mind at
the picture of his stabbed hand, ebbing drops of blood where the blue
steel entered.

“I longed to rush in and view my work, but did not dare. Later, when by
some shrewd deduction they fastened the blame on me, Mr. Mortenson had
his right hand bandaged.

“Father gave up the idea of public school after this, and procured me a
tutor. He thought me a trifle deficient, and I suppose my attitude lent
color to such a theory. I tormented the three men who took me in hand,
one after the other, until each one resigned. I malingered. I shirked. I
prepared ‘accidents’ in which all were injured.

“It was not that I could not learn—I realized all along that simple tasks
assigned me by these men could be accomplished without great effort—but
that I had no desire to study algebra, geography and language, or other
dull things of the kind. Only zoology tempted in the least, and none of
the men I had before Jackson came was competent to do much of anything
with this absorbing subject.

“Jackson was the fourth, and last. He proved himself an earnest soul, and
something of a scientist. He tried patiently for a fortnight to teach me
all that Dad desired, but found his pupil responsive only when he gave me
animals to study. These, while alive, interested me.

“One day, after a discouraging session with my other studies, he left me
with some small beetles which he intended to classify on his return. It
was a hot day, and the little sheath-winged insects were stimulated out
of dormance to lively movement. I had them under a glass cover to prevent
their escape.

“Just to see how they acted, I took them out, one by one, and performed
slight operations upon parts of their anatomy with the point of my
pen-knife. One I deprived of wings, another lost two legs of many, a
third was deprived of antennae, and so on. Then I squatted close with a
hand-lens and eyed their desperate struggles.

“Here was _life_, _pain_, _struggle_—death close by, leering at the tiny
creatures. It fascinated me. I watched eagerly, and then, when one of the
beetles grew slower in moving, I stimulated it with the heated point of a
pin.

“At the time—I was then only sixteen years of age—I had no analytical
explanation of interest, but now I know that the artist in me was swept
through a haze of adolescence by sight of that most sincere of all the
struggles of life, the struggle against _death_!

“A fever raced in my blood. I knew the beetles could not last. An
instinct made me wish to preserve some form of record of their supreme
moment. I seized my pencil. I wrote a paragraph, telling how I would feel
in case some huge, omnipotent force should put me under glass, remove
my legs, stab me with the point of a great knife, a red-hot dagger, and
watch my writhings.

“The description was pale, colorless, of course. It did not satisfy, even
while I scribbled. As you may readily understand, I possessed no power of
literary expression; crude sentences selected at random only emphasized
the need of expression of a better sort. Without reasoning—indeed, many
a person would have considered me quite mad at the time—I tore a clean
sheet of paper from a thick tablet and fell to _sketching_ rapidly,
furiously!

“As with writing, I knew nothing of technique—I never had drawn a line
before—but the impelling force was great. Before my eyes I saw the
picture I wished to portray—the play of protest against death I drew the
death struggle....”

       *       *       *       *       *

“By the time Jackson returned the fire had died out of me.

“The horrid sketch was finished, and all but one of the beetles lay, legs
upturned, under the glass. That one had managed to escape somehow, and
was dragging itself hopelessly across the table, leaving a wet streak of
colorless blood to mark its passing. Exhausted in body and mind. I had
collapsed in the nearest chair, not caring whether I, myself, lived or
died.

“Poor Jackson was horrified when he saw what I had done to the
_Coleptera_, and he began reproaching me for my needless cruelty. Just as
he was waxing eloquent, however, his eye caught sight of my crude sketch.
He stopped speaking.

“I saw him tremble, adjust his pince-nez and stare long at the poor
picture I had made, and then at the dead beetles. Finally, seeming in
a torment of anger, he read the paragraph of description, turning to
examine me with horror and amazement in his glance.

“Then, suddenly, he sprang to his feet, gripping the two sheets of paper
in his hands, swung about, and made off before I could rouse from my
lassitude sufficiently to question him. I never saw Jackson again. The
poor fool.

“An hour later father sent for me. I knew that the tutor had been to
see him, and I expected another of the terrible lectures I had been in
habit of receiving each time a new lack or iniquity made itself apparent
to others. On several occasions in the past father had flogged me, and
driven himself close to the verge of apoplexy because of his extreme
anger at what he deemed deliberate obstinacy. I feared whippings; they
sickened me. My knees were quaking as I went to his study.

“This time, however, it was plain that father had given up. He was pale,
weighed down with what must have been the great disappointment of his
life; but he neither stormed nor offered to chastise me. Instead he told
me quietly that Jackson had resigned, finding me impossible to instruct.

“In a few sentences father reviewed the efforts he had made for my
education, then stated that all the tutors had been convinced that my
lack of progress had been due more to a chronic disinclination for work
rather than to any innate defect of body or mind.

“‘So far,’ he told me, ‘you have refused steadfastly to accept
opportunity. Now we come to the end. Mr. Jackson has showed me a sketch
made by you in which he professes to see real talent. He advises that you
be sent abroad to study drawing or painting. Would you care for this last
chance? Otherwise I must place you in an institution of some kind, where
you no longer can bring disgrace and pain upon me—a reform school, in
short. I tell you frankly, Hal, that I am ready to wash my hands of you.’

“What could I do? I chose, of course, to go to Paris. Father made the
necessary arrangements for me to enter Guarneresi’s big studios as a
beginner, paying for a year in advance, and making me a liberal allowance
in addition.

“‘I shall not attempt to conceal from you, Hal,’ he told me at parting,
‘that I do not wish you to return. Your allowance will continue just
as long as you remain abroad. If, in time, a moderate success in some
line of endeavor comes to you I shall be glad to see you again, but not
before. The Pembertons never were failures or parasites.’

“Thus I left him. He died while I was in my third year at the studio, and
by his express wish I was not notified until after the funeral was over.
I wept over the letter that came, but only because of the knowledge that
now I never could make up in any way for the great sorrow I had caused my
father. Had he lived only ten years longer—and this would not have been
extraordinary, as he died at the age of fifty-two—I could have restored
some of that lost pride to him.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Is it necessary to tell of my years with Guarneresi? No; you confessed
some slight knowledge of me. Very well, I shall pass over them lightly.
Suffice it to say that here at last I found my forte. I could paint.
The _maestro_ never valued my efforts very highly, but he taught with
conscientious diligence nevertheless. In the use of sweeping line and
chiaroscuro I excelled the majority of his pupils, but in color I
exhibited no talent—in _his_ estimation, at least.

“It was strange, too, for through my mind at odd intervals swept riots
of crimson, orange and purple, which never could be mixed satisfactorily
upon my palette for any given picture. I told myself that the fault lay
as much in the subjects of my pictures as in myself—the excuse of a liar,
of course.

“There _was_ some excuse there, however. For instance, when we painted
nudes Guarneresi would assemble a half-dozen old hags with yellowed skin,
bony torsos and shriveled breasts, asking us to portray youth and beauty.
Instead of attempting to pin a fabric of imagination upon such skeletons,
I used to search out the more beautiful of the cocottes of the night
cafés, and bring with me to the studio the next day memories and hurried
sketches of poses in which I had seen them. This was more interesting,
but unsatisfactory withal.

“I had been five years in the studio, and had traveled three winters to
Sicily, Sardinia and Italy, before the first hint of a resolution of
my problem came to me. It was in the month of July, when north-loving
students take their vacations.

“I was alone in the vast studio one afternoon. Guarneresi himself was
absent, which accounted for the holiday taken by the faithful who
remained during the hot days. On one side of the room were the cages,
where the _maestro_ kept small live animals, used for models with
beginners. There were a few rabbits, a dozen white mice and a red fox.

“Wandering about, near to my wits’ end for inspiration to further work,
I chanced to see one of the rabbits looking in my direction. Rays of
sunlight, falling through the open skylight, caught the beast’s eyes in
such a manner that they showed to me as round discs of _glowing scarlet_.

“Never had I witnessed this phenomenon before, which I since have learned
is common. It had an extraordinary effect upon me. In that second I
thought of my delinquent boyhood, of dozens of cruel impulses since
practically forgotten—of the mutilated, dying beetles which had been
instrumental in embarking me upon an art career.

“Blood rose in torrents to my own temples. A fever consumed me. There was
life and _there could be death_. I could renew the inspiration of those
tortured beetles.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“With agitated stealth, I glanced out into the empty hallway, locked the
door of the studio, drew four shades over windows through which I might
be seen, and crept to the rabbit cage.

“Opening it, I seized by the long ears the white-furred animal which
had stared at me. The warm softness of its palpitating body raised my
artistic desire to a frenzy. I pulled a table from the wall, and holding
down the animal upon it I drew my knife. Overcoming the mad, futile
struggles of the rabbit, I slit long incisions in the white back and
belly. The blood welled out....

“Perfect fury of delight sent me to my canvas. My fingers trembled as
I mixed the colors, but there was no indecision now, and no hint of
muddiness in the result. I painted....

“You perhaps have seen a reproduction of that picture? It was called
“THE LUSTS OF THE MAGI,” and now hangs in one of the Paris galleries.
Some day it will grace the Louvre. And all because our white rabbit had
sacrificed its heart’s blood.

“At eleven next morning Guarneresi himself, coming to the studio, found
me exhausted and asleep upon the floor. When he demanded explanations, I
pointed in silence to the finished picture upon my easel.

“I thought the man would go frantic. He regarded it for an instant, with
intolerance fading from his bearded face. Then his mouth gaped open, and
a succession of low exclamations in his native tongue came forth. His
raised hands opened and shut in the gesture I knew to mean unrestrained
delight.

“Suddenly he dashed to the easel, and, before I could offer resistance,
he snatched down my picture and ran with it out of the studio and down
the stairs into the narrow street. I followed, but I was not swift
enough. He had disappeared.

“In half an hour he returned with four brother artists who had studios
nearby. The others were more than lavish in their praise, terming my
picture the greatest masterpiece turned out in the Quarter for years.
Guarneresi himself was less demonstrative now, but I detected tears in
his eyes when he turned to me.

“‘The pupil has become the master,’ he said simply. ‘Go! I did not teach
you this, and I cannot teach you more. Always I shall boast, however,
that Signor Pemberton painted his first great picture in my studio.’

“The next day I rented a studio of my own and moved out my effects
immediately. I started to paint in earnest. There is little to relate of
the next few months. A wraith of the inspiration which had given birth
to my great picture still lingered, but I was no better than mediocre in
my work. True the experience and accomplishment had improved me somewhat
in use of color, but I learned the galling truth soon enough that never
could I attain that same fervor of artistry again—unless....

“After four months of ineffectual striving—during which time I completed
two unsatisfactory canvases—I yielded, and bought myself a second white
rabbit. What was my horror now to discover, when I treated the beast as I
had treated its predecessor, that no wild thrill of inspiration assaulted
me.

“I could mix and apply colors a trifle more gaudily, yet the suffering
and blood of this animal had lost its potent effect upon me. After a
day or two the solution occurred. _Lusts of The Magi_ had exhausted the
stimulus which rabbits could furnish.

“Disconsolate now, I allowed my work to flag. Though I knew in my heart
that the one picture I had done was splendid in its way, I hated to
believe that in it I had reached the peak of artistic production. Yet I
could arouse in myself no more than the puerile enthusiasm for methodical
slapping on of oils I so ridiculed in other mediocre painters. Finally I
stopped altogether, and gave myself over to a fit of depression, absinthe
and cigarettes.

“Guarneresi visited me one day, and finding me so badly in the dumps
prescribed fresh air and sunshine. As I refused flatly to travel, knowing
my ailment to be of the subjective sort, not cured by glimpses of
pastures new, he lent me his saddle mare, a fine black animal with white
fetlocks and a star upon her forehead. I agreed listlessly to ride her
each day.

“Three weeks slipped by. I had kept my promise—actually enjoying
the exercise—but without any of the beneficent results appearing. I
was in fair physical health—only a trifle listless—it is true, yet
whenever I set myself to paint a greater inhibition of spiritual and
mental weariness seemed to hold me back. Little by little, the ghastly
conviction forced itself upon me that as an artist I had shot my bolt.

“One day, when I was riding a league or two beyond Passy, I had occasion
to dismount and slake my thirst at a spring on which it was necessary to
break a thin crust of ice. Drinking my fill I led the mare to the spot,
and she drank also. In raising her head, however, a sharp edge of ice cut
her tender skin the distance of a quarter inch. There, as I watched, _I
saw red drops of blood gather on her cheek_.

“I cannot describe adequately the sensations that gripped me! In that
second I remembered the beetles and the rabbit; and I _knew_ that this
splendid animal had been given to me for no purpose other than to renew
the wasted inspiration within me. It was the hand of Providence.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Preparations soon were made. I obtained the use of a spacious
well-lighted barn in the vicinity, and put the mare therein while I
returned to Paris for canvases and materials. Then, when I was all ready
for work, I hobbled the mare with strong ropes, and tied her so she could
not budge. Then I treated her as I had treated the rabbit.

“Deep down I hated to inflict this pain, for I had grown to care for that
mare almost as one cares for a dear friend; but the fury of artistic
desire would not be denied.

“Next day, when all was over, I took the canvas in to Paris and showed it
to Guarneresi. He went into ecstasies, proclaiming that I had reawakened,
indeed. Yet when I told him of the mare and offered to pay his own price,
he became very white of countenance and drew himself up, shuddering.

“‘Any but as great a man as yourself, Signor,’ he shrilled, his cracked
old voice breaking with emotion, ‘I should _kill_ for that. Yourself are
without the law which would damn another, but _not_ outside the sphere of
undying hatred. You are great, but awful. _Go!_’

“I found, then, that no one wished to look at my picture. Guarneresi had
told the story to sympathetic friends, and it had spread like a fire in
spruce throughout the Quarter. I was ostracized, deserted by all who had
called me their friend.

“A month later, nearly broken in spirit, I came to New York. I was done
with Paris. Here in America none knew the story of my last painting, and
when it was put on exhibition the critics heralded it as greater far than
the finest production of any previous or contemporary American artist. I
sold it for twenty thousand dollars, which was a good price in those days.

“I was swept up on a tide of popularity. As you know, in this country
even the poorest works of a popular man are snatched up avidly. Criticism
seems to die when once a reputation is attained. I got rid of all the
canvases I had painted in Paris, and was besieged for portrait sittings
by society women of the city.

“Because I had no particular idea in mind for my next painting I did
allow myself to drift into this work. It was easy and paid immensely
well. Also I was called upon to exercise no ingenuity or imagination. All
I did was paint them as they came, two a week, and get rich, wasting five
years in the process.

“Then I fell in love. Beatrice was much younger than myself, just turned
nineteen at the time. I was first attracted to her because my eye always
seeks out the beautiful in face and form as if I were choosing models
among all the women I meet.

“She was slim of waist and of ankle, though with the soft curve of neck
and shoulder which intrigues an artist instantly. She was more mature
in some ways than one might have expected of her years—but the more
delightful for that reason.

“Her eyes were dark pools rippled by the breeze of each passing fancy.
The moment I looked into them I knew that wrench of the heart which
bespeaks the advent of the one great emotion. Many times before I
had thought myself in love, yet in company of Beatrice I wondered at
my self-deception. In the evening, as she sat beside me in a nook of
Sebastian’s Spice Gardens—you know, the great indoor reproduction of the
famous gardens of Kandy, Ceylon—I gloried in her beauty, and in the way
soft silk clung to her person. The desire for possession was intolerable
within me. Before parting I asked her, and for answer she lifted her
soft, white arms to my neck and met my lips with a caress in which I felt
the whole fervor of love. That was the sweetest and happiest moment of my
life.

“We married, and built ourselves a home upon Long Island. After three
months of honeymoon we settled there, more than ever in love with each
other if that were possible.

“A year sped by. Ten months of this I spent without lifting a brush to
canvas. It was idyllic, yet toward the last a sense of shame began to
pervade my mind. Was I of such weak fibre that the love of one woman must
stamp out all ambition, all desire for accomplishment?

“At the end of the year I was painting again, making portraits. The long
rest and happiness had made me impatient with such piffle, however. I had
all the money that either of us could need in our lifetime, so I could
not take the portraiture seriously. I dabbled with it another full year,
without once endeavoring to start a serious piece of work.

“Then, after Beatrice bore me a daughter, I began to lay plans for
continuing serious endeavor. It is useless to repeat the story of
those struggles. It was the same experience I had had after that first
successful picture.

“My technique now was as near perfection as I could hope to attain,
and the mere matter of color mixing I had learned from those two wild
flights of frenzy. I found myself, however, psychologically unable to
attack a subject smacking in the least of the gruesome—and that, of
course, always had been my talent and interest.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“I rebelled against the instinct which urged me to try the experiment
of the mare again. In cold blood I hated the thought of it, and also I
feared, with a great sinking of the heart, that I should find no more
inspiration there even if I did repeat.

“I turned to landscape painting, choosing sordid, dirty or powerful
scenes. I painted the fish-and-milk carts on Hester Street, showing
the hordes of dirty urchins in the background playing on the pavement.
Somehow, the picture fell short of being really good, although I had no
difficulty in selling it.

“I portrayed, then, a street in the Ghetto on a rainy night, with
greasy mud shining on the cobblestones and the shapeless figure of a
man slouched in a doorway. This was called powerful—the ‘awakening of
an American Franz Hals’ one critic termed it—but I knew better. Beside
the work I _could_ do under powerful stimulus and inspiration, this was
slush, slime. I _hated_ it!

“Even waterscapes did not satisfy. I painted half of one picture
depicting two sooty, straining tugs bringing a great leviathan of a
steamer into harbor, but this I never finished. I felt as if I drooled at
the mouth while I was working.

“Thus two more years went by, happy enough when I was with Beatrice, but
sad and savage when I was by myself in the studio. My wife had blossomed
early into the full beauty of womanhood, and yet she retained enough of
modesty and reticence of self that I never wearied of her. Because up to
this time, when I turned thirty-three years of age, the powers of both
of us, physical and mental, had been on the increase, we still were
exploring the delights of love and true affection.

“There was an impelling force within me, however, which would not be
denied. I had been born to accomplish great things. Weak compromise, or
weaker yielding to delights of the mind and body, could but heap fresh
fuel on the flame which consumed me when I got off by myself. I fought
against it months longer, but in the end I had to yield. With fear and
trepidation struggling with ambition and lust within me, I took a trip
to a distant town of New York State, procured a fine, blooded mare, and
repeated the experiment which had lost me the friendship of Guarneresi
and my Parisian contemporaries.

“All in vain. Out of the hideous slaughter of the animal I obtained only
a single grim picture—a canvas which I painted weeks later, when the
shudder of revulsion in my frame had died down somewhat. I called the
picture ‘CANNIBALISM,’ for it showed African savages gorging themselves
on human flesh. It never sold, for the instant I placed it on exhibition
the art censors of New York threw it under ban—and, I believe, no one
really wanted the thing in his house.

“I did not like it myself, and finally, after much urging by my wife, I
burned it. This sacrifice, however, merely accentuated the fury in my
heart. I _must_ do better than that!

“Since I have told you of my other periods of frenzy and self-hatred,
I may pass over the ensuing month. One day the inspiration for my last
great picture came, and as with the second, through pure accident.
Beatrice was cutting weeds in the garden with a sickle, while I sat
cross-legged beside her, watching. I always could find surcease from
discontent in being near her, and watching the fine play of animal forces
in her supple body.

“The sickle slipped. Beatrice cried out, and I jumped to place a
handkerchief over the wound that lay open on her wrist, but not before my
eyes had caught the sight of the red blood bubbling out upon her satiny
skin.

“A madness leaped into my soul. My fingers trembled and a throbbing made
itself felt in my temples as I laved on antiseptic and bound a bandage
over the wound. This was the logical, the inevitable conclusion! She was
my mate; she was in duty bound to furnish inspiration for the picture I
must paint, my _masterpiece_.

       *       *       *       *       *

“I of course, told Beatrice nothing of what was passing in my mind, but
went immediately about my preparations.

“I placed a cot in the studio, fastening strong straps to it. Then I made
ready a gag, and sharpened a keen Weiss knife I possessed until its edge
would cut a hair at a touch. Last I made ready my canvas.

“She came at my call. At first, when I seized her and tore off her
clothing she thought me joking, and protested, laughing. When I came to
placing the gag, and bound her arms and legs with strong straps, however,
the terror of death began to steal into her dark eyes.

“To show her that I loved her still, no matter what duty impelled me to
do, I kissed her hair, her eyes, her breast. Then I set to work....

“In a few minutes I was away and painting as I never had painted before.
A red stream dripped from the steel cot, down to the floor, and ran
slowly toward where I stood. It elated me. I felt the fire of a fervor of
inspiration greater than ever had beset me. I painted. _I painted!_ This
was my masterpiece.

“Drunk with the fury of creation, I threw myself on the floor in the
midst of the red puddle time and time again. I even dipped my brushes in
it. Mad with the delight of unstinted accomplishment, I kept on and on,
until late in the evening I heard my little daughter crying in her room
for the dinner she had not received. Then I went downstairs, laughing at
the horror I saw in the faces of the servants.

“They found Beatrice, of course. The servants ’phoned immediately for the
police. I fooled them all, however. I knew that they might do something
to me, such is the lack of understanding against which true artists
always must labor, so I took the canvas of my masterpiece and hid it in
a secret cupboard in the wall known only to myself. I did not care what
they did to me, but this picture, for which Beatrice had offered up her
love and life, was sacred.

“They came and took me away. Then ensued a terrible scandal, and some
foolish examinations of me in which I took not the slightest interest.
And then they put me here.

“I have not been in duress all the time, though. Oh, no! Three years
later some of my old friends contrived at escape, and secreted me away
to the South Seas. There they gave me a studio, meaning to allow me to
paint. I was guarded, though. They would not allow me full freedom.

“I painted, but I have not the slightest idea what was done with those
canvases. I had no interest in them personally. All I could think of now
was the one great masterpiece hidden in the cupboard of my old studio. I
wanted to see it, to glory in the flame of color and in the tremendous
conception itself.

       *       *       *       *       *

“At last I gave my guards the slip, and after long wandering about in
native proas, made my way to this country again, to New York. I found the
canvas, and, rolling it, secreted it upon my person. Then I went out and
gave myself up to them. I was brought here again.

“Imprisonment was not important to me any more. I was getting old. Though
I would like to be released now it is a matter of less urgency than
before, because I have with me always my masterpiece. _See!_”

The old man tugged at something inside his blouse, and brought forth a
dirtied roll which he unsnapped with fingers that trembled in eagerness.

“See, Madame!” he repeated triumphantly.

And, before my horrified eyes, he unrolled _a blank square of white
canvas_!

[Illustration]




_Do You Want a Slice of Life from the Thirteenth Century? If so, Don’t
Fail to Read_

THE AFFAIR _of the_ MAN _in_ SCARLET

_By_ JULIAN KILMAN


Two French peasants, the one young, the other old and hale and toothless,
both carrying baskets and garbed in ragged breeches and tunics, gaped
at the pair of horses struggling to haul the closed coach up the steep
incline in Angoulème Wood.

At the instant it seemed as if the animals were about to fail. The
driver, a sober youth in drab livery with undecipherable shoulder
insignia, used his whip mercilessly. The lash cracked, the horses plunged
frantically, while a stream of invective sped from the driver’s lips.

“You pair of oafs!” he cried, finally. “Lend a hand.”

The peasants willingly put shoulder to wheel. The coach gained way and
topped the rise. As it did so, the two peasants set out at a run, their
baskets bobbing, but a shout came from behind.

“’Ware the road, ye clodhoppers!”

The clatter of horse hoofs was upon them, they were just able to fling
themselves to the side as three horsemen, presumably outriders of the
equipage ahead, swept by.

The peasants gazed in admiration after the flashing figures.

“That’ll be good King Philippe’s riders,” announced André, the younger.
“Mark ye the emblems on their jackets?”

“I do that,” returned Jacques, the light of understanding in his ancient
eyes. “Methinks I know what brings them to the village of Peptonneau.”

“And, pray, what is it that brings them to the village of Peptonneau?”

“They come to the Man in Scarlet.”

At mention of the official headsman, who years before had come from near
Fontainebleau to reside in Peptonneau, Jacques’ companion fell silent.

The old man chuckled.

“Ah! They were gay days when your old Jacques was a gardener at the royal
palace. And be it known to you, lout of Peptonneau,” Jacques’ voice rose,
“that my best friend then was old Capeluche, the very father of our
neighbor headsman, who to be sure is a man of ugly temper, and hence
giving easy understanding as to why he lost favor at Fontainebleau.

“Ah me!” sighed Jacques. “You, André, should have heard the rare stories
told by old Capeluche, the son of the son of the son of the son of a
headsman, unto four generations. A proper man with the sword, forsooth!
There was the Duc de la Trémouille whom old Capeluche led to the block
and permitted to begin the Lord’s prayer, but when the noble duke got
as far as ‘_et nos inducas intentationem_’ he had drawled it so slowly
that the good Capeluche, losing patience, swung his blade and made such a
clean stroke of it that the head, though severed, remained in exact place
while from the lips the prayer continued—‘_Sed libera nos a malo_’—until
the faithful Capeluche nudged the body and the head toppled off.

“A wonderful arm, one may say,” continued Jacques, “but a wonderful
weapon, too, and the same one now resting with the Capeluche in
Peptonneau. Old Capeluche told me that on one occasion, when Madam
Bonacieux, a famous lady-in-waiting—now dead, may the Saints preserve
her!—brought her baby to his house, the sword rattled furiously in its
closet, which was an omen that the child would some day die by the
self-same sword wielded by the right arm of a Capeluche unless then and
there Madam Bonacieux allowed her baby’s neck to be pricked by the point
of the sword until blood showed.”

“And did Madam Bonacieux permit it?” asked André, curiously.

“That she did not,” replied Jacques. “She laughed in old Capeluche’s face
and ran out of his house, and thereat the old man was furious, vowing
that the child would some day have its neck severed by the famous sword.”

       *       *       *       *       *

While thus engaged in conversation, old Jacques had steadily led the way
by a short cut through the wood, which presently brought them out of
breath to the village, ahead of the coach and horses.

The village of Peptonneau was small, having less than a thousand
inhabitants, its houses being of stone, and built close together in the
manner of the gregarious Latin. Most striking of these structures in
their uniformity was one near the center square painted a brilliant red.

In the clear sunshine of that Thirteenth Century July day, the dwelling
stood out like a veritable lighthouse, and thither, giving no heed to the
leper who passed in the opposite direction, fingerless, noseless, the
bell at his neck ringing dolefully, the two peasants complacently padded
their barefoot way.

A tall, lean, but well-thewed individual in leather jerkin and girdle,
lounged in front of the house of red. With cynical eyes he viewed the
approach of the peasants.

“In five minutes, M. Capeluche,” announced Jacques, a trifle
breathlessly, “a coach and riders will arrive.”

“And you, old cock, trot hither from your berry-picking to tell me that
bit of famous gossip?”

“Ay! I’m an old cock, and many years have passed o’er my head, Monsieur,
but it is a head not destined to be removed by a Capeluche, nor yet by
the son of a Capeluche.”

“Sirrah! Daily I give thanks to the Holy Virgin,” retorted the headsman,
“that the delicate skill of a Capeluche is not for the hairy necks of
such _canaille_ as you.”

“Who knows,” sturdily replied Jacques, “as to the quality or quantity of
hair on the neck of one who draws near in yonder coach?”

The grunt that left the headsman betrayed his interest. He peered down
the road.

“What do you mean by that?”

Old Jacques permitted himself a toothless grin. It was not often that a
Peptonneau villager could stir the equanimity of the great one, whose
prerogatives of office entitled him to tithes exacted from towns and
monasteries as ruthlessly as those of prince or baron.

“The coach, Monsieur,” the loquacious Jacques continued with
satisfaction, “is accompanied by three outriders; they are men of the
Divine Philippe’s, Monsieur, recently returned from ‘The Foolish Wars’,
and wearing on the shoulders of their tunics the sign of the cross,
together with——”

“A falcon in full flight?” quickly broke in the headsman.

“Even so, M. Capeluche. A falcon in full— Now, _regardez vous_, the great
man is himself in full flight!”

       *       *       *       *       *

If the headsman had in truth rather precipitately taken himself into his
dwelling, his absence was of short duration, for he returned in a moment,
clad in a scarlet cloak that reached to his knees.

At the instant there sounded the call of a bugle, and into sight swung
three horsemen, followed by the coach driven at breakneck speed.

M. Capeluche took a position midway of the road and presently caught the
heads of the horses drawing the coach. His black eyes snapped fire as he
noted the quivering flanks of the hard-driven animals.

“High honor you do me, M. le Headsman,” cried the driver, leaping to
the ground and clapping the palms of his hands against his breeches to
relieve them of perspiration.

“No honor to you, you puling son of an ass,” retorted Capeluche, crossly.

“Hear the Man in Scarlet!”

The tallest of the horsemen, a devil-may-care appearing young man whose
finely-chiseled features and delicate raiment proclaimed him of noble
blood, now stepped to the side of the coach and unlocked the door and
opened it.

A surpassingly beautiful woman of perhaps twenty-two years, sat within.
She had the totally unexpected air of pretty surprise. As she descended,
accepting with dainty grace the proffer of the gallant’s arm, her
wide-set blue eyes were dazzled by the brilliance of the midday light.

“Thank you, Comte de Mousqueton,” she murmured.

With his charge, the Comte then approached the headsman, who stood with
arms akimbo, his sharp eyes on the newcomers.

“M. Capeluche,” said the Comte, graciously. “The Royal Master sends this
day the body of Mlle. Bonacieux. These papers, sir, are your warrant.
Please to scan them at once.”

“The portent! The portent!” cried a voice from the crowd of rustics.

“Who shouts?” demanded Capeluche, looking about him fiercely, while a
silence fell.

With a nod that gave scant heed to the etiquette of the occasion, the
headsman accepted the beribboned parchment and ripped open the cover.
The writ was of interminable length and inscribed in Latin. A glance,
however, at the familiar “Now, therefore,” clause at the end quickly
apprised Capeluche of his commission, and without a word he turned to
enter his house.

“One moment,” said the Comte.

The headsman paused, scowling.

“Where, M. Capeluche, are we to lodge the prisoner in the interim?”

A sardonic smile suddenly played on the features of Capeluche.

“In Peptonneau, Comte de Mousqueton,” he said, “you will please to
understand that since the days of the plague there has been no inn.”

The glance of the Man in Scarlet now shifted to the dilapidated,
unoccupied structures on either side of his own dwelling.

“These are the only vacant houses in Peptonneau, their emptiness, of a
truth, due to the fact that they stand next the dwelling of red. Of these
two you may choose freely, sir.”

The crowd dispersed.

“Ho! Ho!” broke in a familiar voice. “There’ll be no hair on the neck of
Mlle. Bonacieux to dull the edge of M. Capeluche’s good sword.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was near dark before the youthful Comte, after his discourteous
reception by the headsman, was able to arrange suitable quarters in one
of the deserted houses for his charge. As he was leaving her for the
night, he seemed to reach a decision and was about to speak when she
anticipated him.

“You are kind, indeed, M. le Comte,” she exclaimed, “to one in such
misfortune.”

“Kindness, Mlle. Bonacieux, comes easily when one views beauty in
distress.”

Mlle. Bonacieux shook her head reprovingly.

“Ah, Comte, to one whose tenure of existence is limited by a bit of
parchment to ten hours the occasion does not seem fitting for mere
compliment.”

“The occasion, Mademoiselle, is not entirely unpropitious if one
considers all the possibilities.”

The woman gave him a quick look.

“To just what, pray, does the Comte de Mousqueton refer?”

The young Frenchman paced the room, giving signs of a state of tension.
Then he began to speak rapidly:

“The Mlle. Bonacieux, some of us feel at the court, has been ill treated
both by the King and the Dauphin. The King, by his gratuitous harshness,
and the Dauphin, by his, his—”

The Comte hesitated. The keenly intelligent gaze of the woman
interrogated him.

“Proceed, M. le Comte,” she encouraged.

“Will it be permitted a mere Comte to speak frankly of the prince?”

“By all means.”

“Then I shall dare to say, by the lack of knowledge and perspicacity of
the Dauphin.”

In spite of herself, a flush stole into the face of the woman.

“Ah! You are naïve!” she exclaimed, in pain. “Cruelly so.”

“Nay, Mademoiselle. It is not naïveté in the circumstances, for I have a
definite plan to defeat the machinations of the Cardinal.”

In amazement the woman stared at her companion.

“But how—?” she began.

“Listen, Mademoiselle. Everyone, it seems, including both the King and
the Dauphin, have forgotten the ancient Merovingian statute, which
provides that a woman sentenced to death may, if the headsman is ‘able
and willing’ to marry her, be saved. Now, M. le headsman, if a boor, has
at least the temporarily strategic advantage of being a celibate. It
remains merely for you to captivate the gentleman’s fancy, and—who knows?”

The Comte now glanced with interest at his beautiful prisoner. She was
smiling.

“Very prettily thought M. le Comte,” she said, “and your interest in my
cause is flattering. But is not death itself preferable to life with yon
crimson-handed churl as a wife whose only contact with her neighbors
would be in the night-time, when they came stealing to buy from her
horrid amulets with which to curse their enemies?”

“Ah, but who said that Mlle. Bonacieux would be compelled to endure life
with a headsman?”

“Surely it is not to be expected,” remarked the woman, “that the headsman
would be gallant enough to release me immediately after the ceremony?”

A short laugh broke from the Comte.

“No fear of that. My purpose is to relieve him of his bridegroom
embarrassment within ten minutes after he has a wife.”

“Ah! A rescue! You, a King’s Messenger, would dare that for me?”

“And why not?”

“But why should you?”

The Comte’s face flushed slightly.

“One who loves would not regard such an enterprise as a peril.”

The eyes of the woman kindled. She approached the Comte. He caught her
hand and kissed it.

“Trust in the Comte de Mousqueton,” he breathed.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was late when the Comte came from the prison house. The village seemed
asleep, but another than himself was abroad. The figure of a man in a
cloak was issuing from the neighboring house.

“You walk late, M. Capeluche,” said the Comte. “But it is well, for Mlle.
Bonacieux wishes to speak with you.”

The headsman stopped abruptly to peer into the eyes of the young
nobleman. The act was insolent.

“Is M. le Comte,” he inquired, coldly, “sufficiently in the confidence of
his fair prisoner to advise me what it is she desires?”

“The man is steel,” thought the Comte, hotly. “I’ll kill him yet.” Aloud,
he said: “I have some idea, M. Capeluche. But I may not allude to it.”

The headsman fell silent.

“Closer examination of the writ,” he went on, finally, “shows that it
is curiously indefinite in its recital as to the offense of which Mlle.
Bonacieux has been guilty.”

The Comte laughed easily.

“M. de Briseout will be pleased to hear that the discriminating Capeluche
has so found it.”

“And who is de Briseout?”

“The ingenious special pleader employed by the Cardinal to prepare the
document. It is a work of art.”

“Then I can not be mistaken in assuming that one as clever as the Comte
de Mousqueton and so recently come from Fontainebleau will be able to
tell me the real nature of the case.”

The young nobleman was able to smile in the dark at the discernment of
this strange man of blood.

“’Tis a proper question, M. Capeluche,” he returned. “Be it known to you,
therefore, that no less a person that the Dauphin himself entertains the
liveliest of sentiments toward Mlle. Bonacieux. The Cardinal, however,
through his spies, early learned of the infatuation of the prince and
privately remonstrated with him on the score that the mesalliance would
definitely imperil the consummation of his proposed nuptials with
Katharine of Austria, which, in turn, might embroil the two nations in
war.

“But the Dauphin resented ecclesiastical interference. This aroused the
ire of His Eminence, who straightway went to King Philippe. The net
result is that the Dauphin has been dispatched on a tedious expedition to
Sicilia, and I am ordered to convey the pretty person of Mlle. Bonacieux
to you for decapitation.”

The two men resumed their walking.

“And this, then, you think,” came from the headsman, “accounts both for
the ambiguity of the writ’s phraseology as well as the fact that Mlle.
Bonacieux is spirited hither instead of being left to the hand of the
headsman at Fontainebleau?”

“Undoubtedly, M. Capeluche.”

The headsman started away abruptly, in the manner of a man whose mind is
suddenly made up. A light still burned in Mlle. Bonacieux’s quarters and
he tapped at the door.

“Who is it?” called the woman.

“One whom you wished to see.”

“Please come in, M. Capeluche.”

Mlle. Bonacieux was in truth chilled by the grim expression of the man
who now stood composedly studying her; but she gave no sign. Instead, her
eyes were sparkling and she was a vision of loveliness as she reclined on
the couch that had been provided for her by the Comte.

“An unpleasant business—for both of us, M. le Headsman,” she commented.

“There are many persons in _your_ position who would so regard it,”
bluntly agreed the headsman.

“I shall not dissemble, M. le Headsman. I do not desire to die tomorrow.”

“Is it for this that you have sent for me?”

The woman laughed.

“Yes, and no, Monsieur,” she returned. “It has but recently been
mentioned to me that an ancient law is still in effect and has a certain
bearing——”

She paused, glancing with studied carelessness at the headsman.

“The Comte de Mousqueton is a very clever fellow,” remarked Capeluche,
dryly. “What is it he has to say of this old law?”

“That it seems a pity to miss a perfectly legitimate opportunity both
to accomplish a humanitarian act and so defeat the machinations of an
interfering Italian Cardinal.”

Capeluche’s features for the first time relaxed into a smile.

“And Mlle. Bonacieux, therefore, of the two evils—death or a headsman—is
willing to choose the latter?”

“You put it so bluntly, M. le Headsman,” she sighed. “There can be
compensations on either hand. If, for instance, the headsman surrenders
his celibacy to a pretty woman, it is not inconceivable that she may
reciprocate by surrendering her jewels to him.”

“On condition?”

In sincere surprise, Mlle. Bonacieux glanced up.

“Your perspicacity is gratifying, Monsieur,” she exclaimed. “The
condition, suggested by you, is that immediately after the ceremony Madam
Capeluche be released and permitted to journey back to Fontainebleau with
the Comte de Mousqueton.”

The gleaming eyes of the man told much—or little. He approached the
reclining beauty.

“Mlle. Bonacieux,” he said. “The Merovingian statute is still law, being,
in fact, the very writ that directs my hand in your case.”

For an instant he stood over her.

“The Abbé Kérouec,” he added harshly, “will wed us two tomorrow, five
minutes before seven in the evening, the hour fixed by the writ for your
death.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after six o’clock next evening old Jacques stole from the
Angoulème wood and fell in step immediately behind a man garbed in a
long close-fitting black coat with skirts that fell to his feet. This
individual was making his way with painful slowness along the road to
Peptonneau.

For the space of a minute Jacques followed in silence, his old
nut-cracker face full of preliminary guile. Then he pushed forward.

“It is a fine day, good father,” he shouted.

In surprise the old man surveyed him.

“Ay, a fine day, Jacques, you godless one,” he replied in the toneless
voice of the deaf.

“But the clemency of the weather is not for the delectation of the young
beauty from Fontainebleau now lodged in Peptonneau.”

The Abbé Kérouec inclined his head. He was exceedingly deaf and had not
heard.

Jacques swore heartily. At the top of his lungs he shouted:

“Bad weather for her who dies at seven this evening by the hand of M.
Capeluche.”

The light of comprehension came into the features of the ancient Abbé.

“Ah, my good fellow, you mistake. I come to M. Capeluche’s dwelling on
a more gracious mission than to shrive the soul of one condemned by the
King’s Writ.”

It was Jacques’ turn to be surprised.

“Ha! Say you that Mlle. Bonacieux is not to die this eve?”

The Abbé’s eyes showed that he understood.

“That I say, indeed, Jacques. You and I be old men and we have seen
much, but never before has anyone in our generation in all France and
her possessions witnessed that which is about to occur in modest little
Peptonneau.”

“And what is that?” sharply demanded Jacques.

“The wedding of M. Capeluche, the headsman, to Mlle. Bonacieux, the
condemned.”

Jacques threw back his head and laughed till the tears rolled down his
cheeks.

“That indeed is droll!” he shouted. “M. le Headsman weds a woman and then
immediately cuts off her head.”

The owl-like eyes of the Abbé regarded Jacques solemnly.

“You do not know the full import of what I have told you, Jacques.”

The old peasant sobered instantly.

“What’s that?”

“Then you have never heard of the Merovingian statute which provides that
the headsman may marry a condemned woman, if he is able and willing, and
thereby save her life?”

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” came from Jacques, his small eyes opening and shutting with
lightning rapidity. “Thus it proceeds, eh? M. le Headsman surrenders to
the charms of the beautiful Mlle. Bonacieux. He plans to take her to
wife. Is not the situation amusing?”

Suddenly he shook the arm of the old Abbé.

“But it can not be, Abbé Kérouec,” he exclaimed vociferously. “I knew
the worthy M. Capeluche at Fontainebleau. He was a friend of mine, and
the father of the headsman in Peptonneau, and he confided in me that on
a certain occasion a lady-in-waiting one day brought her child to the
dwelling in red, whereupon the Capeluche sword rattled furiously in its
closet, which meant, of an absolute surety, that the child, unless its
neck was pricked by the point of the sword, would some day die by that
sword. That woman bore the name of Bonacieux, and now, after eighteen
years, old Jacques lives to see Mlle. Bonacieux, the child grown to
womanhood, awaiting her death under the famous sword in the hands of a
Capeluche.”

Jacques paused for breath. The old Abbé had endeavored to follow the
harangue of the peasant.

“Understand? A portent!” shouted Jacques, in desperation. “Mlle.
Bonacieux is to die tonight by the sword of the headsman, Capeluche.”

“Nay! Nay! Jacques,” in turn exclaimed the Abbé. “I know not of what you
prate, save that it be Godless. But there will be a wedding in Peptonneau
this eve, and no woman will die by the hand of Capeluche.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A throng had gathered before the house in red by the time the Abbé and
his companion Jacques made their way along the village street. The Comte
met them. He was in doublet and hose of violet color with aiguillettes of
same, having the customary slashes through which the shirt appeared. The
dress was handsome, albeit it gave evidence of having been but recently
taken from a traveler’s box, which had left it in creases.

“We have little time,” he said.

He left them, but returned presently with Mlle. Bonacieux, and at sight
of her unusual beauty, accompanied by so graceful a figure as the Comte,
a murmur of appreciation stirred the rustic spectators.

With the Abbé preceding them, the little party passed into the red
dwelling. M. Capeluche, in the cloak of his office, stood awaiting them.
The Abbé he treated with marked deference, a manner that sat oddly on
him. As a man beyond the pale of both church and society, because of his
calling, Capeluche had experienced some doubt as to whether the worthy
churchman would perform the ceremony.

As affairs went forward, his face retained its customary grim composure;
but his eyes, resting on the entrancing creature who stood demurely
at his side, held a light that fully signified his reaction to the
potentialities of the occasion.

An hour passed, and old Jacques lay on his bed. He was fully dressed and
wakeful and alert, despite the fact that his retiring-time had long since
gone by. Presently there came to him the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

With the restless activity of a jack-in-the-box, he ran from his house
and was in time to see the horseman dash up to the dwelling of Capeluche.
The riders, of whom there were seven, wore masks. They pounded for
admittance.

A light showed within, and old Jacques could see, through an open window,
the headsman. He was making all secure against the attack. However,
a window to the right—one that had just been closed—was reopened
unexpectedly, and a woman’s hand extended. From it there fluttered a
handkerchief.

Two of the horsemen started toward the open window. But the hand was
withdrawn swiftly, and a terrible shriek followed.

A moment later the door gave way. The attacking party hurtled into the
dwelling stumbling over one another.

An appalling sight was before them. In the center of the room stood
Capeluche, a scarlet Mephisto. His hands held the cleanly severed head of
Mlle. Bonacieux, her beautiful tresses of hair depending almost to the
floor. At his feet lay the long weapon of his office.

He extended the head before him.

“Perhaps,” he said grimly, “the Comte de Mousqueton would relish a kiss
from the lips of Madame Capeluche, the wife of a headsman. She was very
choice of those same lips—a Dauphin has felt them. And see! See how
deliciously cupid they are!”

Suddenly Jacques’ voice broke in.

“Before God!” exclaimed the old peasant, with tremendous satisfaction.
“_The portent!_”

[Illustration]




_The_ HIDEOUS FACE

_A Grim Tale of Frightful Revenge_

By VICTOR JOHNS


Marseilles, one hears while traveling through Europe, is the most vicious
town in France.

Whether or not this ancient seaport, whose history reaches deep into
the shadows of antiquity, is deserving of a criticism so sweeping and
so condemnatory, I do not know. Such, at any rate, is the reputation it
suffers among travelers.

All roads in Marseilles lead to La Cannebière, a street of splendid
cafés. Being a sort of hyphen that connects the waterfront with the
fashionable hotels and shops of the Rue Noailles, it swarms with a
curious blend of dregs and pickings. Up from the Quai de la Fraternité
come sailors hungry for the pleasures a few hours’ shore leave will
offer; Algerian troops, on their way to Africa, jostle English soldiers
back from India; adventurers and _le monde élégant_, pausing in flight
to or from the Riviera, and the inevitable Magdalens, spatter its length
with color and charge it with restlessness.

Late one afternoon last winter I drifted through this famous
thoroughfare, looking for a place among the tables that edge its
pavements. It had become my habit to sit for half an hour before dinner
somewhere along the street, drink an appetizer, and expect the crowd to
entertain me. The rows of iron chairs were filled with earlier comers,
who sat contentedly behind their _apéritifs_ or cups of chocolate, but at
last, in front of the Café de l’Univers, I found a vacant back row table,
which I quickly possessed. With a glass of _vermouth cassis_ on the table
beside me, I yielded to the lure of seaport excitement.

My thoughts were soon interrupted, however, by an American voice asking
in French if the other chair at my table was taken. I turned to assure
the gentleman it was not, that he was in no way intruding—and I looked
into the face of Lawrence Bainridge.

“Hello, Bayard,” was his casual greeting. A bit too casual, I thought,
considering the fact we had not seen each other for nearly two years.

I, contrariwise, must fairly have gasped, “Good Lord! What are you doing
here?” for, as he swung the unoccupied chair about and sat down, he said,

“Well, what’s so strange about meeting me on La Cannebière?”

There was nothing strange about it; and I wondered at the amazement
which so energetically had voiced itself. A rich, itinerant artist,
Lawrence had zig-zagged several times around the world to paint unknown
by-ways and hidden corners. Astonishment at meeting him in Marseilles
was therefore absurd. Also, I felt he might construe my lack of
_savoir faire_ as a blunt refusal to play up to his well-known and
fondly-cherished reputation as a globe trotter. He was childish in
certain respects—artists are.

The waiter quickly fetched a champagne cocktail and a package of English
cigarettes. The cocktail Lawrence downed in a gulp and called for more.
The second he drank with more restraint.

Though I had not seen him since two summers before—at Land’s End, an
isolated village in Massachusetts—our conversation was rambling and
disjointed, like that of incompatible strangers who find no ease in
silence. This annoyed me, for our similarity of tastes, I felt, should
more than outweigh the separation.

As the late afternoon merged into early evening, the mistral blew its
cold and sinister breath out to the Mediterranean. We drank steadily,
Lawrence all the while jibing at me for clinging to so impotent a
mixture as vermouth, currant juice and seltzer. He had reached his fifth
cocktail, but through the exercise of will, apparently, was still sober.
Nevertheless, he worried me.

Furtively, almost defensively, Lawrence sat in his chair. I reacted to
his attitude by bracing myself against an intangible, though imminent,
danger which thickened the atmosphere. He breathed jerkily, emitting from
time to time a sharp clicking sound, as though part of his breathing
mechanism had suddenly refused to function. Quivers ran through his body
and ended in a twitch.

But he spoke with a crisp enunciation, and so precisely that each
word seemed to have been scoured and weighed before utterance. On not
a syllable was the checkrein loosened. I sensed a splendid effort at
self-control.

I suddenly recalled the wild absurdity of Lawrence’s recent work. In
Paris, three months before, I had gone to his exhibition at the Vendome
Galleries and left the place convinced that Lawrence Bainridge had gone
stark mad.

“Flowers, _Messieurs_?” A flower girl, her wicker tray heaped with
heavy-scented blossoms, paused before us. “No? Ah, _Messieurs_, but one
little rose apiece—for luck!” she said.

Then she picked up a red rose bud and pinned it to the lapel of
Lawrence’s coat.

“_Ugh!_ Take it away!” he screamed. “I can’t stand it!” He tore the
flower from his coat and hurled it into the gutter.

“Lawrence!” I reproved, “You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not drunk,” he protested. Contrition had subdued his voice.
“But—I can’t stand—the smell—of roses.”

Thinking to avoid a scene, I suggested we take a walk. He said it might
be a good idea, first, though, he would fill his cigarette case. A
subterfuge, I told myself, to regain composure, and an obvious one.
Lawrence had never been obvious.

At that moment there passed before us on the sidewalk such a ghastly
thing that my scalp tingled and the flesh on my legs seemed to shrivel
and fall away.

It was a man whose face was like a hideous mask; the left side—young
and unblemished; but the right half—so mutilated that description would
nauseate. Fair was divided from foul by a line running down the exact
center of forehead, nose and chin.

       *       *       *       *       *

My exclamation of horror drew Lawrence’s attention to the repellent
sight. At that moment the gruesome thing turned full upon us.

Lawrence fumbled with his cigarettes; the case fell from his trembling
hands and clattered to the pavement. Quickly he reached down, but did
not straighten up again until after the man—a sailor, to judge from his
rolling gait, though he wore no uniform—had gone.

“Poor soul,” I said. “How his fingers must ache to choke the life from
the _Boche_ responsible for that.”

Lawrence made no reply. He was drained of blood. He sat rigid, petrified.

“In Paris and London,” I continued, “one sees hundreds of _mutilés_—the
war’s driftwood—and I have trained myself to look unflinchingly
into their eyes. But”—I glanced in the direction the sailor had
disappeared—“my histronic ability would fail me there.”

Still Lawrence made no move or sound. That he was profoundly touched
I knew, for a sensitiveness, abnormal in its refinement, had been his
lifelong curse. It had prevented his marriage to a young woman in whom
were combined, he thought at one time, all the qualities that appeal to a
man of esthetic temperament.

In his studio, one afternoon, they were planning for the wedding.
Lawrence recalled a newly-acquired _object d’art_ and took it from a
cabinet. The treasure was an exquisite bit of ancient Egyptian glass,
a spherulate bowl, so delicate of line and so ethereally opalescent of
color that it always made me think of a bubble poised to float away.

I can imagine how he carried it across the room—with that caressing
touch of velvet-tipped fingers peculiar to artists. The young woman, in
order to examine it closely, grabbed the bowl and proceeded to paw it as
a prospector might a bit of rock. Lawrence said afterward that had she
struck him he could not have been more shocked. He broke the engagement
that afternoon.

“Come, drink up, man!” I urged. “Stop looking as though you’d seen a
ghost.”

“Things other than ghosts can haunt one,” he answered in a pinched tone.

We ordered drinks again, with misgivings on my part, for I felt the
trembling man opposite me already had had too much. He sat slumped in
his chair, shoulders hunched forward, and stared straight before him.
Reminiscent or speculative, I could not tell.

Then he began to tell me a story that explained many things. His words
were no longer crisp; he now spoke in a heavy, monotonous way, with many
pauses, pressing his hands together in a gesture of anguish.

“The odor of that rose,” he said, “and the sight—I can’t stand the smell
of roses! Not since two summers ago. I met a Portuguese sailor on the
Wharf one day—you know—in that damn place—Land’s End. Had planned a
canvas, and all summer had been looking for a model—a type.

“A Portuguese Apollo he was—but a Portuguese devil, too. Didn’t find that
out till later. I stopped him and asked would he pose. Conceited swine!
From his smile I knew it was vanity, not industry, that made him accept.”

A venomous hate wove its way through Lawrence’s phrases. He continued:

“Well—he called at my studio—the next afternoon—and I started the
picture. He was a find. Dramatic. An inspiration.

“During the rest periods Pedro—that was his name—would lie on the floor
and talk about himself while I made tea. God! How vain he was! Boasted of
his success with women—his affairs. They were many. Quite plausible. He
spurned the Bay and its fishing, and shipped on merchant-men. The ports
of the world were his haunting ground, he said. Swashbuckling bully!”

To hear Lawrence speak so bitterly of Land’s End and one of its people
was puzzling, for the extraordinary note sounded in that small New
England town by its so-called foreign settlement, descendants of
Portuguese fishermen who came over some seventy years ago and settled
along the New England coast, had appealed strongly to his artistic
appreciation two years before. He had looked upon these natives as
gentle, lovable folk, but to me their black eyes, heavy-lidded and
drowsy, had always suggested smoldering fires, not dreams; their
excessive tranquillity I thought crafty, hinting of vendettas.

Lawrence picked up the thread of his story:

“One afternoon Pedro began talking about a Portuguese funeral in town
that day. A friend of his had died. I dislike funerals—corpses and
such—even the mention of them. Always have. Told him to shut up. Instead,
he began to tell of an interrupted funeral in Singapore he once had seen.
Spared no details. Losing patience and temper, I flung a tube of paint
which struck him on the head. He was furious. I told him I was sorry.

“‘Pedro,’ I explained, ‘ever since I can remember, things connected with
death have been the only things I’ve feared. I have never in my life
been in a cemetery—and I have never seen a dead body. Just to hear of
them brings out a cold sweat.’ Pedro laughed and said cemeteries—or dead
bodies—couldn’t hurt one.”

This phase of Lawrence’s susceptibility I had not known. And then his
pictures in Paris danced before me. What had Pedro to do with them? What
had Pedro to do with the change in my friend? But I asked no questions
lest I rouse Lawrence to a stubborn silence.

I found myself fidgeting about, peering suddenly into the crowd as if to
catch the gaze of hypnotic eyes. Once I saw the _mutilé_ standing across
the street beside a kiosk, watching Lawrence, or so I imagined, with
ferocious intensity. My _vis-a-vis_ and his emotional recoils had by that
time become agitating companions.

Yet, in truth, there was much in his surroundings to breed thoughts
of adventure, even crime. Wharf loungers and apaches were slinking
among the well-dressed shoppers who drifted down from the region above.
Fringing the port, only a hundred meters distant, were the dark, twisting
streets of a district noted for its nefarious habits and avoided by the
wary; rumors of tourists who had wandered alone at night into that abyss
of lawlessness, reappearing days later on the tide, skulls crushed and
pockets empty, were far too numerous to pass unheeded. Out beyond the
harbor the Château d’If clung to its rocks, guarding well grim secrets of
a tragic past.

       *       *       *       *       *

But to return to Lawrence.

“To blot out the Singapore funeral,” he said, “I painted quickly. Makes
me concentrate. Got so interested I stopped only on account of bad light.
Put on my hat and left the studio—with Pedro—for a walk. Fresh air
clears the brain. Must have been exhausted, for I walked along without
seeing. Just followed Pedro, I suppose. A bend in the road—and I woke
up—galvanized with terror.

“Before me stood the entrance to a graveyard. The stones bristled ghostly
in the twilight. I halted—alert.”

The stem of the glass, which Lawrence nervously had been twirling, broke,
and his unfinished cocktail spilled upon the table.

“I couldn’t go on—on through that forest of spectral marble. Pedro
continued to walk. Was some distance ahead before he noticed I had
stopped. He turned and told me to come along. I refused. He laughed—a
derisive laugh—then spit out a single word—‘_Coward!_’

“I’ve been through jungles in India. Gone deep into China where no white
man had ever been. Know Calcutta—Port Said—explored the worst slums of
the world—and I had never been called a coward before.

“‘You don’t understand, Pedro—I _can’t_, I _can’t_ go on!’ He laughed
again—like a hyena.

“‘Yes,’ Pedro said, a coward. How they will laugh—when I tell!’

“Had never been called that before—you know. I began walking
forward—slowly. My legs trembled, but I walked. Passed through the gate.

“‘That’s right,’ Pedro said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

“‘No—nothing,’ I answered, my jaws chattering.

“Then Pedro said, ‘I’m going to the grave of my friend who was buried
today and say a prayer, take a rose from his grave and dry it—to carry in
a little bag—always—for good luck. No harm comes then. _You’ll_ take a
rose, too.’

“I saw a large mound of flowers. The air was strong with perfume.
Roses.... We reached the grave. Pedro stopped, knelt down and said a
prayer. Shadows under the trees were black and the leaves rattled like
bones. I wanted to run—but I stood beside Pedro—and shivered. Pedro took
a rose from the grave and put it in his pocket. Then he took another, got
up and offered it to me.

“‘No!’ I cried, drawing away. ‘I won’t touch it!’

“Pedro said, ‘You’ve got to be cured.’ He pointed to a large flat stone
lying flat on the ground beside him, and explained:

“‘Over a hundred years ago—you can see the date when it’s light—a funny
man had this grave made. Built it like a cistern. Brick walls. Look!’ and
he slid the stone to one side. Pedro was strong.

“I refused to look. Kept my eyes on the path. A gust of wind blew my hat
against Pedro, and it fell to the ground.

“As I stooped to pick it up, he pushed me—_into the grave_!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The horror of this piece of perversity got me.

“Lawrence!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean it!”

“Yes,” he answered, in that new tone, so flat and spiritless. “I sank
into something—soft.... Pedro’s laugh sounded far away, and he closed up
the grave—with the stone.

“My throat was in a vice. Couldn’t make a sound. Tried to gather strength
for one big scream—then something somewhere in me snapped. ‘_Tsing!_’ it
went, soft and little.

“Don’t know how long I was there. It seemed an eternity. I lived on—with
the dead man—and crawling things. I don’t know. There may have been
nothing at all. At last I saw a rift above—the night sky—and Pedro
reached down to pull me out.

“When he came the next afternoon I told him I must rest for several days.
My nerves were bad. All night I lay awake—and thought—and planned. At
daybreak I fell asleep. In the afternoon I went to Boston.

“Three days later, back in Land’s End, I settled my accounts. All but
one. Told the neighbors I was leaving for New York next day. Gave
instructions to have my things packed and shipped to me there.

“Pedro came as usual in the afternoon. I worked as though nothing had
happened. He got tired and lay on the floor. I boiled some water for tea.
Very, very carefully I made that tea.

“‘What kind of tea is this?’ Pedro asked. ‘It tastes so queer.’

“‘A new kind,’ I told him.

“He drank, then lay back—asleep.

“From a shelf of etching materials I took a bottle. The liquid inside was
clear. So harmless it looked! Poured some into a cup. Filled the cup with
water, then knelt down beside the sleeping Pedro—dipped a feather into
the liquid—and painted half his handsome face. Nitric acid—bites deep....

“Pedro’s groans were silenced with a gag. More tea for rest and sleep.

“The streets that night were empty as I half carried, half dragged Pedro
to the shanty where he lived alone. I threw him on the bed and looked
without pity on his face.

“No—there was nothing—to be afraid of, I told him. But Pedro didn’t hear.

“Don Juan’s career was finished. Apollo had become repulsive. My last
debt was paid.

“I packed two bags and caught the early train. That afternoon I said
‘Good-bye’ to the islands of Boston Harbor as I steamed out for England.”

Several minutes dragged past before either of us moved.

“Come, let’s go,” was all I could find to say.

       *       *       *       *       *

I took Lawrence to his hotel and left him at the entrance with a promise
to call the following morning. Unable to keep the appointment, I went
around during the afternoon. He was not in his room and could not be
located.

Deciding to take one last look about the Old Port before leaving for
Paris that night, I strolled down the Rue Noailles, through La Cannebière
and the Quai de la Fraternité, into the Quai de Rive Neuve, where a group
of excited men were gathered at the water’s edge. As I reached the crowd
two sailors with grappling hooks were laying a dripping corpse on the
pavement. It was the body of Lawrence Bainridge.

_The right side of his face was slashed and crushed into a shapeless
mass—but the left half was untouched and fair._


Did Solomon Give Queen of Sheba an Airship?

He certainly did, according to an ancient Abyssinian manuscript, entitled
“The Glory of the Kings,” and recently translated by Sir E. Wallis Budge,
director of Egyptian antiquities in the British Museum. The manuscript
states that Solomon gave to the Queen of Sheba “a vessel wherein one
could traverse the air (or wind), which Solomon had made by the wisdom
that God had given unto him.”

“This ancient manuscript has, of course, been translated many times,”
said Col. Lockwood Marsh, secretary of the Royal Aeronautical Society,
“but the statement about Solomon’s airship apparently escaped the notice
of the reviewers, and it has been left to a flying enthusiast like myself
to discover and proclaim it. Solomon lived in the Tenth century, B. C.,
so it is quite the earliest reference to flying extant, and as such will
be added to our records.”

Theosophists, however, believe there were airships a million years ago in
lost Atlantis.




_Secrets of the Ages Were Sealed in_

_The_ FORTY JARS

_A Strange Story of the Orient_

By Ray McGillivray


The sands of Bo-hai never quite are dark.

It matters not that a blood-red, maniacal sun deserts this waste; that
sullen cloud banks close in with freezing chill of midnight. A misty,
spectral light yet emanates from the sand—quite as if stored-up heat and
light were retained by the layers of baked, anhydrous surface. At any
time sharp eyes may discern the ghostly shadow of a man who walks, even
fifty yards distant.

Mad creatures people Bo-hai, creatures that burrow deep beneath the Wall,
from Ninghia to Langchau, coming out only for orgies of the night. Any
Mongol knows that venturing alone to the salt shores of Gileshtai means
joining forever the flitting horde of Nameless Ones—for lepers, and the
shades of lepers centuries dead, owe no allegiance either to living law
or to the kindly teachings of Tao, the All-Wise.

They gibber in tongues ranging from the twanging patois of Jesaktu to
the dry gutturals of Yunnan, and take to themselves either for screaming
torture or for the slower, more horrid death of the White Dissolution,
all whom their distorted, clawing fingers may clutch.

Driven on and on before food robbers the roving, famished mountain
bands of Nan-Shan—Selwyn Roberts had come to Bo-hai. He had not wished
to come, for the excavations made by his expedition, which had proved
most absorbing, lay in the neighborhood of Kulang, forty miles to the
southwest.

Persistent attacks by the brigands of Nan-Shan—starving men who coveted
the long train of food supplies with such frenzy of desire that even
automatic rifles could not dismay them utterly—had necessitated
retreat. Roberts, heading the expedition, saw that rich (in the Chinese
conception), well-fed white men, bringing with them provisions for eight
months’ travel, could be naught save the most juicy, irresistible bait.
He decided to return to headquarters in Taiyuen, thence shipping back
what remained of his provisions as the greatest contribution to charity
his purse could afford.

On the edge of the desert this altruistic plan met defeat. The flitting,
fantastic shadows of Bo-hai accomplished by stealth and thievery what
had balked the bolder spirits of Nan-Shan. Christensen and Porterfield,
acting as sentinels, disappeared soundlessly—and with them all save a
small remnant of provisions.

There were many tracks of bare feet in the desert—bare feet that rarely
left marks of toes.... No clues pointed to the direction the captives
had been taken, unless scurrying footprints, criss-crossing the sands in
every direction, might be considered clues.

These always ended in bare stretches of shifting sand. Their story was
for the reading of a moment; next night wind and sand wiped the record
clean. Though Roberts, alone now with his diggers and coolie bearers,
attempted to trail the party which had come to his camp, the end of a
day found him withdrawing to a position in the foothills which might be
defended. The coolies, terrified into spineless, crawling things, clung
to him because he represented their only protection. His diggers, strong,
black-browed mountaineers of Shensi, gave no sign of fear. He could
depend upon their loyalty, but not upon their shooting.

For them the half-light of midnight desert was peopled with strange,
sacred shapes—_suan yi_, the giant horse, eighth of the nine offspring
of the Dragon; _kuei she t’u_, the mammoth serpent which struggles
continuously with a tortoise; these and countless others from Chinese
legend. The diggers might defend camp valiantly in daylight combat; at
night they were inclined to commend themselves to Maitreya (Buddha), and
await his dispensation with fatalistic calm.

Roberts watched, his own rifle and revolvers loaded and ready, and a
second rifle reposing before him in the midst of a dozen loaded clips of
cartridges. Sunk in a grim, terrible fit of depression at knowledge of
his comrades’ fate and his own impotence, Roberts repeated over and over
a defiance that was near a prayer.

“Let them come! Let them come! Only let me _see_ them...!” fell
soundlessly from his stiffened lips.

Without cessation, his eyes swept the semi-circle of open desert. At his
back, a curious, overhanging basalt cliff denied attack. In front of
him, and to the sides, black figures of the Chinese lay or squatted.

Christensen and Roberts, experienced delvers in Oriental antiquity,
had planned the journey. At the time they came to Kulang the crisis of
Chinese famine had not arrived. They had taken with them Porterfield,
an enthusiastic youth from the consulate at Shanghai. It was his first
trip to the interior, Roberts, secure in his own reputation, had thought
the trip—an investigation of certain definite clues regarding the old
palaces of the Yüan dynasty, and particularly dealing with the possible
identification of Kublai Khan, first emperor of the Yüans, with the
semi-mythical Prester John of mediaeval history—an excellent chance to
give a youngster whom he liked a toe-hold on fame.

To be balked by famine, and then to lose his comrade and protegé in the
leper caves of Bo-hai! Strong teeth bit into his lower lip until the
blood flowed unnoticed. Silently, Selwyn Roberts swore to himself with
immovable earnestness that he would remain. Either the three white men
would return together, or all would perish. Roberts, not in the least
sleepy, though his body was fatigued, waited with restless grimness for
the dawn of another day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bo-hai, the capricious and terrible, is not a silent waste after sundown.

With the descent of cold air from the heavens come buckling squalls of
wind, plucking pillars of sand and dust from the surface and flinging
them broadcast with a singing be-e-e-e of flying particles. Far out
behind, carried on a wind from nowhere, reverberates at times the faint,
unrhythmic banging of _boutangs_, the wailing of _jins_ and _nakra_.

And there are voices. At times a rising squeal of Chinese chant makes
itself distinct for a second but most often a low, formless murmur, as
of howling monkeys heard from a distance of miles, is the constant
undertone.

Roberts heard all these, but it was sight, not sound which absorbed him.
Flitting scarecrows from the caves might approach soundlessly over the
sand, but he did not believe they could reach him unseen.

He had not calculated upon the sand and dust. A squall came up, beating
upon the watchers with a fusillade of fine, choking particles, and
raising a screen before Roberts’ eyes. In the midst of this he heard dry
coughs. Someone was out there, approaching with the shielding sand!

Still the watcher, alternately brushing grains of sand from his nostrils
and eyes and peering along the barrel of his rifle, found no target. A
sudden notion came to him that the marauders now were inside his camp,
about to leap upon him.

He dropped the rifle, and seized two revolvers, shaking the sand and dust
out of their muzzles.

As suddenly as it had risen, the veil lifted. Roberts, peering out
eagerly, saw only a single bent, stumbling figure—a man who fell to his
knees, head almost in the sand, and tried to arise.... A snap shot from
the ready revolver stretched him flat, his breath leaving in a sharp
exhalation like air drawn from a pneumatic tire.

In that instant Roberts stiffened. From out there ten paces had come a
gasping sound. It was the wounded man, the desert rat.

“_G’bye!_” he wheezed. “_G’bye ... never come ... back ... now...._”

_The words were English!_

       *       *       *       *       *

Selwyn Roberts, waiting only to draw on heavy gloves of Llama hide, ran,
crouching, to his fallen adversary.

Catching the shrunken, bowed figure beneath the arms—arms which at biceps
gave only a pinch of flesh and bone into his grasp—he scurried back.
Then, stationing the Chinese in a semi-circle further out, so that no
marauders might enter without encountering opposition, he turned to the
fainting figure of his victim.

Screening electric torch by flaps of jacket, he looked down at the man.
He saw a yellowed, meager face, with eyes that had become long and narrow
from much squinting in the desert. The man, unconscious now, had his
head shaved except for the circle and queue usual among natives of Inner
Mongolia. Except that no sign of leprosy showed, he looked the part of a
desert exile. Tearing away his black cotton shirt, however, Roberts saw,
with a sinking heart, that the intruder’s skin was as white as his own!

Desperately, casting aside all caution in use of the flash-lamp, Roberts
worked. He found the wound, a gaping hole from soft-nosed bullet, which
lay just beneath the stretched ridge of the left clavicle. Probably
the bullet had punctured the top of the man’s lung. This was rendered
plausible by flecks of reddish foam gathering in his mouth corners.

Roberts stanched the external bleeding, and fetched whisky from his
personal pack. Forcing three tablespoonfuls of the potent fluid between
the man’s lips, he held forward the lolling tongue which would have shut
off respiration. Ten seconds later the patient squirmed, trying to sit
up. Roberts, a solicitous tyrant, held him fast.

“Not dead yet?” queried the man, ending his sentence in a ghastly cough.
“What the hell...!” He choked, spitting sidewise to the sand.

“No, you’re not dead, and you’re not going to die!” replied Roberts with
forced calmness. “Take it easy. You’re among friends.”

“Oh yes, I’ll die,” stated the man with conviction. “Where am I? Who are
you? _I Ch’ueh shih hsiang...._” His speech trailed off into a Buddhist
prayer unintelligible to Roberts.

“Never mind that now. The first thing is to make you comfortable. You are
safe. Don’t forget that. Later we can talk. I have many questions to ask
you, but the night is long.”

The slight frame shook.

“Something over six—maybe ten years. What year is this?...” His voice
seemed to fail. He lay back, occasionally coughing, but for the most part
silent.

A half hour dragged by. Roberts did nothing save inspect the wound he had
made, and occasionally give a spoonful of stimulant to the prostrate man.
The latter’s heart action was faint, but constant. Roberts knew he would
live till morning, at least.

“I have talked to myself, to the lepers’ priests, to the sands—in
English,” he said suddenly. “That’s why I remember. My name’s Bowen—Wade
Hilton Bowen. Calligraphist for the Central Historical Society. My home
was on Perry street, Montgomery, Alabama. A nice house, with barn for six
horses. Box stalls ... I have said this many times....”

“Montgomery has changed since you were there,” put in Roberts quietly.
“I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow ... tomorrow in hell!” he coughed, and then was silent again.

Roberts, bringing all his mental cohorts to bear upon the possible
relation between this queer derelict of the desert and his two
companions, made no attempt to string on the conversation.

One hour before dawn the man tried to sit up, strangled in a fit of
terrible coughing, and then fell sidewise.

“Can’t—can’t lie on my back,” he gasped. “Spine bowed. Hurts. How—how
long have I got?”

“You’ll get well,” Roberts assured him. “I’ll take care of you. Here,
try a little more whisky. I want to ask you a lot of questions when
you’re able to stand the strain.”

“_Um-m._ Good whisky. Used to like it. Forgot there was such a thing.
You’ve no notion how a man forgets....” His voice was low, rambling,
jerky. “Won’t get well, though. Hope not. They fixed me. Found out I was
immune ... you know, leprosy. They all have it. Want everybody in the
world to get it. But there are worse things....”

Coughing cut short his speech for a moment.

“Not many,” said Roberts with a shudder. “I thought you were one of them,
and so I put on gloves. They’ve captured my two comrades. What I want to
know as quickly as possible is whether you can help me rescue them. Can
you?”

“Captured two men?” repeated the other vaguely. “Shouldn’t allow it.
Better die with a nice, clean bullet. That’s the way I’m going to finish
it. You’ve got a gun. You’ll lend me just one bullet? I’m not dying fast
enough.”

His skinny hand made a weak grab for Roberts’ revolver, but the latter
shifted his holsters out of reach.

“No! I’ve got to have your help.”

“Help!” sniveled the prostrate man in bitter impotence. “Don’t you see
what I am? I’m sorry about those men. They’ll wish for quick death, but
it won’t come. Like as not they’ll be put in the leper chambers. I was
there for two years. There were six of us. All of them got it but me.
They were Chinkies and played me dirt, or I’d have made _them_ immune,
too.

“But maybe it would have been better if I’d caught it. Then they’d have
let me alone. They got jealous. Just seeing a healthy man makes ’em
crazy. Most people wouldn’t understand how mad they get. They want to
kill, but not all at once. Oh, no! Death like that is quick and sweet.
I used to be a coward about it, but not now. Just give me that gun a
minute, and I’ll show you.... _Why_ don’t you let me?” His quaver sank in
sobs and coughing.

“Mainly because I can’t stand by and see a white man kill himself. Then,
as I said, you must help me. If you haven’t got leprosy, though, I can’t
imagine why you stay here—or why you want to die. Why is it?”

A light of wild derision gleamed in Bowen’s eyes, upturned to the flash.
Seizing Roberts’ hand he drew the fingers along his bowed ridge of
backbone.

“Algae,” he gritted. “Algae from Gileshtai the Accursed. Puncture, you
know. Scum grows in the spinal fluid. Every month I stoop more and more.
The pain, you know. Now when I run I am bent like a question mark. Oh,
I tried to escape a dozen times. Always they caught me. Couldn’t travel
far or fast, you see. And no food to take. They—they did this. They are
clever. _Damned_ clever!”

Roberts had no answer for this. He was chilled with horror. Such
practices had come to his ears as whispered rumors, yet he had not
believed. That his big, silent comrade Christensen, and the youth
Porterfield, were this minute in the hands of the devils of the caves,
perhaps suffering as Bowen had suffered, and certainly absorbing the
awful, infectious dampness of the subterranean passages, undermined
his nerve as no certainty of instant destruction could have done. He
shuddered.

“See here, Bowen!” he cried. “We _must_ get them out! You know the way.
It will be terrible suffering for you, but you are a man—a _white_ man!
Even if it costs the life you do not value you must give these men their
chance. I will have two of the diggers support you....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of his intense earnestness caught hold in Bowen’s dulled brain.

“You’re right,” he mumbled. “White men ... like you and me. Yes, we can
get them out, I think, but not yet. Wait till the sun rises. Then all the
_Yengi_ are below ground. They have no firearms. By quick attack through
the Wall corridor ... yes, we should succeed. But then? Do you know your
peril in venturing, even for a moment, below ground?”

“My peril matters not!”

Bowen nodded slowly.

“You are brave,” he mumbled. “But perhaps you have not seen them ... the
Yengi?”

“I can imagine,” cut in Roberts shortly. “How many of them are there?”

“Hundreds. One never knows exactly. They are sent each week. Some die, of
course, but most live on and on....”

“Can you shoot?”

Bowen grimaced.

“I used to,” he answered. “I’ll _have_ to, now. Each of us will take as
many guns as he can stow away. And plenty of ammunition. Enough so we can
give arms to your friends. Merely reaching them will be simple enough.
That will not finish it, though. We must go on.”

“Fight our way out, you mean?”

“Oh yes, that of course. But first fight our way further _in_! It would
not do simply to escape.”

“Why not?”

Bowen grinned wryly. He fumbled in a hidden pocket, coming out with a
flat bit of green stone oddly carved with interlaced dragons—a jade
pendant.

“Know anything about this?” he asked.

The light of dawn was not yet sufficient. Roberts turned on the flash
again. Then he nodded shortly.

“Interesting,” he said. “A jade, probably of the fourteenth century,
the Yüan dynasty. A week ago I was searching for things like that, but
now....”

Bowen leaned forward, raising himself to a sitting position.

“Look!” he cried, his voice squeaking into a cough. A touch of his
tapered finger nail had caused the pendant to fall into two halves. There
before Roberts lay a tiny roll of tinted silk upon which vertical rows of
black ideographs were revealed.

Roberts removed the silk carefully, spreading it across his knee.

“The key to one of the treasure caches of Kublai Khan!” shrilled Bowen.
“It’s mine. I found it. By using it, I managed to keep clean of body. It
is the only hope for your friends—and you, if you venture in!”

Silently, and with a growing intensity of interest, Roberts deciphered
the characters. The colophon furnished simple, straightforward
directions, yet the tale it told was unbelievable.

“A—a _cure_?” he stammered shakily.

“Yes—or at least a preventive. _I_ can answer for that.”

“And is there plenty?”

Bowen cackled, raucous froth appearing on his lips.

“Forty jars!” he retorted. “Each jar with eight panels, and holding about
a peck. Treasure, indeed! On those panels is carved the history of the
reign of Kublai Khan!”

Roberts was on his feet.

“Let’s start!” he commanded, his voice shaking with anticipation of high,
terrible adventure. “There is the rim of the sun! Take one last drink of
the whisky, Bowen....”

       *       *       *       *       *

All of the Chinese save two were left behind. This pair, stolid, fat,
over-muscled giants who had been with Roberts for years, made a chair
of their hands, and carried Bowen back across the rim of desert toward
the Great Wall. All four of the men bristled with weapons, and had their
pockets crammed with loaded clips.

To Roberts’ surprise, Bowen directed the course of the journey back to
the east, in the direction of Dadchin.

“Three corridors run the length of the wall in this section,” he
explained. “One corridor is not known to the _Yengi_.... It is how I got
among them first....”

Over tumbled ruins of wall climbed the four. At a black aperture,
scarcely wide enough to permit the passing of a heavy man, Bowen signaled.

“Hang and drop,” he commanded, speaking in a whisper. “The corridor floor
is eight feet down. I know a better way to climb, but, going in, it is
simpler to drop....”

From the black slit an odor rose which made Roberts stiffen. He had
caught a faint suggestion of it from Bowen’s clothes, but now it came to
him, fetid and strong—a scent of rank, damp decay.

He snatched one last breath of desert air, knelt, swung himself down into
space, and let go. As Bowen had said, the drop was short, but Roberts, in
the dark, fell sidewise to the slimy bricks of the passage.

In a second he was up, shrinking involuntarily from the contact. When
Bowen was lowered from the slit of light, Roberts caught him and set him
down carefully. The Chinese did not follow.

“I told them to wait there,” Bowen whispered. “They’d be useless down
here. There’s no sense in spoiling two brave boys.”

“But can you make it?”

“Yes, if I don’t have to cough. When we get in the third passage it won’t
matter. No one is there. Come on. Hold to this rag....” He placed a shred
of his tattered blouse in Roberts’ palm, plunging immediately into the
blackness.

Roberts, stumbling blindly after—recoiling from each touch of the
horrid, oozing walls—ran on tip-toe in order to match the silence of his
barefooted guide.

They passed spots of light. These showed openings to right or
left—openings to chambers lighted with flickering flames of green or
yellow. Once Roberts looked, his flesh acrawl with morbid curiosity. He
saw within the place three sprawling things of rags and decay, things
which did not—perhaps _could_ not—move. Thereafter he kept his eyes
averted, and clenched one fist about the solid butt of his revolver.

After perhaps ten minutes of travel, Bowen, wheezing audibly now, bent
forward in a silent convulsion which brought blood to his lips. Only at
the last did he make a noise. Then a gasping inhalation was not to be
controlled.

A second later he crowded back against Roberts, crouching at the side of
the passage. A leap ... a dulled groan.... Bowen had brought down the
butt of one of his borrowed revolvers upon the skull of a newcomer whom
Roberts had neither seen nor heard!

A moment later they squeezed through another narrow opening, descended
a flight of block stairs, and were in another corridor—one much more
populous than the upper, to judge from the sounds. Roberts heard the
subdued chattering of many voices. Here faint light showed.

Bowen led on hurriedly. At a point indistinguishable from the rest of the
wall, so far as Roberts was concerned, he pushed inward a block of stone,
which went to the horizontal, immediately swinging back when they had
passed.

“Now we’re all right for a minute....” began Bowen. His long-repressed
coughing attacked him then and he surrendered to it for the time. “Lungs
... filling up ... won’t last long....” he gasped then. “This corridor
... no way out ... get back in the other, if I am not ... with ...
you....”

“We’ll manage _that_; don’t you worry!” answered Roberts. “Lead me first
to those two men. After that, the Buddha.... I feel unclean already!”

Bowen incomprehensibly laughed at that—a shrill giggle, half-hysterical.
But he led on, of a sudden turning, squeezing through to the second
corridor again, and then, without warning bringing up two automatics. Two
streams of fire ... four shots....

“Got ’em all!” he shrilled, laughing. “Come quick now!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Roberts found himself dragged forward at a half-run.

Again Bowen’s two guns spoke. This time, in the light of flashes, Roberts
saw two crouching things succumb. Through a black doorway they plunged.
Then a faint light from a single insufficient wick lighted a chamber
perhaps twenty by ten feet in size. Chained, backs outward, Porterfield
and Christensen were spread-eagled against the fetid, oozing wall!

They were stripped to the waist. Across their white backs, greenish
now in the light of the floating wick, were the red criss-crosses of
flagellations.

“Thank God you’ve come!” cried the usually silent Christensen, as Roberts
shot away the rusted chains binding his arms and ankles to the wall.
“This place ... do you know what it is?”

“All about it!” answered Roberts, succinctly. “Here, take these!” He
handed a brace of revolvers and a handful of clips to his Norwegian
comrade.

Then he turned to Porterfield. Four explosions, and a series of wrenches
set free the boy, who did not wait to have the dangling shackles shot off
his wrists and ankles.

Bowen, stationed at the entrance, was shooting now. A gathering handful
of _Yengi_ crowded in the passage. These threw lances, or cut at the
defending figure with knives that were long, keen and curved.

Bowen was unharmed, however, except for scratches. His revolvers had
kept him out of serious danger. He seemed to take an inhuman delight in
snapping away at every figure of a Chinaman that showed itself. When all
had fallen between him and the turn of corridor, he still fired away.
Before the four left, he had to reload all four of his revolvers.

Bowen and Roberts left in the van, Christensen and Porterfield were given
the job of protecting the rear. The four hurried down the corridor,
occasionally stopping for a second to pump out a shot or two at some
unsuspecting, hurrying figure.

Throughout the underground corridors weird shouts resounded. Cries in a
tongue that even Roberts could not translate called for reinforcements
from the chambers. Somewhere an eerie gong clanged its resonance.

The four pushed on, led forward by Bowen, who seemed to have reached
an exhilaration which thought nothing of wounds. His bent figure now
was wracked by continual coughing, but he paid no attention, gasping
in sufficient breath somehow. Each five or six yards Christensen and
Porterfield paused, to throw backward a fusillade at the gathering throng
of maniacs.

They reached a triple fork in the passage. Without hesitation, Bowen
chose the center one, which led on a gradual slant downward. Fifty paces
further a brocaded curtain shut the passage. Here the light was bright
from many swimming wicks set in the side wall.

“Straight in!” cried Bowen, and flung himself upon the curtain. As his
fingers clutched the cloth to pull it aside, a long keen blade reached
out, puncturing his side in a swift flash.

“Ah-h!” he cried. “The priests! Kill them!”

He stumbled, and in falling, brought down the heavy weight of the
curtain across his body. Through the aperture eight wizened specimens,
flourishing drawn swords, charged the invaders.

       *       *       *       *       *

Roberts backed away, firing. From the floor, however, came the streams of
fire which dropped three of the priests.

“They’re the ones who fixed _me_!” shrilled Bowen, firing as fast as his
fingers could pull triggers.

The last toppled. The doorway was clear.

“You’ll—you’ll have to drag me.... I’m done....” Bowen continued, his
voice suddenly weakening. “I’ll show you....”

Roberts stooped, picking up the slight figure as he might have lifted a
tumbled chair, and darted inside the last chamber.

Here he stopped a split second in open-mouthed amazement. He had expected
a statue of Buddha. The colophon was explicit. Yet what a statue! From
the wide base to the top of the broad forehead was at least fifty feet!
The altar, surrounded by fire at the base, though itself the height of a
man, seemed a puny thing.

“Hold the doorway!” cried Roberts to his two rescued companions. “Now,
Bowen....”

But there was no need to ask the derelict. Reeling forward out of
Roberts’ arms, he pointed to a knob seven feet from the floor. “Turn ...
turn that ... and press here ... and here!” he gasped, choking.

Roberts obeyed. A second later he was scrambling up to force further
open a slab which swung creakingly. Perched there on the slab to hold it
open—it was weighted, and after the initial swing of opening, began to
close—he glanced inward. There, stacked before him, were tiers and tiers
of the eight-paneled jars that Bowen had mentioned. One, as if it had
been opened, stood on the floor of the storage chamber. He seized it,
finding it heavy in his hands, and leaped down.

Bowen clawed off the cover, reached in, and came forth with three
greenish, soft masses clutched in his skinny fingers.

“The eggs!” he cried. “Seven hundred years old! Make ... make each of
them eat one right away! We’ll have a hard time....” He choked, flinging
a thin, trembling arm in the direction of Christensen and Porterfield,
who were having their hands full at the doorway.

Roberts seized his own weapons, ran up, and in terse sentences explained
the situation.

“A ... a _cure_?” cried Porterfield, incredulously.

“Bowen says so. Try them, anyway. Eat one apiece. I’ll hold the door.
_Hm!_”

The last was an exclamation of pain. A thrown knife had sliced a six-inch
cut just above his knee. He fired, conserving bullets now, for down
the corridor as far as he could see the _Yengi_ had banked themselves.
Already a breastwork of Chinese bodies was growing in front of the
chamber entrance.

Behind him, Porterfield sputtered over swallowing his portion.

“Awful taste!” he cried, grimacing.

“They’re treated with something,” answered Christensen, wiping his lips
and leaping to Roberts’ side with one of the ancient eggs.

Roberts stuffed half of the greenish mass into his mouth, swallowing it
whole. The taste was not altogether unpleasant, yet acrid. As he fired on
and on, emptying one after another of the revolvers, he caught himself
wondering how long it had taken for the shells of those eggs to become
resorbed.... He ate the rest.

The fight was hopeless from the first. Though few bullets missed a
human target—the narrow corridor was jammed with yammering, horrid
humanity—and little damage could be accomplished by any of the _Yengi_
at first, the inexorable pressure began to tell. Christensen, cursing in
Scandinavian, plucked a lance from his shoulder. Later he dropped like a
stone. The thin hilt of a knife quivered in the socket of his right eye.

Bowen, dragging himself to the entrance, diagnosed the reason.

“We’re desecrating their shrine!” he yelled. “In a way, I don’t blame
them.... They’re.... They’re....” Coughs ended his sentence.

And then, catching up the eight-paneled jar, and begging from Roberts
the silk colophon, he threw his mangled body out before the breastwork
of dead Chinese. High and shrill rose his voice, a fast, excited jabber
which Roberts could not decipher. It continued....

“Stop shooting!” Bowen flung back over his shoulder. The white men were
glad to obey. Their ammunition almost was spent. Strangely enough, the
_Yengi_ of the front rank lowered their weapons. They turned, jabbering
excitedly to others. Bowen flung out to them the square of ideographed
silk.

“It—it’s your only hope, my brothers!” gasped Bowen. “Take one jar—if you
will....”

At this he pitched forward, clawing with his hands at the body of one of
the _Yengi_. Roberts saw that the dead Chinese had leather pads in place
of hands at the end of his wrists....

       *       *       *       *       *

With the melting away of the horde of _Yengi_, Roberts—bearing Bowen, who
was unconscious part of the time—and Porterfield found a way out. At the
surface they saw full two hundred of the lepers, yet none of the latter
moved to attack. The instant the white men left the opening, the _Yengi_
fought in swarms to return.

“I told them ... cure.... Maybe it is ... maybe not ...” gasped Bowen. He
shuddered and lay still. Roberts held a dead man in his arms.

Nevertheless he stalked on to the place where the two Chinese had been
left. Then he relinquished his burden. Porterfield gave over to him the
eight-paneled jar which represented the whole of their achievement.

“On the way back each of us will eat a dozen of these eggs,” stated
Roberts. “Bowen may be wrong, but I believe what he said. Those old
emperors knew....”

At the camp Porterfield collapsed, sobbing. The full horror of what he
had experienced had begun to seep down to his consciousness. Roberts
cared for him.

“Then I take it you won’t be with me—when I go back?”

Porterfield roused himself. “Go back?” he cried. “I would not go back for
all the wealth of the Indies! You don’t mean to say...?”

“I do,” answered Roberts grimly. “Within six months. Men may live or die,
but history must be written. The _Yengi_ may not have smashed _all_ of
those forty jars....”




THE WISH

An Odd Fragment of Fiction

By MYRTLE LEVY GAYLORD


Burned and scarred by the hot breath of passion and the deep wounds of
life, the mother took the newborn girl-child, Leonore, to her breast for
the first time. She trembled with joy and pain at the touch of the greedy
little lips.

Presently the woman and the child at her breast slept. The mother dreamed
that out of a black sky a silver fairy appeared in a cloud of light.

“One wish, one wish only, for the newborn,” the fairy offered.

The mother, clutching the child closer to her, trembled and choked, and
it seemed that she would not be able to answer. Finally words came, as if
involuntarily:

“That she may not feel, that she may not suffer, that passion, love that
scorches and does not warm, may never touch her!”

The fairy smiled a faint, far smile and inscribed a circle with her
star-tipped wand.

“It is well,” said she.

The cloud of light faded into a black sky. The child stirred, and the
mother awoke, her heart aching, she knew not why.

       *       *       *       *       *

Leonore, the woman, was tall, pale and exceptionally beautiful. She gazed
out of clear, gray eyes that had lost the wonder of childhood without
ever gaining the warmth of womanhood.

She passed through life as one in a dream. She saw much, she understood
much, but when, in those intense moments that sometimes come, the quick
tears of sympathy and love sprang to the eyes of those about her, her
heart would seem a thing of stone. She knew that she _should_ weep, but
she could not. Then she would whisper to herself:

“Tears are not real. No one really feels. They just pretend.”

Donald, the young poet, loved her suddenly, burningly, gloriously. He
looked into her cool gray eyes and swore to himself that in their depths
slumbered the answer to all life.

He wooed her passionately, beseechingly, and in vain. He laid bare to her
all that aching beauty that was his soul. She smiled vaguely, detached as
a pine tree outlined against the evening sky....

They dragged him from the little pond behind the house. He lay among the
flowers, still and beautiful, with the fire that had burned so painfully
forever extinguished.

There were tears in the eyes of those who had gathered around him in the
great, gray room, tears in the eyes of all save Leonore. Leonore looked
at the waxen face and thought only that it was beautiful. She did not
weep.

“How cruel,” she heard them whisper. “It was for love of Leonore, and she
is a stone. She does not feel.”

For many days she struggled with this thought. She did not feel. How
could she feel? She began to look for misery that she might weep. She
went to the funeral of a child who had died at its mother’s breast. But
neither the child in the little white casket, nor the mother, with her
streaming hair and wild eyes, could bring tears to Leonore.

One night she sat before the fireplace in her bedroom, staring at the
flames. The flickering light fascinated her. For a long time she sat
motionless, watching it.

Then, out of the glowing heart of the fire, Donald spoke to her:

“Leonore, you _can_ feel, but you will not.”

She shook her head sadly. “I can not—I _can not_.”

“The fire—feel!” he cried. “Surely you can feel the fire. Try!”

Obediently, she placed her slim, white hand into the flames.

“You feel? Now you _do_ feel?” he begged her.

“No,” she whispered. “No!”

“You are not a woman,” he gasped. “Ice water, not blood, flows in your
veins. See,” he pointed to a keen-edged paper knife that lay gleaming on
the table.

Obediently, she reached for the knife, and with steady fingers she cut
the artery at her wrist. Donald faded back into the flames....

When they found her in the morning they knew that she had sought death,
but they could not understand why she had burned her left hand so cruelly.

[Illustration]




_Death and Terror Are Spread Broadcast by the Icy Breath of_

The WHISPERING THING

By Laurie McClintock and Culpeper Chunn


_CHAPTER I._

THE THING STRIKES.

Jules Peret, known to the underworld as The Terrible Frog, hated the
foul air in crowded street cars and the “stuffiness” of a taxicab, and,
whenever possible, he avoided both.

Hence, having nothing in view that demanded haste, after leaving police
headquarters, he had, in spite of the lateness of the hour, elected to
make the journey home on foot. He had not gone very far, however, before
he began to wish that he had chosen some other mode of traveling, for
he had scarcely ever seen such a gloomy night. It was January, and the
atmosphere was of that uncertain temperature that is best described as
raw. The darkness was Stygian. A fine mist was falling from the starless
skies, and a thick grayish-yellow fog enwrapped the city like a wet
blanket.

The chimes in a church steeple, two blocks farther on, had just struck
the hour of ten, and except for Peret and one other wayfarer, who had
paused in the sickly glare of the corner lamp to light a cigarette, the
street was deserted.

“A fine night for a murder!” muttered Peret to himself, as, with head
lowered, he plowed his way through the fog. “_Diable!_ I must find a
taxi.”

With this thought in mind, he was about to quicken his pace when,
instead, he jerked himself to an abrupt halt and stood in an attitude
of listening, as the tomblike silence was suddenly broken by a hoarse
scream, and, almost immediately afterward, a cry of agony and terror:

“Help! help! I’m dying!”

The cry, though muffled, was loud enough to reach the alert ears of
Peret. It appeared to come from a tall, gloomy-looking building on the
right side of the street. By no means certain of this, however, Peret
crouched behind a tree and strained his ears to catch the sound should it
be repeated.

But no cry came. Instead, there was a terrific crash of breaking glass,
and Peret twisted his head around just in time to see a man hurl himself
through the leaded sash of one of the lower windows of the house and fall
to the pavement with a thud and a groan.

A moment later Peret was by his side. Whipping out a small flashlight, he
directed the little disc of light on the man’s face.

“_Nom d’un nom!_” he cried. “It is M. Max Berjet. What is the matter, my
friend? Are you drunk? Ill? _Sacre nom!_ Speak quickly, while you can.
What ails you?”

The man rolled from side to side, convulsively, and tore at the air with
clawlike hands. To Peret, he seemed to be grappling with an invisible
antagonist that was slowly crushing his life out. His face was blue and
horribly distorted: his breath was coming in short, jerky gasps.

Suddenly his tensed muscles relaxed and he lay still. Unable to speak, he
could only lift his eyes to Peret’s in desperate appeal.

“_Dame!_ You are a sick man, my friend,” observed Peret, feeling the
man’s pulse. “I will run for a physician. But tell me quickly what
happened to you, _Monsieur_.”

There was an almost imperceptible movement of the dying man’s
froth-rimmed lips, and Peret held his head nearer.

“Now, speak, my friend,” he entreated. “I am Jules Peret. You know me,
eh? Tell me what is the matter with you. Were you attacked?”

“As-sas-sins,” gasped the stricken man faintly.

“What?” cried Peret, excitedly. “Assassins?”

The look in Berjet’s eyes was eloquent.

“Who are they?” pleaded the detective. “Tell me their names, _Monsieur_,
before it is too late. I will avenge you. I promise you. I swear it.
Quickly, _Monsieur, their names_—”

Berjet murmured something in a voice almost too faint to be audible.

“_Dix?_” questioned Peret, straining to catch the man’s words. “You mean
ten, eh?”

With his glazing eyes fixed on the detective, Berjet made a desperate
effort to reply, but the effort was in vain. The ghost of a sigh escaped
from his lips, a slight tremor shook his frame, and, with a gurgling
sound in his throat, he died.

“_Peste!_ What did he mean by that?” muttered Peret, getting to his feet.
(_Dix_ is the French word for “ten”.) “Did he mean he was attacked by
ten assassins? The devil! It does not take an army to kill a single man.”

“What’s the matter, old chap?” It was the pedestrian whom Peret had
observed lighting a cigarette near the corner lamp a few minutes
previously. “The old boy looks as if he had had a shot of bootlegger’s
private stock.”

“He has been murdered,” returned Peret shortly, after giving the man a
keen scrutiny. Then: “Be so kind as to run to the drug store across the
street and ask the druggist to send for a physician. Also request him to
notify police headquarters that a murder has been committed. Have the
notification sent in the name of Jules Peret. Hurry, my friend!”

Without waiting to reply, the man spun on his heel and dashed across the
street. Dropping to his knees again, Peret made a hasty but thorough
search of the dead man’s clothing, but beyond a few stray coins in
the pockets of his trousers, found nothing. As he was finishing his
examination, the stranger returned, accompanied by the druggist and a
physician who had chanced to be in the drug store.

Peret rose to his feet and stepped back to make room for the doctor.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Dr. Sprague, a large, swarthy-faced man with
a gray Vandyke beard.

“Murder, I’m afraid,” replied Peret, pointing at Berjet’s motionless body.

Dr. Sprague bent over the inert form of the scientist and made a brief
examination.

“Yes,” he said gravely, “he is beyond human aid.”

“He is dead?”

“Quite.”

“Can you tell me what caused his death?”

“I cannot be positive,” replied the physician, “but he bears all the
outward symptoms of asphyxiation.”

“Asphyxiation?” repeated Peret incredulously.

“Yes.”

Peret’s skepticism was written plainly on his face.

“But that is at variance with the dead man’s last words. I was with M.
Berjet when he died and there was certainly nothing in his actions to
suggest asphyxiation. However—” He exhibited his card. “I am Jules Peret,
a detective. The man that you have just pronounced dead is Max Berjet,
the eminent French scientist. If he was murdered—and I have reason to
believe that he was—the murderer has not yet had time to escape, as M.
Berjet has been dead less than two minutes. It is possible, therefore,
that I can apprehend the assassin if I act at once. Can you stay here
with the body pending the arrival of the police?”

Dr. Sprague glanced at the detective’s card and nodded, whereupon Peret,
with a single bound, cleared the iron fence that inclosed the little yard
in front of Berjet’s house. As he landed, feet first, on the lawn, he
heard Dr. Sprague give a piercing scream.

So startled was he by the unexpectedness of it that he lost his footing
and fell forward on his face. Leaping to his feet, he whirled around and
directed the beam from his flashlight on the physician.

Dr. Sprague, with his hands clawing the air in front of him, appeared to
be grappling with an invisible _something_ that was rapidly getting the
best of him. His lips were drawn back in a snarl: his eyes seemed as if
they were about to pop from his head, and bloody froth had begun to ooze
between his clenched teeth and run from the corners of his mouth.

As Peret was preparing to leap back over the fence, he heard a terrible
scream issue from the throat of the unknown pedestrian, and saw him throw
up his arms as if to ward off a blow. Then the man reeled back against
the fence and began to struggle desperately with something that Peret
could not see.

Whipping out his automatic, the detective again vaulted the fence, but
before he could reach either of them, both Dr. Sprague and the pedestrian
crashed to the pavement, the first dead, the second still fighting for
his life.


_CHAPTER II._

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.

Although the moment was obviously one that demanded caution, Jules Peret
was never the man to hesitate in the face of an unknown danger.

He realized that he was in the presence of some terrible invisible thing
that might strike him down at any moment, but, as he had no idea what
that thing was and could not hope to cope with it until it attacked him
or in some manner made itself manifest, he dismissed it from his mind
for the moment and turned his attention to the two men who had gone down
before its onslaught.

Kneeling beside Dr. Sprague’s prostrate form, he bent over and peered in
the physician’s face. One look at the horribly distorted features and the
glassy eyes that stared into his own told him that the man was dead.

Turning now from the dead to the living, Peret jumped to his feet and
ran to help the pedestrian who, with the help of the terrified little
druggist, was in the act of staggering to his feet. Although the
druggist’s teeth were chattering with fear, his first thought seemed to
be for the sufferer, and he helped Peret support the man, too weak to
stand unaided, when he reeled back against the fence.

Choking, gasping, spitting, the pedestrian fought manfully to regain his
breath. His face was purple with congested blood, and his glazed eyes
were bulging. Great beads of sweat poured from his forehead and mingling
with the froth that oozed from between his lips, flecked his face as he
twisted his head from side to side in agony.

“What is the matter with you?” shouted Peret. “Speak! I want to help you.”

The stricken man made a violent effort to throw off the invisible horror
that had him in its clutches. Then the muscles of his body relaxed, and
he ceased to struggle. Drawing in a deep breath of air, he expelled it
with a sharp whistling sound. Then, exhausted, he shook off Peret’s hand,
and sank down on the pavement in a sitting posture.

“_Sacrebleu!_” yelled Peret. “Speak to me, my friend, so I can avenge
you! One little word is all I ask. _What attacked you?_”

“I—I don’t know,” the man gasped. “It—It was something I could not see!
It was a monster—an invisible monster. It whispered in my ear, and then
it began to choke me. Oh, God—.”

His head fell forward; he began to sob weakly.

“An invisible monster,” repeated Peret, staring at the man curiously.
“What do you mean by that?”

Before the man could reply, the police patrol-wagon swung around the
corner and, with a clang of the bell, drew up to the curb. Detective
Sergeant Strange of the homicide squad and two subordinates leaped to the
sidewalk and approached the Frenchman.

“Well?” demanded Strange, with characteristic brevity.

“Murder,” returned Peret, with equal conciseness, and nodded at the two
bodies on the pavement.

“How?” Strange shot out.

“I don’t know,” replied Peret. “As I was passing the house ten minutes
ago, Max Berjet, the man on your left, hurled himself through the
window, cried out that he had been attacked by ten assassins, and died
immediately afterward. After summoning a physician, I started to enter
the house to investigate, and heard the doctor scream. When I turned I
saw Dr. Sprague and this man”—pointing to the pedestrian—“struggling in
the grasp of something I could not see. Before I could reach them, the
two men fell to the pavement. Dr. Sprague died almost instantly; this
other man, as you see, is recovering. He has just informed me that he was
attacked by an invisible monster.”

Strange’s bellicose features twisted into a grin.

“An invisible monster, eh? Well, it had better stay invisible if it’s
still sticking around.” He whirled about, and to the patrolman: “I want
all available men here on the jump, Bill. Call the coroner at the same
time. O’Shane”—to one of the plainclothes men who accompanied him—“watch
the front of that house and keep an eye on these bodies until the coroner
comes. Mike, take care of the back of the house, and,” he added with a
grim humor, “keep your eye peeled for an ‘invisible monster’.”

Strange turned once more to the Frenchman.

“You’re sure these two men are dead, Peret?”

“They will never be any deader,” replied Peret shortly.

“All right—Who is that man?”—pointing over his shoulder at the druggist.

“I am the proprietor of the drug store across the street,” spoke up the
druggist. “I ran over with Dr. Sprague, who happened to be in the store
when this gentleman summoned assistance.”

Strange nodded.

“I may have to hold you as a witness,” was his curt reply. “Stick around
until I can find time to question you. Now Peret, before we enter
the house, spill the details. What do you know about this ‘invisible
monster’?”

“Little more than I have already told you,” answered Peret, and launched
into a detailed recital of his harrowing experience.

Although Detective Strange was a man difficult to surprise, he made no
effort to conceal his astonishment when Peret brought his story to an end.

“You say Dr. Sprague and this other man were seized by the Thing when
your back was turned?” he questioned.

“_Oui_; as I was leaping over the fence,” nodded Peret, “I heard Dr.
Sprague scream just as I landed on the ground. When I turned to see what
was the matter, both he and the other man appeared to be struggling with
some invisible antagonist. Before I could reach them, both men fell to
the ground. Sprague was apparently dead before he fell. The other man,
after a struggle, threw off the Thing—whatever it was or is.”

“Didn’t you see anything at all?” demanded Strange.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Hear anything?”

“No. But that man”—jerking his thumb at the pedestrian—“said he heard the
Thing whisper.”

“I also heard the Thing whisper,” interposed the druggist, a small,
bald-headed individual with a cataract over one of his eyes. Still
in a state of nervous apprehension, he had edged up close to the two
detectives as if seeking their protection. “I was talking to Dr. Sprague
when he was attacked,” he continued, darting furtive glances over his
shoulder from time to time. “An instant before he screamed I heard a—a
whispering sound.”

Peret’s eyes shone with interest.

“It’s strange that I did not hear this sound,” he muttered, half to
himself. “Just what, exactly, do you mean by a whispering sound,
_Monsieur?_”

“I scarcely know,” replied the druggist, after a moment’s thought. “It
was a whisper—nothing that I could understand. Just an inarticulate
_whisper_. I had hardly heard it when Sprague screamed and began to
struggle.”

“Whence did the whisper emanate, _Monsieur_?” queried Peret eagerly.

“I do not know.”

“You _saw_ nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“’S damn funny,” growled Strange, scratching his ear. “An ‘invisible
monster’ that whispers is a new one on me.” He looked at the Frenchman,
perplexedly. “Queer business, Peret.”

“It is,” agreed Peret; then whirled around to confront the pedestrian.
“Ah, _Monsieur_, perhaps you can help us a little, eh? How are you
feeling now?”

“Considerably better,” returned the other in a hoarse voice, and then
added, “But I don’t believe I’ll ever recover from the shock. What in
God’s name was it, anyway?”

He was a tall, heavy-set man with glittering black eyes, a close-cropped
mustache and, though his features were irregular, had rather a handsome
countenance. Although deathly pale and still a little shaken, he seemed
to have himself pretty well in hand.

Strange looked at him shrewdly.

“What’s your name?” he asked, taking out his notebook.

“Albert Deweese,” replied the man. “I am an artist and have a studio in
the next block. I was on my way home when I heard the crash of breaking
glass as Mr. Berjet jumped through the window-sash. Naturally, I ran back
to find out what the trouble was.”

Strange made a note and nodded.

“What attacked you?” he suddenly shot out.

“I don’t know,” replied Deweese. “The Thing, whatever it was, was
invisible. I _felt_ it, God knows, but did not _see_ it.”

“But you must have some idea of what the Thing was,” Strange insisted.
“Was it a man, or an animal, or—?”

Deweese shook his head slowly.

“I have said that I do not know,” was his emphatic reply, “and I do
not. How _could_ I, when I did not see it? It was large, powerful and
ferocious, but whether it was an animal of some kind, or a demon out of
hell, I do not know.”

“Perhaps your ears served you better than your eyes?” said Strange. “Did
you hear the Thing when it leaped upon you?”

“I did,” replied Deweese, with a shudder. “At almost the very instant
that it attacked me I heard it whisper.”

“_Eh, bien, Monsieur_,” cried Peret, “and what did it say to you?”

“It did not say anything intelligible,” was Deweese’s disappointing
reply. “It just whispered.”

Strange and Peret looked at each other in silence. The Frenchman shrugged
his shoulders, and exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. Strange took a
hitch in his trousers, and his face became stern.

“All right,” he said curtly to Deweese. “Stick around till the coroner
comes. I want to question you and this other man further, a little later
on.”

He gave an order to O’Shane, who was standing a little distance away with
his eyes glued on the front of Berjet’s house, then turned to Peret.

“I’m going in,” he growled, and drew his revolver.

The Frenchman threw his cigarette on the pavement, drew his own
automatic, and, opening the front gate, ran across the little yard.
Followed by Strange and Deweese, who asked and obtained permission to
accompany them, Peret buttoned his coat around his frail body, got a
firm grip on the window ledge and, with the agility of a monkey, climbed
through the broken sash of the window through which Berjet had projected
himself.

The room in which the detectives found themselves had evidently been the
scientist’s sitting room. It was simply but comfortably furnished and
was quite masculine in character. The walls were lined with well-filled
book shelves, and in the center of the room was a large table, littered
with a miscellany of papers, pamphlets, pipes, burnt matches and tobacco
ashes. On the carpeted floor near the table lay an open book, the leaves
of which were rumpled and torn. Except for this, the room was in perfect
order.

“No signs of gas anywhere,” said Strange, audibly sniffing the air. “The
asphyxiation theory of Dr. Sprague’s is a dud, in my opinion.”

Peret, who had begun to make an inspection of the room, did not reply.
Strange continued his investigation, while Deweese stood near the window
looking on.

The result of Peret’s examination, which, while brief, was more or
less thorough, annoyed and confounded him. The detective sergeant also
appeared to be puzzled. The Frenchman was the first to give expression to
his thoughts.

“The three doors and the four windows in this room, sergeant, are _locked
on the inside_,” he remarked, as Strange paused for a moment to look at
him with questioning eyes. “The key to that door on the far side of the
room, and which I am sure is the door of a closet, is missing, but the
other keys are in the locks. The windows, moreover, are, as you have no
doubt observed, fastened with a form of mechanism that could not possibly
have been sprung from the outside. Yet Berjet said he was attacked by ten
assassins!”

“The point that you are trying to make, I take it,” Strange grunted, “is
that the broken window is the only means of egress from the room.”

“Your penetration is remarkable,” snapped Peret, who always became
irritated when baffled.

“It’s the devil’s own work,” commented Deweese, who had been watching
the movements of the two detectives with keen interest. “Certainly there
was nothing human about the Thing that attacked me, and I imagine that
Berjet’s death can be laid at the door of the same agency.”

Peret flung himself into a chair and lit a cigarette.

“Any way you look at the thing, it seems preposterous,” he said
reflectively. “The ‘invisible monster’ theory is too absurd for serious
consideration, and the other theories that have been advanced do not
stand up in the presence of the facts. However, let us consider. We will
assume that Berjet was, as he said, attacked by ten men. _Eh! bien!_ How
did they get out of the room? All of the exits are locked on the inside,
as you see.

“There is a small transom over that door opening onto the hall, it is
true, but it is not large enough for a child to crawl through, much less
a man. Dr. Sprague seemed to think that Berjet was asphyxiated. Yet this
room, as you yourself observed when we entered it, sergeant, contained
not the slightest trace of any kind of gas. As a matter of fact, the room
is lighted by electricity. What are we to conclude from these premises?
That the poison fumes, assuming that poison fumes were the cause of
Berjet’s death, were administered by human hands? If so, oblige me, my
friend, by telling me how the owner of those hands got out of the room?”

“Well, if the murderers were invisible, and they were, if the testimony
of you and Deweese counts for anything,” rejoined Strange, “they might
have followed Berjet through the window without having been observed by
you.”

“_Invisible_ murderers!” snorted Peret, with a contemptuous shrug of his
shoulders. “You are growing feeble-minded, my friend. Didn’t Berjet say
he _saw_ his murderers?”

“So you say,” returned Strange rudely. “But _you_ didn’t see Sprague’s
murderer, although you claim to have been looking at him when he was
attacked. Maybe your eyesight is failing you,” he added.

Peret glared at the detective sergeant, but said nothing.

“Perhaps Berjet was subject to a hallucination,” ventured Strange, after
a moment’s thought. “He may just have imagined he saw the murderers.”

“Perhaps he just imagined he was murdered, too,” retorted the Frenchman,
and returned to his examination of the room.

At this juncture someone rapped on the door opening into the hall.
Strange crossed the room, turned the key in the lock and, opening the
door, admitted Central Bureau Detectives Frank and O’Shane.

“Well?” demanded Strange.

“Major Dobson sent us four men from headquarters, and we’ve searched the
house as you ordered,” answered O’Shane. “We drew an absolute blank. The
house is empty.”

“Hasn’t Berjet got a family?” inquired Strange.

“The people next door say that Berjet’s wife and daughter are spending
the winter at Palm Beach.”

“Ain’t they any servants?”

“All of the servants go home at night except Adolphe, the murdered man’s
valet.”

“Did you find him?”

“No.”

“Was the front door, and the rest of the doors and windows in the house,
locked?”

“The front door was not only unlocked but slightly ajar. The rest of the
house was secured.”

“Do you not think it possible that the murderer might have slipped out of
the front door while you were watching without being seen by you?”

“Absolutely not,” said O’Shane, emphatically. “I didn’t take my eye off
the front of the house after you entered it until the men the major
sent arrived. Mike watched the back of the house with equal care.
Nobody could a-got out without one of us knowin’ it. If a murder’s been
committed the murderer’s still in the house somewhere.”

The burly sergeant nodded his satisfaction.

“Well, if he’s here, we’ll get him,” he declared. As an after-thought:
“Got the house surrounded?”

“I’ve thrown a cordon around the whole block,” replied O’Shane. “A mouse
couldn’t get through it without getting its neck broke.”

“Good.” Strange drew his revolver, which he had returned to his pocket
after entering the room, and tried the handle of the closet door. “Now,
men, before we go any farther, let’s get this closet open. It may contain
a secret exit, for all we know. Take a chair and burst it in, one of you.”

“Wait, my friend, I know an easier way,” said Peret.

He drew a jimmy from his inside coat pocket, inserted the flattened end
in the crack between the door and the jamb, and bore down on the handle.
Yielding to the powerful leverage, the door creaked, splintered around
the lock and flew open.

“Ten thousand devils!” cried Peret, leaping back.

The body of a dead man rolled out on the floor!


_CHAPTER III._

ALINGTON FINDS A CLUE.

Violent death means nothing to the average police official; he comes in
almost daily contact with the most brutal and horrible form of it.

Therefore, while the utter unexpectedness of the corpse’s arrival in
their midst had a very noticeable effect on the excitable French sleuth,
and more especially on Deweese, with his wracked nerves, the others,
though momentarily startled, seemed to consider it all in the day’s work.

Strange flashed a brief glance at Peret, and then finding him glaring
blankly at the cadaver, shifted his gaze to encompass the gruesome
object of the Frenchman’s regard.

The dead man, like Peret, it was easy to see, was—or, rather had been—a
native of France. The cast of his features was unmistakable. He was of
medium height and build, was slightly bald, and his upper lip was adorned
with a small, black, tightly-waxed mustache. The dagger that was buried
to the hilt in his breast gave silent though ample testimony to the
manner in which he had met his death.

His clothing was badly torn, and there was other evidence to show that he
had put up a desperate fight with his murderer before the fatal blow was
struck. In his present state he made a ghastly spectacle, for his face
was badly discolored and smeared over with dried blood, and his eyes, one
of which was nearly torn from its socket, were wide open and fixed on the
ceiling in a glassy stare.

“Who is he?” asked O’Shane, after a brief silence.

“Adolphe,” replied Peret, bending over the body. “Berjet’s valet.”

“You knew him,” Strange stated rather than questioned.

“Yes, yes,” said Peret. “I have seen him. He was _le bon valet_. See,
sergeant, his limbs are cold and stiff. He was assassinated at least two
hours before his master was. _Mon dieu!_ What does it all mean?”

He rose to his feet, ran his fingers through his hair in a distracted
manner and stared at the corpse as if he hoped to find an answer to the
baffling mystery in the glassy eyes.

“Well, for one thing, it means that we got to get busy,” was Strange’s
energetic response.

Whereupon O’Shane began to explore the closet. Strange, however, seemed
to be in no hurry to follow the example set by his subordinate. He made
several entries in his notebook, leisurely scratched his ear and looked
at Peret from the corner of his eye. Though he would have died rather
than admit it, the detective sergeant was one of the little Frenchman’s
staunchest admirers.

He had been associated with Peret almost daily for several years, and
had given up a good many hours to the study of the other’s methods in
the hope that some day he would be able to emulate his friend’s success.
He knew that, mentally at least, Peret was his superior, and he was ever
ready to place himself under the other’s guidance when he could veil his
real intentions sufficiently to make it appear that he himself was the
leader.

“This case, at first glance, is the cat’s meow,” he said, tentatively.
“It’s the most complicated murder mystery I ever had anything to do with.
What do you make of it, Peret?”

As Peret was about to reply, the door opened and three men entered
the room. The first of these, a tall, middle-aged man, with a gray
mustache and a fine, upright carriage, was Major and Superintendent of
Police Dobson. Immediately behind him came Coroner Rane, an elderly
man with penetrating gray eyes, and Police Sergeant Alington, small,
stoop-shouldered and addicted to big-rimmed spectacles.

“What’s all the trouble about, sergeant?” was Dobson’s greeting. He
nodded to Peret, and continued: “I happened to be in my office when your
call came, so I hurried over.”

“I’m mighty glad you came,” said Strange. “I’m afraid this case is going
to prove troublesome. Did you view the bodies on the pavement.”

“Yes,” said the major. “I helped Rane examine them.”

“Well, here’s another one for you to examine,” said the detective grimly,
and, stepping aside, he exposed to the view of the newcomers the body of
the dead valet.

“This is not murder, it’s a massacre!” exclaimed the coroner.

He knelt beside the body, and scrutinized the valet’s face.

“This man has been dead for several hours, major,” he continued. “Death
was probably instantaneous, as this dagger is buried to the hilt in his
heart.” He tapped the hilt of the weapon with one of his fingers, and
looked up at Strange. “Is this man supposed to have been murdered by the
‘invisible monster’ also?” he asked sarcastically.

“So you’ve heard about the ‘invisible monster’,” returned Strange,
non-committally.

“Detective Frank, who was guarding the bodies on the pavement, told us
some wild tale about an invisible murderer,” remarked Dobson, with a
quizzical uplift of his brows. Then, failing to draw an explanation from
the sergeant, he asked: “Have you made any arrests?”

“I have not,” replied Strange, then gave a rapid account of the measures
he had taken to prevent the murderer’s escape.

Dobson nodded his approval.

“Now, tell me all you know about these mysterious deaths,” he suggested,
and Strange, nothing loath, gave a brief though vivid recital of all the
known facts in the case.

“This third murder,” he said in conclusion, “instead of complicating
matters, seems to make the going a little easier. In the dagger, with
which this man was killed, we have something tangible, anyway. But as for
Max Berjet and Dr. Sprague—.”

“Dr. Rane,” interrupted Peret from the depths of a morris chair into
which he had dropped, “will you venture an opinion as to how Berjet and
Sprague met their deaths?”

“It is impossible to reply with any degree of certainty until after the
autopsy,” answered the coroner: “but offhand I should say that they were
either asphyxiated or poisoned.”

Peret scowled at the coroner and relapsed into silence.

Strange, however, seemed to find comfort in the coroner’s words. With a
determined look on his hard-bitten face, he wheeled.

“Deweese,” he rasped, in a tone calculated to impress on the hearer the
absolute certainty of his words, “the coroner declares that you were
poisoned.” He shook a finger at the artist, as if daring him to deny it.
“The poison was probably administered several hours before you felt the
effects of it. Now think! Who gave it to you? Who had the opportunity to
give it to you? Who had a motive?”

“I was _not_ poisoned,” rejoined Deweese, quietly but emphatically. “I
was choked—choked by an unseen thing that whispered in my ear. Not only
did I hear it whisper, but I felt it breathing in my face as well.”

Peret half rose to his feet, opened his lips as if to speak, then grunted
and sat down in his chair again. Nevertheless, this new bit of evidence,
if such it might be called, seemed to impress him, and he continued to
eye the artist eagerly.

“Who is this man,” asked Dobson.

Strange, with a gesture of helplessness, explained.

“You see what we are up against, Chief,” he said. “I know how to trace a
flesh and blood murderer, but, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I’ll be
damned if I know how to run down a spook, with no more substantial clues
than a breath and a whisper.”

“Mr. Deweese, you are positive, are you, that you were not attacked by a
human being?” questioned the major.

“I am as certain of it as I am that I am alive,” answered the artist.

“Nor an animal?”

“Yes.”

“Nor something _inside of you_?”

“If you mean poison, or something like that, yes.”

“Do you not think you might have been overcome by poisonous fumes of some
sort?”

“Absolutely not. It was not that sort of sensation that I experienced at
all.”

“Have you any idea what it was that attacked you?”

“Not the remotest idea.”

“You did not see it?”

“I did not.”

“Could you have seen it if it had had substantial form?”

“Yes, because it was between me and the street lamp.”

“Have you ever had any similar experience in the past—any experience that
resembles it in the slightest way?”

“Never!”

Dobson threw a puzzled look at the coroner.

“Well,” he began, and was interrupted by a blinding flash of light that
suddenly illuminated the room.

With a cry of terror, Deweese whirled and, darting across the room, was
about to hurl himself through the window, when Strange caught him by the
arm and dragged him back.

“S’nothing but a flash-light,” he said reassuringly. “Sergeant Alington
is photographing the finger-prints on the dagger. S’no wonder it scared
you. Made me jump myself.”

Deweese shook off the sergeant’s hand and glared at the little
finger-print expert.

“For God’s sake, let me know before you set that thing off again,” he
cried in a shaking voice. “I’ve come through an experience that has shot
my nerves to pieces and I can’t stand any more shocks tonight.”

“Sorry,” apologized Alington, and then, like the little human bloodhound
he was, turned once more to the business of nosing out and developing the
finger-prints on the dagger.

“Now,” resumed the major, after ordering O’Shane to have the house and
vicinity toothcombed, “let us take up these murders and this assault in
logical order and see if we cannot get to the bottom of this mystery.
Granted that the evidence may at first appear to point that way, to
contend that they were committed by a supernatural agency is absurd. Even
if the murderers had some way of making it impossible for their victims
to see them, we know that they were either human or animal, or, at least,
directed or controlled by human intelligence.

“First of all, we have the death of Max Berjet. This man, it appears,
died in the presence of our friend Peret. He hurled himself through that
window, had a convulsion, and died. Before he died, however, he told
Peret that he had been attacked by ten men. By the way, Peret, what were
Berjet’s last words?”

Peret sat hunched in his chair in an abstracted manner, staring
into vacancy with knitted brow. He was evidently not pleased by the
interruption, and showed his displeasure by scowling at the major.

“Just before Berjet hurled himself through the window,” he explained,
ungraciously, “I heard him cry, ‘Help! help! I’m dying!’ As he lay dying
on the pavement he gasped, ‘_Assassins ... dix!_’ just like that. _Dix_,
in the French language, means ‘ten,’ and Berjet was a Frenchman. Figure
it out for yourself.”

The major nodded, thoughtfully.

“The words scarcely need any figuring out,” he observed drily. “They seem
to figure themselves out. However, in view of the fact that all of the
exits were fastened on the inside, and also because there is no evidence
to show that any considerable number of men have recently been in this
room, I think that we may leave the number of the scientist’s murderers
open to question.

“Turning now to the second death, Dr. Sprague appears to have been
attacked in the sight of at least two men, our amiable friend Peret and
the druggist. Mr. Deweese was attacked at or about the same time that
Sprague was, and the attack was also witnessed by the two persons named.
Sprague and Deweese struggled with their antagonists, who, from all
testimony, appear to have been of immense strength and ferocity.

“Sprague was killed almost instantly, and our friend the artist, after
a desperate struggle, was fortunate enough to overcome, or at least to
throw off the Thing that had him in its grasp. Deweese, the druggist and
Peret declare that they did not see the Thing—that, in short, it was
invisible; but both of the former gentlemen testify to the fact that
they heard it whisper, and Deweese informs us further that he felt it
breathing in his face.

“It seems safe to assume, therefore, that the Thing had substantial form,
for even if we have to admit in the face of the facts that the Thing was
invisible, we know that it could not have been a supernatural being,
since supernatural beings are not supposed to whisper and breathe.”

He paused, looked at the coroner as if inviting speech, and then, when
only silence answered, continued:

“Let us turn now to the murder of the valet. There is certainly no doubt
as to the manner in which _he_ died. He was stabbed to death, and Dr.
Rane has expressed the opinion that he has been dead for several hours.
Yet, in spite of this, and in spite of the fact that the form of his
murder is entirely different from that of Berjet and Sprague, it seems
clear that the three murders, as well as the attack on the artist, are
closely related to each other.

“Whether or not they are correlated is a matter which only the future
can determine: but that they all bear some connection with each other
and were committed by the same agency, there seems to be no doubt. The
circumstances that surround the several murders speak for themselves.
Therefore, in view of the fact that Berjet’s valet was the first of the
three men to meet his death, it is my opinion that if you find _his_
murderer you will have found the man or Thing responsible for the other
two murders, and for the attack on our friend, Deweese.”

Strange heaved a sigh of profound satisfaction. He was now on familiar
ground. Unseen and unknown forces that struck men down, forces that
were apparently of some other world, were beyond his depth; but human
knife-wielders were his meat. Given something tangible, a clue, or a
motive, or even a theory that was not beyond his comprehension, there was
no man on the force who could obtain quicker or more satisfactory results
than he.

Therefore, while in his own mind, he had already settled on the dagger as
the one key to the mystery in sight, it flattered him, in spite of the
obviousness of the clue, to have the major’s opinion coincide with his
own.

“I agree with you, major,” he cried heartily. “The man that we want most
is the man that murdered the valet; and,” he added with a tightening of
his jaws, “I’m gonna get him!”

“Wait,” said Sergeant Alington, who had been an interested listener to
the major’s summing up of the case. “I have some information to reveal
which I think will be of interest to you.”

He cleared his throat, set his glasses more firmly on the bridge of his
nose, and glanced at several slips of paper he held in his hand.

“Before the bodies of Sprague and Berjet were taken to the morgue, I
secured the finger-prints of both of them. I have since photographed
a number of prints found on various objects in this room. Among the
latter are a set of well-defined prints on the handle of the dagger that
killed the valet. The photographs of these prints will not be available
for purposes of comparison, of course, until I develop them; but the
impressions on the daggerhandle are so clean-cut that they stand out
clearly under the developing powder, when a magnifying glass is applied
to them. While I cannot speak positively, therefore, I think that I have
succeeded in identifying them.”

“Well?” growled Strange, straining forward.

“Well,” replied Alington, “instead of clearing up the mystery surrounding
the murders of Sprague and Berjet, the finger-prints on the dagger tend
to complicate it—that is, if we are to assume that the prints were made
by the valet’s murderer, and this, I am sure, all of you will agree with
me in doing.”

“Well?” repeated Strange, who saw his last glimmer of hope growing dimmer
and dimmer. “Who murdered the valet?”

“If the prints were made by the man I think they were,” said Alington
slowly, as if to prolong the taste of his words, “the valet was murdered
by Max Berjet.”


_CHAPTER IV._

THE TERRIBLE FROG TAKES THE TRAIL.

Strange, at once perceiving the blank wall into which his inquiry had led
him, sat down on the arm of a chair and sought to hide his discomfiture
by biting a liberal sized chew from the plug of tarlike tobacco that he
fished out of his trousers pocket.

He had, very naturally, believed that the solution of the mystery
was to be found in the finger-prints on the dagger, and his sudden
disillusionment annoyed and angered him. He felt himself baffled and,
having a profound dislike for the little finger-print expert anyway,
it incensed him to have to admit even momentary defeat at the latter’s
hands, especially in the presence of his superior.

The major, however, accepted the exploding of his theory with equanimity.

“It is obviously impossible for the scientist to have had any direct hand
in Sprague’s murder,” he observed, “if he himself was murdered at least
ten or fifteen minutes before the doctor was. And even if we assume that
he had an indirect hand in it, and the circumstances surrounding the
several murders would seem to disprove this, there is his own death still
to be accounted for.” He turned to the artist. “Mr. Deweese, did you know
Max Berjet?”

Deweese shook his head.

“Never heard of him until tonight,” he declared.

The major sighed.

“I thought as much,” he asserted. “It seems a waste of time to try to
fasten Sprague’s murder and the attack on you on Berjet.” He thought for
a moment; then: “Sergeant Alington, you are sure, are you, that you have
not been over-hasty in the conclusions you have drawn from your cursory
examination of the prints? If there is any doubt in your mind, I suggest
that you return to headquarters and develop the plates at once.”

“You can judge for yourself, major,” returned Alington, a little nettled.
Like most experts, so-called and otherwise, it annoyed him to have a
carefully-formed opinion of his disputed or even questioned. He could
countenance such a thing in court, under the baleful eye of His Honor;
but it was quite another thing at the scene of a crime, where he felt
himself to be upon his own ground.

Strange, sensing his annoyance, paused long enough in his exploration of
the table drawer to look at him and grin. Catching the latter’s eye he
winked, which exasperated the expert to such an extent that he dropped
his magnifying glass. Strange, feeling fully repaid for any fancied
injury, grinned again and dumped the contents of the drawer on the table.

With an injured air, Alington retrieved his magnifying glass and offered
it to the major. He then held out for Dobson’s inspection a set of
finger-prints on a regulation blank and the dagger that the coroner had
withdrawn from the breast of the dead valet. The dagger was an ordinary
white bone-handled hunting knife, with a six-inch, double-edged blade.
Dobson held it gingerly by the blood-smeared blade, in order not to
disturb the thin coating of black powder that had been sprinkled over the
handle.

Like most efficient police officials, Dobson had some knowledge of
dactyloscopy, and the detectives awaited his verdict with eagerness.
Applying the magnifying glass to the handle of the knife, the major
leisurely examined the series of whorls and ridges that showed through
the black coating. He then compared them with the finger-prints of the
dead scientist, and, when he had concluded his examination, slowly nodded
his head.

“You are right, sergeant,” he was forced to acknowledge. “The two sets of
prints are undoubtedly identical.” He handed the dagger and glass to the
expert. “Your evidence can not be combated, sergeant,” he added.

Alington inclined his head slightly and retired to his place beside the
table.

“Well,” grumbled Strange, disappointed by the expert’s vindication, “that
at least clears up the first murder. As for the murder of Berjet, as
clues are wholly lacking, in my opinion the only way we will make any
headway is to motivate the crime.”

“Has the ownership of the dagger been established?” asked the coroner.

“It has,” replied Strange, without enthusiasm.

He held up to view the sheath of the hunting-knife, which he had found
in the table drawer. A large “M. B.” had been cut on the front of the
leather covering by an unskilled hand. The letters were crude and the
edges worn, and they had evidently been cut in the leather a long while
ago.

The coroner examined the letters closely and returned the sheath to
Strange.

“There can scarcely be any doubt as to the ownership of the knife,” he
agreed.

“What progress are your men making with their search?” demanded the major.

“The men have gone over the house twice without success,” declared
Strange. “O’Brill and Muldoon are now on the roof and the other men are
searching the adjoining houses.”

“And have they found no evidence of any person having been in this house?”

“No one except Berjet and the valet.”

“Dr. Rane, what do you think of this affair?” questioned Dobson
impatiently. “We are progressing too slowly to please me. Have you any
suggestions to offer?”

“I think it might help us if Mr. Deweese would describe in the most
minute detail exactly what happened to him,” returned Rane. “There is
much of his story that has yet to be cleared up.”

“Mr. Deweese,” said Dobson, turning to the artist, “suppose you recount
the details of your attack in your own way, and then, if necessary, we
will question you.”

Deweese had entirely recovered from his shock by this time and seemed
eager to be of aid.

“On my way home from the theater,” he began, “I stopped near the
corner lamp, less than half a block away, to light a cigarette. As
I was striking a match I heard a terrific crash of breaking glass
behind me, and at once ran back to see what had happened. I found this
gentleman”—nodding at Peret—“bending over the body of a man on the
pavement. The body has since been identified as that of Max Berjet. Mr.
Peret declared that the scientist had been murdered, and, at his bidding,
I went to the drug store on the other side of the street to summon aid.

“While a clerk was ’phoning for the police I returned to the scene of
the tragedy accompanied by the druggist and Dr. Sprague, who happened to
be in the store at the time. Dr. Sprague examined and pronounced Berjet
dead. Mr. Peret then informed the doctor that he was a detective and
requested him to remain with the body until the police arrived, so he
could make a preliminary investigation in the house. This Dr. Sprague
agreed to do, and Mr. Peret ran across the pavement and jumped the fence
in front of Berjet’s house.

“I was standing a few feet away, talking with the druggist, and saw
everything that followed. At the very instant that Mr. Peret leaped
over the fence, I heard Dr. Sprague scream and saw him throw out his
hands as if to grapple with something. He was standing by Berjet’s body
at the time. He appeared to have been attacked by some powerful and
ferocious Thing, which I could not see, and I sprang forward to go to his
assistance. It was then that I heard the whispering sound and felt the
Thing hurl itself upon me.

“I could see nothing, but I felt my throat caught in a viselike grip and
my chest crushed between two opposing forces. I cried out once, and then
my breath was shut off. I threw out my hands to grapple with the unseen
Thing, but there appeared to be nothing to grapple with. My hands came in
contact with nothing but air.

“Yet all of this while I could feel the monster crushing my life out.
The terrible grip on my throat kept pressing my head back, inch by inch,
and the pressure around my body seemed on the point of caving my ribs
in. Everything went black before me, and I could feel myself losing
consciousness. Calling to my aid every ounce of strength I possessed, I
made a last desperate effort to free myself of the Thing, and just as I
felt life slipping from my grasp, the pressure on my throat and chest
relaxed and, too exhausted to stand, I fell to the pavement.”

“Unconscious?” asked the coroner.

“No, never for a single instant did I lose consciousness. Every terrible
second of that eternity is indelibly stamped on my mind.”

The recollection of his frightful experience made the artist tremble.
Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his face.

“Was Dr. Sprague still struggling with his—ah—antagonist when you were
attacked?” questioned the major.

“I cannot say,” replied Deweese. “After I was attacked I had little
thought to give to anything but my own defense.”

“The testimony of both Peret and the druggist show that Deweese and
Sprague were attacked at practically the same time,” observed Strange,
shifting his quid from east to west. “Both men struggled for a few
seconds—about half a minute, according to Peret—and fell to the pavement
at the same instant.”

“Then it appears that we have more than one thing to contend with,”
interposed the major a little grimly. “Mr. Deweese, you are positive, are
you, that you did not _see_ the Thing? Think before you reply.”

“It is not necessary for me to think,” retorted the artist, “God knows,
if I had seen the Thing I should not have been able to forget it this
quickly!”

“When did you hear the Thing whisper—before or after it attacked you?”

“Before. After it hurled itself upon me I heard nothing.”

“But you felt it breathing in your face?”

“Not after the attack: no. It was immediately after I heard the
whispering sound that I felt the Thing’s breath on my face. After that
terrible grip became fastened on my throat, everything else became
negligible.”

“You mean that even if the Thing had been breathing in your face it is
doubtful if you would have known it?”

“Yes.”

“Did this breathing sound or feel like the breathing of a man?”

“No; the Thing’s breath was quick and jerky and as cold as ice.”

“_Cold?_” cried Peret, leaping to his feet.

He had been sitting back in his chair in an attitude of dejection,
staring at a blank space on the wall. He had, with one ear, however, been
drinking in every word of the conversation, and now he rose from his
chair with such suddenness that he all but upset the little finger-print
expert standing in front of him.

“Yes, _cold_,” repeated Deweese, the perspiration dripping from his brow,
“cold and clammy.”

“_Dame!_” cried the Frenchman, breathing on his hand as if to test the
temperature of his breath. “Think well, my friend, of what you are
saying. The breath of living things is _warm_. Perhaps it was not the
breathing of a monster that you heard. It may have been—.” He hesitated,
and then, at a loss, stopped.

“There was no mistaking the—the thing I felt on my face,” rejoined the
artist grimly. “Except for the fact that it was cold and spasmodic it was
like the breathing of a man.”

“Like the breathing of a man choking on a piece of ice?” suggested the
coroner.

“Exactly.”

“_Eh, bien!_” called the Frenchman, and smote himself on the forehead
with his clenched fist. “Why did you not tell us this before?”

The Frenchman was transformed. Heretofore, in appearance at least, he
had been an insignificant little man with no special capacity for the
intricacies of unsolved crime mysteries. But now that the germ of an
elusive idea had taken root in his mind he seemed to grow in stature as
well as in intellect. His eyes became animated, his nostrils distended,
his foolish little mustache took on an air of dignity, and his narrow
shoulders seemed to grow straighter and to broaden.

Twisting the starboard point of his mustache fiercely between his
fingers, he began to pace rapidly up and down the room. Dobson, who was
acquainted with these symptoms, threw a significant look at the coroner.
The look, however, failed to register, for Rane was staring at the floor,
with knitted brow. He appeared to be thinking deeply.

Strange scratched his ear reflectively and stole a glance at the
Frenchman. He, also was familiar with the latter’s eccentricities and,
like the major, was always a little awed by an outburst of his friend’s
temperament. Experience had taught him that this was a moment for
silence, and he was determined to maintain it at all costs.

But even while he was rolling this thought around in his mind, and
glaring threateningly at O’Shane, who was moistening his lips as if about
to speak, the Frenchman put an end to it in a manner peculiarly his own.

“_Triomphe!_” he cried, with such suddenness and vigor that the
iron-nerved detective sergeant jumped. “I’ve got it! At last I see the
light!”

In his excitement he danced up and down in front of the major, to the
secret amusement of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese. Strange,
however, knowing what this overflow of energy denoted, leaned forward
eagerly and strained his ears to catch what would follow.

“Well, what have you got?” asked the major calmly, though the coroner
thought he could detect a note of vast relief in his voice.

“The answer to the riddle, major,” yelled Peret too excited to contain
himself. “I’ve got it! I’ve found it! The mystery is solved. _Nom de
diable!_ The Thing is—”

“Stop,” said the major, truculently. “We must use some discretion here.
Are you sure you know what you are talking about, Peret, or are you
simply making a wild guess?”

“I know it,” shouted Peret, making a heroic though futile effort to lower
his voice. “Ah, it was too simple! Like taking the candy from the mouth
of the little one! _Oui, m’sieu_; The mystery is solved! I stake my
reputation on it. I will show you—Stay!”

To the horror of the central office men, he grasped the dignified major
by the lapel of his coat and dragged him (not unwillingly) out of his
chair and half across the room. When they were well out of earshot of the
others, he drew the major’s head down and poured a perfect torrent of
whispers in his ear.

Dobson heard the Frenchman out without interruption, but, while evincing
the deepest interest, he did not appear to be altogether convinced.
However, Peret had once been under his command, and there was no one who
had more respect for his ability. It was he himself who, a year or so
previously, had characterized the Frenchman as “an accomplished linguist,
a master of disguise and one of the most astute criminologists on this
side of the Atlantic.”

In his present extremity, moreover, he was like a drowning man clutching
at a straw. He was not in a position to reject a possible solution of the
mystery advanced by a man of Peret’s ability, no matter how unsound it
might appear to him.

“What you say seems plausible enough,” he remarked, when Peret paused
for want of breath; “but it is, after all, only a theory. There is not a
shred of evidence to give weight to your words.”

“Evidence is sometimes the biggest liar in the world,” said Peret, a
little dashed by Dobson’s lack of enthusiasm. “In this case, however,
there is, as you say, no evidence of any kind—yet. We must therefore
look for it, before it sneaks up on us and bites us. Ah, my dear friend.
Think! Consider! Reflect! Why, the thing is as clear as a piece of
crystal.”

“What suggestions have you to make!” asked the major, visibly impressed.
“I suppose you have in mind some plan—.”

“_Oui!_” cried Peret, with fierce enthusiasm. “Except for one little
thing, I ask that you give me a free hand. I will either prove or
disprove my theory within twenty-four hours. Your men in the meantime,
can make an independent investigation.”

He made several hieroglyphics on a page torn from his memorandum book and
handed it to the major. Dobson studied the characters for a moment, and
then nodded.

“All right,” he said briskly. “I give you a free hand. Call headquarters
when you want, and in the meantime let me know at the earliest possible
moment, if you learn anything of importance. _Allez-vous-en._”

“Remember—no arrests!” hissed Peret, and, clapping his hat on the back of
his head, he fled from the house as if pursued by the devil himself.


_CHAPTER V._

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF.

Jules Peret was a man of parts. Born in the slums of Paris, he had
migrated to America at an early age and, following the vicissitudes of
a dissipated youth, had, by the sheer power of will and ability, forced
himself to the top of the ladder of success in his chosen profession.

Eccentric, high-strung and affected, he was nevertheless something of a
genius in his particular line. As a plainclothes man under the command
of Major Dobson, his success had been outstanding. This was largely
due to his love of the dramatic, and his knack of making the most
unpretentious case assume huge proportions in the eyes of the public.

His methods were simple, apparently infallible, always spectacular. For
which reason the newspapers gave him much space on their front pages
and delighted in referring to him as the Terrible Frog and the Devil’s
Sister—appellations, by the way, that had their origin in the dives of
the underworld.

Three months ago Peret had severed his connections with police
headquarters and established himself as a “consulting detective.”
And because of the enviable record he had made while serving his
apprenticeship on the “force,” he had at once found his services in great
demand.

At this time Peret was about thirty-four years of age. A small effeminate
man, with delicate features, small hands and feet, rosy cheeks and thick
eye-brows, one would have taken him for almost anything in the world but
a detective. In manner and dress, he was typical of the _boulevardiers_
of Paris. He affected a slender black mustache about the same general
size and shape of a pointed match-stick, and he had a weakness for
pearl-striped trousers and lavender spats.

Exteriors, however, are sometimes deceiving, and this was true in the
case of the little Frenchman. When aroused, Peret was like a tiger. It
was not for nothing that he had earned his terrible _noms de guerre_ in
the world of crime.

Erratic in manner as in dress, his departure—or, rather, his flight—from
the home of the murdered scientist, was as distinctive of the man as was
his mustache. The mirth of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese
meant nothing to him. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts for the
moment to consider the effect of his behavior on the others. He had
simply felt the impulse to action and had obeyed it with characteristic
promptness, energy and enthusiasm.

On the sidewalk he paused for a moment.

The night was pitch-black. Not a star was visible. The fog still hung
over the city in heavy folds and at a distance of fifteen or twenty feet
almost obliterated the street lights. A little crowd of morbidly curious
sensation-seekers had gathered in front of the house and, much to their
dislike, were now being herded away from the immediate scene of the crime
by two uniformed policemen.

Turning up the collar of his coat, Peret wiggled his way through the
crowd and sped across the street to the drug store. Entering a telephone
booth, he ordered a taxi. He then called up his office, and when the
connection was made, poured a volley of instructions into the receiver in
language that must have burnt the wires.

Replacing the receiver on the hook, he left the store and, when his taxi
arrived a few minutes later, started out on a feverish round of inquiries.

His first call was at the Army and Navy Building. Evidently luck was
against him, for after a moment’s stay he emerged from the building, with
a scowl on his face. Hopping into the taxi, he ordered the chauffeur to
drive to the Treasury Department.

Owing to the lateness of the hour, he had, as expected, some difficulty
in gaining admittance. A cabalistic message sent to some mysterious
personage within, however, had a magical effect on the watchman, who
swung wide the doors for him.

His stay within was brief, and after the portals had again been opened to
let him out, he sped down the flight of steps in front of the building
and crossed the street on a dead run. From the corner drug store he
fired a message over the wire to police headquarters, then, quitting the
store, once more boarded the taxi and instructed the chauffeur to drive
him to a certain street corner.

After a short run, the cab came to a stop at the corner of a dark street
in one of the residential sections of the city. Instructing the chauffeur
to wait for him, Peret left the car and, wrapping his coat around him,
glided off in the darkness.

Half way down the block, at the intersection of an alley, the Frenchman
paused. Though the fog had lifted somewhat, the mist had turned into
a heavy sleet and, if such a thing were possible, it was even darker
than it had been an hour previously. Except for the taxi waiting at the
corner, the street, so far as Peret could see, was deserted.

Stepping behind a tree-box, Peret surveyed the row of houses on the
opposite side of the street. A dim light burned in several of the
vestibules; otherwise the houses were wrapped in darkness. Satisfied that
he was not observed, Peret stepped from behind the tree-box and gave a
peculiar, birdlike whistle.

In answer to the signal, the eye of a flash-light blinked near the front
door of one of the houses in the middle of the block, and Peret, clinging
to the shadows, crossed the street. Drawing his automatic, he traversed
the lawn to the house.

“Bendlow?”

“H’luva night to be abroad, Chief,” came a hoarse whisper. “What’s the
row, anyway?”

Although it was too dark to distinguish the speaker’s features, or, as
a matter of fact, even to see the outline of his form, there was no
mistaking the foghorn voice of Harvey Bendlow, former Secret Service
agent and, at the present time, night manager of Peret’s Detective
Agency. Restoring his automatic to his pocket, the Frenchman gripped the
other’s hand.

“Haven’t time to explain now,” he said in an undertone. “We’ve got a big
job ahead of us. How long have you been here?”

“’Bout an hour,” croaked Bendlow. “I came on the jump just as soon as
your message was received at the office. I’ve been prowling around taking
a look-see.”

“Seen anything of the occupant of the house?”

“Nope. I guess the Wolf is in the hay,” was Bendlow’s enigmatic reply.

“What’s that?” asked Peret sharply. “Who is this that you call the
‘Wolf’?”

“Say, don’t you know whose house you sent me to watch?” demanded Bendlow
in surprise.

“No; I have a suspicion that the man living in this house is a foreign
agent, but I’m not sure that I know who he is.”

“Well, your suspicion does you credit. This house at the present time is
occupied by Count Vincent di Dalfonzo, better known to the Secret Service
as the Wolf.”

“_Tiens!_” exclaimed Peret, with rising excitement. “You are sure?”

“None surer! Known him for a long time.”

“Tell me what you know about him, quickly, my friend.”

“Take too long now. He’s got a record. Had a coupla run-ins with him
when I was attached to the Secret Service. He’s a clever and dangerous
guy. International agent. Famous spy during the war. Plays only for big
stakes, and the harder the game the better he likes it. Renegade Italian
nobleman. His mother was an American. Takes after her in looks, I reckon.
Never know he was a wop to look at him. He’s been a thorn in the side of
the foreign Secret Service for years. Too clever for them. They know he’s
the milk in the cocoanut, but they can’t crack his shell, so to speak.
He’s bad medicine, and no mistake. He kills at the drop of a hat.”

“But how do you know he is living in this house, eh? Have you seen him?”

“Nope. You ordered me to watch the house, and, not knowing what your
game is, I haven’t made any effort to see him. He’s here, though, and
its damn funny, too. Last time I heard of him, two months ago, he was in
Petrograd.”

“If you have not seen him, how do you know he is living in this house?”
asked Peret impatiently.

In a subdued voice, Bendlow rapidly related all he knew about the man he
called the Wolf, and gave his reasons for believing him to be the present
occupant of the house. When he concluded, Peret could scarcely control
his elation.

“_Voila_,” he exclaimed softly. “You have done your work better than you
know, my friend. Everything fits together beautifully. Now, let’s to
work. I wonder if there is any one in the house now?”

“Can’t say for sure, but I doubt it.”

“Well, we’re going in, regardless. It’s dangerous business, but
necessary. I must clear up the mystery of the whispering Thing.”

“The Whispering Thing?” questioned Bendlow.

“_Oui_,” whispered Peret tersely. “I cannot tell you what it is, for I do
not know. But it’s a demon, my friend, be sure of that! Keep close to me
and be prepared for any eventuality. Ready?”

“Yep,” laconically. “Lead on.”

Peret tried the door behind him and found it locked. After several
unsuccessful attempts, he opened it with a master key and, followed
by Bendlow, entered the cellar. Closing the door, Peret brought his
flashlight into play, and then, like a phantom, he passed over the
concrete floor and ascended a flight of steps in the rear.

Unlocking the door at the head of the steps, the two detectives stepped
out into the carpeted hall and paused for a moment to listen.

No sound greeted their ears. The house was as dark and silent as a grave.
Even the light in the vestibule had been extinguished.

“Where next?” whispered Bendlow.

“The first floor, then upstairs,” breathed Peret in his ear.

Guided by frequent flashes from Peret’s flashlight, the two detectives
explored the parlor, dining-room and kitchen, and found them empty, cold
and silent. When they returned to the hall, Peret leaned over and put his
lips to his companion’s ear.

“Wait at the bottom of the front stairs and watch,” was his whispered
order. “I’m going up. Warn me if any one enters the house, and if you
hear me cry out, turn on the lights and come to my help as rapidly as you
can. The Whispering Thing strikes quickly, and, having struck, moves on.
_Comprendez-vous?_”

“Yep,” croaked Bendlow, and took up his stand at the place designated.

Flashing his light around the hall once more, so as not to lose his sense
of direction, Peret began his slow and cautious ascent to the second
floor. Placing his feet carefully on that part of the steps nearest to
the wall so they would not creak, he worked his way up to the top of the
steps. There he paused to listen.

No one knew better than he how fatal it would prove to be caught prowling
around the house of a man as desperate as the Wolf was reputed to be,
in the dead of night. There was not only the man himself to be feared;
there was the Whispering Thing, for if Dalfonzo was, as he suspected,
implicated in the murders he was investigating, it was certain that the
invisible assassin, be it man, beast or devil was in league with the
renegade Italian.

Yet a search of the man’s house during his absence, or at least without
his knowledge, seemed necessary, since Peret not only had no evidence
against the Count, but had as yet to learn the exact nature of the Thing;
and it would be useless to make an arrest until he could fasten the
crimes on their perpetrator.

Having assured himself that no one was stirring, therefore, Peret began
to explore the second floor. The house was a small one, and it did not
take him long to go through the four rooms that comprised the second
floor, especially as two of them were unfurnished. The other two rooms,
which contained only the necessary articles of bedroom furniture, bore
signs of recent occupation, but Peret was unable to find in them anything
of an incriminating or even of an enlightening character.

Rendered moody by his failure to find the evidence he sought, the
Frenchman returned to the hall and was about to retrace his steps to
the first floor when he felt a pressure on his arm and heard Bendlow’s
hoarse, low-pitched warning in his ear.

“Something’s in the vestibule.”

Peret’s muscles grew tense.

“Somebody coming in?” he asked quickly.

“Nope,” came the reply. “It’s something in the vestibule between the two
doors. It musta been there all the time we’ve been here, as the front
door hasn’t been opened since I’ve been on guard.”

“How do you know something’s there?” whispered Peret.

“Heard it moving around, and when I put my ear to the keyhole I heard it
breathing.” was Bendlow’s startling reply.

Peret’s jaws closed with a snap, and his grasp on his automatic tightened.

“_Eh, bien_,” he hissed. “Follow me down stairs. Keep hold of my coat
so we won’t get separated. If anything approaches you from the rear,
shoot first and ask questions afterwards. It begins to look as if we had
tracked the Whispering Thing to its lair. _En avant!_”

Cautiously and noiselessly, the two men made their way down the dark
steps to the first floor. Followed closely by Bendlow, who had an
automatic in his hand, Peret tip-toed across the hall and applied his ear
to the keyhole in the front door. He heard a slight movement on the other
side of the door, and his spine stiffened.

Peret waited, with his ear glued to the keyhole. He could plainly hear
something moving around restlessly in the vestibule, but, for the moment,
he could not determine what it was. Suddenly, however, he heard a _thump_
on the door and a scratching sound on the floor. This was followed by a
loud whining yawn.

Peret caught Bendlow by the arm and drew him away from the door.

“It’s a dog,” he whispered disgustedly. “Dalfonzo doubtless placed him
there to guard the entrance during his absence. Lucky for us we entered
by way of the cellar, eh?”

“I thought it might be a dog when I first hear it,” muttered Bendlow;
“but after what you said about the Whispering Thing I thought I better
not investigate alone. Maybe the dog’ll convince you that the Wolf is a
tough customer. He’s a hard man to catch napping. Going back upstairs?”

“No. I am through. There is no one in the house, and I can find no trace
of the Whispering Thing. _Sapristi!_ what a blind trail it is that I
follow. Are you sure, my friend, that you have not made a mistake in
thinking that Dalfonzo—”

“Not a chance,” was Bendlow’s emphatic reply. “This house, however,
may be a blind. The Wolf may be laying low and working through his
confederate. He may not even be in the city. However, as I am working
in the dark, I will not hazard any more guesses. But you can bet your
bottom dollar that the Wolf—”

“_Hist!_”

But Peret’s warning came too late. Engrossed as they were in their
whispered conversation, neither of them had heard the outer front door
open, or the whine with which the dog welcomed the man who entered the
vestibule. Peret’s alert ear had caught the sound made by a key being
turned in the lock of the inner door, and he hissed his warning just as
the door was opened to admit the man and the dog. At the same instant a
match flared in the hand of the new-comer, and the two detectives, as if
on pivots, whirled.

“The Wolf,” croaked Bendlow hoarsely, and, with Peret following darted
down the hall.

“Halt!” commanded the Wolf, and the dog, with an angry growl, shot
between his legs and hurled itself after the detectives.

Reaching the door at the head of the cellar steps, Bendlow grasped the
knob and wrenched it open. A streak of flame stabbed the darkness and a
bullet _zummed_ by Peret’s ear and buried itself in the wall.

“Get him, Sultan,” cried the Wolf, and fired another shot.

Sultan tore down the dark hall, his lower jaw hung low in readiness,
but when he reached the end of the hall he found the two prowlers had
disappeared and the cellar door was closed.


_CHAPTER VI._

THE WHISPERING THING.

If Sultan was doomed to disappointment, so, too, were Peret and his husky
companion, for they were not to make their escape as easily as they had
at first believed they would. As they climbed from the basement window a
dark form loomed up in front of them and a harsh voice commanded:

“Hands up!”

At the same instant the cold muzzle of a revolver came in violent contact
with the Frenchman’s nose.

“_Diable!_” swore Peret softly, and, realizing that he was at the other’s
mercy, elevated his hands with alacrity and, with a backward swing of his
foot, kicked Bendlow on the shin.

Bendlow, however, needed no such urging. At the first spoken word, he had
raised his automatic and taken deadly aim at the dark form in front of
Peret. Something in the speaker’s voice, however, made him hesitate to
shoot.

“Climb out of there, you!” ordered the voice harshly. “No funny business
if you’re fond of life. C’mon out.”

“Dick Cromwell!” spoke up Bendlow suddenly. “Drop your gat. It’s Bendlow
and Peret.”

“Well, for the luva Mike!” exclaimed the central bureau detective, and
lowered his revolver. Then, to someone behind him. “It’s the Terrible
Frog, Sarge.”

With a sigh of relief that was not unlike a snort, Peret scrambled out of
the basement, and, without loss of time, tersely explained the situation
to the three city detectives who crowded around him and his companion.
His explanation, however, did not altogether satisfy Sergeant O’Brien,
who was in charge of the party. Although he and the other two detectives
had been set to watch the house at the Frenchman’s suggestion, he had not
been informed of this and had no knowledge of Peret’s connection with
the cause, and further, while the two private detectives were both well
and favorably known to him, he had been ordered to arrest any one who
attempted to leave the house, and orders were orders.

The only thing he could do, therefore, was to hold the two men until he
could telephone for instructions. Having explained this to Peret, he
went to the patrol box in the next block to get in communication with
headquarters, while the others retired to a safe distance from the house
to await his return. When he rejoined them, a few minutes later, the two
prisoners, after being subjected to much good-natured badinage, were
released.

At the corner, where he found the taxi still waiting for him, Peret gave
Bendlow his orders for the night, then climbed in the cab and left his
lieutenant to shift for himself. His only desire now was to get home and
crawl into bed. The past hour’s work had disgusted and depressed him. The
only thing he had accomplished had been to put Dalfonzo on his guard, and
that was the last thing in the world he desired to do. Nevertheless, he
felt that he had the case pretty well in hand and that within the next
twenty-four hours he would be able to act decisively. And in this he
found consolation.

Reaching his apartment house, he descended to the sidewalk, paid and
dismissed the chauffeur without doing him bodily harm—which, considering
the size of the fare, was little less than remarkable—and even wished the
bandit good-night.

Peret entered the apartment house with a sprightly step. Had he been
attending his own funeral he would have done no less. His vast supply of
nervous energy had to have some outlet, and even in moments of depression
he walked as if he had springs in his heels.

It was long after midnight, and the front hall was deserted. Rather than
awaken the elevator boy, who was dozing in his cage, Peret mounted the
stairs to the second floor. At the front end of the dimly-lighted hall,
he came to a stop and tried the door of his sitting-room. As he expected,
he found it locked.

Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door and entered the dark
room. As he replaced the key in his pocket with one hand, he pushed the
door shut with the other.

He heard the spring of the night-latch close with a loud _click_. He was
about to reach out his hand to find the push-button that operated the
electric lights, when, suddenly, his head flew back with a snap and his
body became tense.

The silence in the room was suddenly broken by a loud though inarticulate
_whisper_—a loud, jerky, sibilant sound, that departed as abruptly as it
had come.

The blood in the Frenchman’s veins congealed. He could see nothing. The
darkness was so intense that he could almost feel it press against his
eye-balls.

Moistening his lips, he waited, with every sense alert, half believing
that his ears had deceived him. But no. Almost immediately the silence
was once more broken by a blood-curdling _hiss_, and, at the same instant
_Peret felt an ice-cold breath on his cheek_.

He shuddered, too paralyzed with fear to move. The hiss, or whisper,
seemed to come from in front of him, and in his mind’s eye he could see
the invisible Thing gathering itself for attack. He shuddered again as It
moved around in back of him and, after chilling his fevered cheek with
its icy breath, whispered in his ear.

There was nothing human about the whisper: it had an unnatural and
ominous sound, and the breath of the unseen Thing, which now fanned his
face, was as cold and clammy as the respirations of an animated corpse.

Peret was undoubtedly a brave man. He had the heart of a lion and the
strength of many men twice his size. But for once in his life he knew
fear—real fear—a terrible, overpowering apprehension of impending danger.

The tragic happenings in the vicinity of Berjet’s house were still so
fresh in his mind that even his lively imagination could scarcely have
lent color to the deadly peril in which he knew he stood. In a flash
he recalled everything that Deweese had said about the whispers and
the breathing that had preceded the attack of the monstrous Thing, and
he remembered the death struggles of the scientist and Dr. Sprague,
and their horribly distorted features as they lay stretched out on the
pavement at his feet.

Again he heard the agonized scream of the physician and saw his bulging
eyes as he battled for his life with the invisible monster.

He wanted to move, to scream, to strike out, to do anything but remain
inactive, but, for the moment, he was helpless, for his soul was gripped
by the icy fingers of terror. The hair of his head bristled and beads of
cold perspiration burst from his brow.

That he stood in the presence of the Whispering Thing—the whispering and
respiring supernatural horror that had, but a few short hours before,
crushed the life out of the two men whose death he had sworn to avenge—he
could not, and did not, for a moment doubt.


_This story will be concluded in the next issue of WEIRD TALES. Tell your
news dealer to reserve a copy for you._




_The Last Thrilling Chapters of_

_The_ Thing _of a_ Thousand Shapes

_A Weird Novel_

By OTIS ADELBERT KLINE

    _The first half of this story appeared in the March issue of
    WEIRD TALES. A copy will be mailed by the publishers for 25c._

    HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED IN THE EARLY CHAPTERS:

    William Ansley, who tells the story, receives word that his
    Uncle Jim is dead in Peoria and goes at once to his uncle’s
    home. Later, while gazing upon the body in a gray casket, he
    hears himself say, as if against his own reason, “_He is not
    dead—only sleeping._” Subsequent events indicate that this is
    true. William, watching beside the body in the lonely house at
    night, is visited by a number of terrifying apparitions. At
    midnight he fears that the worst is yet to come.

    THE STORY CONTINUES FROM THIS POINT


The storm slowly abated, and finally died down altogether, succeeded by a
dead calm.

An hour passed without incident, to my inestimable relief. I believed
that the phenomena had passed with the storm. The thought soothed me. I
became drowsy, and was soon asleep.

Fitful dreams disturbed my slumber. It seemed that I was walking in a
great primeval forest. The trees and vegetation about me were new and
strange. Huge ferns, some of them fifty feet in height, grew all about
in rank profusion. Under foot was a soft carpet of moss. Giant fungi,
colossal toadstools, and mushrooms of varying shades and forms were
everywhere.

In my hand I carried a huge knotted club, and my sole article of
clothing seemed to be a tiger skin, girded about my waist and falling
half way to my knees.

A queer-looking creature, half rhinoceros, half horse, ran across
my pathway. Following closely behind it, in hot pursuit, was a huge
reptilian monster, in outline something like a kangaroo, in size larger
than the largest elephant. Its monstrous, serpentlike head towered more
than twenty-five feet in the air as it suddenly stopped and stood erect
on its hind feet and tail, apparently giving up the chase.

Then it espied me. Quick as a flash, I turned and ran, dodging hither and
thither, floundering in the soft moss, stumbling over tangled vines and
occasionally overturning a mammoth toadstool. I could hear the horrible
beast crashing through the fern brakes, only a short distance behind me.

At last I came to a rocky hillside, and saw an opening about two feet
in diameter. Into this I plunged headlong, barely in time to escape the
frightful jaws which closed behind me with a terrifying _snap_. I lay on
the ground, panting for breath, in the far corner of the cave and just
out of reach of the ferocious monster. It appeared to be trying to widen
the opening with its huge front feet....

Someone had laid a hand on my arm and was gently trying to awaken me. The
cave and the horrible reptile disappeared, and I was again in my uncle’s
living-room. I turned, expecting to see Mrs. Rhodes, but saw no one.

There was, however, a hand on my arm. It ended at the wrist in a sort of
indescribable, filmy mass. I was now fully awake, and somewhat startled,
as may be imagined. The hand withdrew and seemed to float through the air
to the other side of the room.

I now observed in the room a sort of white vapor, from which other hands
were forming. Soon there were hands of all descriptions and sizes. They
were constantly in motion, some of them flexing the fingers as if to try
the newly-formed muscles, others beckoning, and still others clasped in
pairs, as if in greeting.

There were large, horny masculine hands, daintily-formed womanly hands,
and active, chubby little hands like those of children. Some of them were
perfectly modeled. Others, apparently in the process of formation, looked
like floating bits of chiffon, while still others had the appearance of
flat, empty gloves.

Two well-developed hands now emerged from the mass and moved a few feet
toward me. They waved as if attempting to attract my attention, and then
I could see they were forming letters of the deaf and dumb alphabet. They
spelled my name:

“B-I-L-L-Y.”

Then:

“S-A-V-E M-E B-I-L-L-Y.”

I managed to ask, “Who are you?”

The hands spelled:

“I A-M—”

Then they were withdrawn, with a jerk, into the group.

I could now see a new transformation taking place. The hands were drawn
together, dissolving into a white, irregular fluted column, surmounted by
a dark, hairy-looking mass. A bearded face seemed to be forming at the
top of the column, which was now widening out considerably, taking on the
semblance of a human form. In a moment a white-robed figure stood there,
the eyes turned upward and inward as if in fear and supplication, the
arms extended toward me.

The apparition began slowly to advance in my direction. It seemed to
glide along as if suspended in the air. There was no movement of walking,
just a slow, floating motion.

The phantom, when at the other end of the room, had seemed frightful
enough, but to see it coming toward me was unnerving—terrifying. The
nearer it approached, the more horrible it seemed, and the more firmly I
appeared rooted to the spot.

Soon it was towering above me. The eyes rolled downward and seemed to
look through mine into my very brain. The arms were extended to encircle
me, when the instinct of self-preservation came to my rescue.

I acted quickly, and apparently without volition. Overturning my chair
and rushing from the room, I ran out the front door and down the pathway.
I did not dare look back, but rushed blindly forth into the night.

Suddenly there was a brilliant glare of light. Something struck me with
considerable force, and I lost consciousness.

When I regained my senses I was lying in a bedroom, the room I had
occupied in my uncle’s house.

A beautiful girl was bending over me, bathing my fevered forehead from
time to time with cold water. Sunlight was streaming in at the window.
Outside, a robin was singing his morning song, his farewell to the
Northland, no doubt, as the stinging snow-laden winds of winter must soon
drive him southward.

I attempted to sit up, but sank back with a groan, as a sharp pain shot
through my right side.

My fair attendant laid a soft hand on my brow.

“You mustn’t do that again,” she said. “The telephone wires are down, so
father has driven to town for the doctor.”

Memories of the night returned. The apparition—my rush down the
pathway—the blinding light—the sudden shock—and then oblivion.

“Do you mind telling me,” I asked, “what it was that knocked me out, and
how you came so suddenly to my rescue?”

“It was our car that knocked you out,” she replied, “and it was no more
than right that I should do what I could to make you comfortable until
the doctor arrives.”

“Please tell me your name—won’t you?—and how it all happened.”

“My name is Ruth Randall. My father is Albert Randall, dean of the local
college. We had motored to Indianapolis, intending to spend the week-end
with friends, when we were notified of your uncle’s death. He and my
father were bosom friends, and together conducted many experiments in
psychical research. Naturally we hurried home at once, in order to attend
the funeral.

“We expected to make Peoria by midnight, but the storm came, and the
roads soon were almost impassable. It was only by putting on chains and
running at low speed most of the time that we were able to make any
progress. Just as we were passing this house, you rushed in front of the
car.

“Father says it is fortunate that we were compelled to run at low speed,
otherwise you would have been instantly killed. We brought you to the
door and aroused the housekeeper, who helped us get you to your room.
Father tried to phone for a doctor, but it was no use, as the lines were
torn down by the storm, so he drove to town for one. I think that is he
coming now. I hear a motor in the driveway.”

A few moments later two men entered—Professor Randall, tall, thin,
slightly stooped, and pale of face, and Doctor Rush, of medium height and
rather portly. The doctor wore glasses with very thick lenses, through
which he seemed almost to glare at me. He lost no time in taking my pulse
and temperature, pushing the pocket thermometer into my mouth with one
hand, and seizing my wrist with the other.

He removed the thermometer from my mouth, then, holding it up to the
light and squinting for a moment said “_Humph_,” and proceeded to paw me
over in search of broken bones. When he started manhandling my right
side I winced considerably. He presently located a couple of fractured
ribs.

After a painful half-hour, during which the injured ribs were set, he
left me with instructions to keep as still as possible, and let nature do
the rest.

The professor lingered for a moment, and I asked him to have Doctor Rush
examine my uncle’s body for signs of decomposition, as it was now more
than three days since his death.

Miss Randall, who had left the room during the examination, came in just
as her father was leaving, and said nice, sweet, sympathetic things, and
fluffed up my pillow for me and smoothed back my hair; and if the doctor
had taken my pulse at that moment he would have sworn my auricles and
ventricles were racing each other for the world’s championship.

“After all,” I thought, “having one’s ribs broken is not such an
unpleasant experience.”

Then her father entered—and my thoughts were turned into new channels.

“Doctor Rush has made a thorough examination,” he said, “and can find
absolutely no sign of decomposition on your uncle’s body. He frankly
admits that he is puzzled by this condition, and that it is a case
entirely outside his previous experience. He states that, from the
condition of the corpse, he would have been led to believe that death
took place only a few hours ago.”

“If you can spare the time,” I said, “and if it is not asking too much, I
should like to have you spend the day with me. I have much to tell you,
and many strange things have happened on which I sorely need your advice
and assistance. Joe Severs can take the doctor home.”

The professor kindly consented to stay, and his daughter went downstairs
to locate Joe and his flivver.

“The things of which I am about to tell you,” I began, “may seem like
the visions of an opium eater, or the hallucinations of a deranged mind.
In fact, they have even made me doubt by own sanity. However, I must
tell someone, and as you are an old and valued friend of my uncle’s, I
feel that whether or not you accept my story as a verity you will be a
sympathetic listener, and can offer some explanation—if, indeed, it be
possible to explain such singular happenings.”

I then related in detail everything that had happened since my arrival
at the farm, up to the moment when I rushed headlong in front of his
automobile.

He listened attentively, but whether he believed my narrative or not I
could not tell. When I had finished, he asked many questions about the
various phenomena I had witnessed, and seemed particularly interested
when I told him about the disappearance of the bat. He asked me where the
book, which had been used to dispatch the creature, might be found, and
immediately went downstairs, bringing it up a moment later.

A dry, white smudge was still faintly discernible on the cover. This he
examined carefully with a pocket microscope, then said:

“I will have to put this substance under a compound microscope, and also
test it chemically in my laboratory. It may be the means of explaining
all of the phenomena you have witnessed. I will drive home this afternoon
and make a thorough examination of this sample.”

“I should be very glad indeed,” I replied, “to have even some slight
explanation of these mysteries.”

“You are undoubtedly aware,” he said, “that there are no vampires or
similar bats indigenous to this part of the world. The only true vampire
bat is found in South America, although there is a type of frugivorous
bat slightly resembling it, which inhabits the southeast coast of Asia
and the Maylayan Archipelago, and is sometimes erroneously called a
vampire or spectre bat. You have described in detail a creature greatly
resembling the true vampire bat, but it is probable that what you saw
was no bat at all. What it really was, I hesitate to say until I have
examined the substance on this book cover.”

“Well, whatever it was, I am positive it was no real vampire, as Glitch
says,” I replied.

“I don’t like this vampire story that is being circulated by Glitch,”
said the professor. “It may lead to trouble. It is most surprising to
find such crude superstition prevailing in these modern times.”

At this juncture there was a rap at my door. I called, “come in,” and Joe
Severs entered.

“Well, Joe, did you get the doctor home without shaking any of his teeth
loose?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, I got him home all right, but that ain’t what I come to tell
you about,” he replied. “There’s a heap of trouble brewin’ around these
parts an’ I thought I better let you know. Somebody’s sick in nearly
every family in the neighborhood, an’ they’re sayin’ Mr. Braddock is the
cause of it. They’re holdin’ an indignation meetin’ up to the school
house now.”

“This is indeed serious,” said the professor. “Do you know what they
propose to do about it?”

“Can’t say as to that, but they’re sure some riled up about it,” replied
Joe.

Mrs. Rhodes came in with my luncheon, and announced to the professor that
Miss Ruth awaited him in the dining-room below, whereupon he begged to
be excused. Joe went out murmuring something about having to feed the
horses, and I was left alone to enjoy a very tasty meal.


_CHAPTER IV._

A half hour later the housekeeper came in to remove the dishes, and Miss
Randall brought me a huge bouquet of autumn daisies.

“Father has driven to town to analyze a sample of something or other that
he has found,” she said, “and in the meantime I will do my best to make
the hours pass pleasantly for you. What do you want me to do? Shall I
read to you?”

“By all means,” I replied. “Read, or talk, or do anything you like. I
assure you I am not hard to amuse.”

“I think I shall read,” she decided. “What do you prefer? Fiction,
history, mythology, philosophy? Or perhaps,” she added, “you prefer
poetry.”

“I will leave the selection entirely to you,” I said. “Read what
interests you, and I will be interested.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered, and went down to my uncle’s
library.

She returned a few moments later with several volumes. From a book of
Scott’s poems, she chose “Rokeby” and soon we were conveyed, as if by
a Magic carpet, to medieval Yorkshire with its moated castles, dense
forests, sparkling streams, jutting crags and enchanted dells.

She had finished the poem, and we were chatting gaily, when Mrs. Rhodes
entered.

“A small boy brought this note for you, sir,” she said, handing me a
sealed envelope.

I tore it open carelessly, then read:

    “_Mr. William Ansley.
    Dear Sir_:

    “_Owing to the fact that at least one member of nearly every
    family in this community has been smitten with a peculiar
    malady, in some instances fatal, since the death of James
    Braddock, and in view of the undeniable evidence that the
    corpse of the aforesaid has become a vampire, proven by
    certain things which you, in company with two respected and
    veracious neighbors witnessed, an indignation meeting was held
    today, attended by more than one hundred residents, for the
    purpose of discussing ways and means of combating this terrible
    menace to the community._

    “_Tradition tells us that there are two effective ways for
    disposing of a vampire. One is by burning the corpse of the
    offender, the other is by burial with a stake driven through
    the heart. We have decided on the latter as the more simple and
    easily carried out._

    “_You are therefore directed to convey the corpse to the
    pine grove which is situated a half mile back from the road
    on your uncle’s farm, where you will find a grave ready dug,
    and six men who will see that the body is properly interred.
    You have until eight o’clock this evening to carry out these
    instructions._

    “_To refuse to do as directed will avail you nothing._ IF YOU
    DO NOT BRING THE BODY WE WILL COME AND GET IT. _If you offer
    resistance, you do so at your peril, as we are armed, and we
    mean business._

                                                   “_THE COMMITTEE._

    _P. S. No use to try to telephone or send a messenger for help.
    Your wires are out of commission and the house is surrounded by
    armed sentinels._”

As the professor had predicted, this was indeed a most serious turn of
events. I turned to Mrs. Rhodes.

“Where is the bearer of this letter?” I asked. “Did he wait for a reply?”

“It was given to me by a small boy,” she answered. “He said that if you
wished to reply, to put your letter in the mail-box, and it would be
given to the right party. There was a closed automobile waiting for him
in front of the house, and he ran back to it and was driven away at high
speed.”

“I must dress and go downstairs at once,” I said.

“You must do no such thing,” replied Miss Randall. “The doctor’s orders
are that you must keep perfectly quiet until your ribs heal.”

I heard a swift footfall on the stairs, and a moment later the professor
entered the room, very much excited.

“Two farmers,” he said, “poked shotguns in my face and searched me on the
public highway. That’s what just happened to me!”

“What do you suppose they were after?” I asked.

“They did not make themselves clear on that point, and they didn’t take
anything, so I am at a loss to explain their conduct. They merely stopped
me, felt through my pockets and searched the car; then told me to drive
on.”

“Perhaps this will throw some light on their motive,” I said, handing him
the letter.

As he read it a look of surprise came over his face.

“Ah! It is quite plain, now. These were the armed guards mentioned in the
postscript. It seems incredible that such superstition should prevail
in this enlightened age; however, the evidence is quite too plain to be
questioned. What is to be done?”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” I replied. “We are evidently so well watched
that it would be impossible for anyone to go for help. Of course, they
cannot harm my deceased uncle by driving a stake through the corpse,
but to permit these barbarians to carry out their purpose would be to
desecrate the memory of the best friend I ever had.”

“What are they going to do?” asked Miss Randall in alarm. I handed her
the letter. She read it hastily, then ran downstairs to see if the
telephone was working.

“What would you say if I were to tell you there is a strong possibility
that your uncle’s body is _not_ a corpse; or, in other words, that he is
not _really dead_?” asked the professor.

“I would say that if there is the slightest possibility of that, they
will make a corpse of me before they stage this vampire funeral,” I
replied, starting to dress.

“I am with you in that,” said he, extending his hand, “and now let us
examine the evidence.”

“By all means,” I answered.

“According to the belief of most modern psychologists,” he began,
“every human being is endowed with two minds. One is usually termed the
objective, or conscious mind, the other the subjective, or subconscious
mind. Some call it the subliminal consciousness. The former controls our
waking hours, the latter is dominant when we are asleep.

“You are, no doubt, familiar with the functions and powers of the
objective mind, so we will not discuss them. The powers of the subjective
mind, which are not generally known or recognized, are what chiefly
concern us in this instance.

“My belief that your uncle is not really dead started when I first heard
your story. It was later substantiated by two significant facts. I will
take up the various points in their logical order, and you may judge for
yourself as to whether or not my hypothesis is fully justified.

“First, upon seeing him lying in the casket, you involuntarily exclaimed,
‘He is not dead—only sleeping.’ This apparently absurd statement,
unsubstantiated by objective evidence, was undoubtedly prompted by
your subjective mind. One of the best known powers of the subjective
mind is that of telepathy, the communication of thoughts or ideas from
mind to mind, without the employment of physical means. This message
was apparently impressed so strongly on your subjective mind that you
spoke it aloud, automatically, almost without the subjective knowledge
that you were talking. Assuming that it was a telepathic message, it
must necessarily have been projected by _some other mind_. May we not,
therefore, reasonably suppose that the message came from the subjective
mind of your uncle?

“Then the second message. Was it not plainly from someone who knew you
intimately, someone in dire need? You will recall that, just before you
fell asleep, you seemed to hear the words, ‘_Billy! Save me, Billy._’

“And now, as to the phenomena: I must confess that I was somewhat in
doubt, at first, regarding these. Not that I questioned your veracity
in the least, for no man rushes blindly in front of a moving automobile
without sufficient cause, but the sights which you witnessed were so
striking and unusual that I felt sure they must have been hallucinations.
On second thought, however, I decided it would be quite out of the
ordinary for you and two other men to have the same hallucinations. It
was, therefore, apparent that you had witnessed genuine materialization
phenomena.

“The key to the whole situation, however, lay in the seemingly
insignificant smudge on the book cover. Two years ago your uncle advanced
a theory that materialization phenomena were produced by a substance
which he termed ‘psychoplasm.’ After listening to his argument, I was
convinced that he was right. Since then, we have attended numerous
materialization seances, with the object of securing a sample of this
elusive material for examination. It always disappears instantly when
a bright light is flashed upon it, or when the medium is startled or
alarmed, and our efforts in this direction have always been fruitless.

“Needless to say, when you described the deposit left on the book by
the phantasmic bat, I was intensely interested. Microscopic examination
and analysis show that this substance is something quite different from
anything I have ever encountered. While it is undoubtedly organic, it is
nevertheless remarkably different, in structure and composition, from
anything heretofore classified, either by biologists or chemists. In
short, I am convinced it is that substance which has eluded us for so
long, namely, psychoplasm.

“No doubt you will wonder what bearing this has on the question under
discussion—that is, whether or not your uncle still lives. As far as we
are able to learn, psychoplasm is produced only by, or through, _living_
persons, and in nearly every instance it occurs only when the person
acting as medium is in a state of catalepsy, or suspended animation. As
most of the manifestations took place in the room where your uncle’s body
lay, and as he is the only one in the house likely to be in that state, I
assume that your uncle’s soul still inhabits his body.

“The final point, and by no means the least important, is that in spite
of the time which has elapsed since his alleged death—in spite of that
fact that it lay in a warm room without refrigeration or embalming
fluid—your uncle’s body shows absolutely no sign of decomposition.”

“But how is it possible,” I asked, “for a person in a cataleptic state to
simulate death so completely as to deceive the most competent physicians?”

“How such a thing is possible, I cannot explain, any more than I can tell
you how psychoplasm is generated. The wonderful powers of the subjective
entity are truly amazing. We can only deal with the facts as we find
them. Statistics show that no less than one case a week of suspended
animation is discovered in the United States. There are, no doubt,
hundreds of other cases which are never brought to light. As a usual
thing, nowadays, the doctor no sooner pronounces the patient dead than
the undertaker is summoned. Needless to say, when the arteries have been
drained and the embalming fluid injected, there is absolutely no chance
of the patient coming to life.”

Together, we walked downstairs and entered the room where Uncle Jim
lay. We looked carefully, minutely, for some sign of life, but none was
apparent.

“It is useless,” said the professor, “to employ physical means at this
time. However, I have an experiment to propose, which, if successful, may
prove my theory. As I stated previously, you are, no doubt, subjectively
in mental _enrapport_ with your uncle. Your subjective mind constantly
communicates with his, but you lack the power to elevate the messages to
your objective consciousness. My daughter has cultivated to some extent
the power of automatic writing. You can, no doubt, establish rapport with
her by touch. I will put the questions.”

Miss Randall was called, and upon our explaining to her that we wished to
conduct an experiment in automatic writing, she readily consented. Her
father seated her at the library table, with pencil and paper near her
right hand. He then held a small hand mirror before her, slightly above
the level of her eyes, on which she fixed her gaze.

When she had looked steadily at the mirror for a short time he made a
few hypnotic passes with his hands, whereupon she closed her eyes and
apparently fell into a light sleep. Then, placing the pencil in her
right hand, he told me to be seated beside her, and place my right hand
over her left. We sat thus for perhaps ten minutes, when she began to
write, very slowly at first, then gradually increasing in speed until the
pencil fairly flew over the paper. When the bottom of the sheet had been
reached, a new one was supplied, and this was half covered with writing
before she stopped.

The professor and I examined the resulting manuscript. Something about
it seemed strangely familiar to me. I remembered seeing those words in a
book I had picked up in that same room. On making a comparison, we found
that she had written, word for word, the introduction to my uncle’s book,
“The Reality of Materialization Phenomena.”

“We will now ask some questions,” said the professor.

He took a pencil and paper and made a record of his questions the answers
to which were written by his daughter. I have copied them verbatim, and
present them below.

_Q_: “Who are you that writes?”

_A_: “Ruth.”

_Q_: “By whose direction do you write?”

_A_: “Billy.”

_Q_: “Who directs Billy to direct you to write as you do?”

_A_: “Uncle Jim.”

_Q_: “How are we to know that it is Uncle Jim?”

_A_: “Uncle Jim will give proof.”

_Q_: “If Uncle Jim will tell us something which he knows and we do not
know, but which we can find out, he will have furnished sufficient proof.
What can Uncle Jim tell us?”

_A_: “Remove third book from left top shelf of book case. Shake book and
pressed maple leaf will fall out.”

(The professor removed and shook it as directed, and a pressed maple leaf
fell to the floor.)

_Q_: “What further proof can Uncle Jim give?”

_A_: “Get key from small urn on mantle. Open desk in corner and take
out small ledger. Turn to page sixty and find account of Peoria Grain
Company. Account balanced October first by check for one thousand two
hundred forty-eight dollars and sixty-three cents.”

(Again the professor did as directed, and again the written statement was
corroborated.)

_Q_: “The proof is ample and convincing. Will Uncle Jim tell us where he
is at the present time?”

_A_: “Here in the room.”

_Q_: “What means shall we use to awaken him?”

_A_: “Uncle Jim is recuperating. Does not wish to be awakened.”

_Q_: “But we want Uncle Jim to waken some time. What shall we do?”

_A_: “Let Uncle Jim alone, and he will waken naturally when the time
comes.”

The professor propounded several more queries, to which there were no
answers, so we discontinued the sitting. Miss Randall was awakened by
suggestion.

“We now have conclusive proof that your uncle is alive, and in a
cataleptic state,” said the professor.

“Is there no way to arouse him?” I asked.

“The best thing to do is to let him waken himself, as he directed us
to do in the telepathic message. He is, as he says, recuperating from
his illness and should not be disturbed. You are, perhaps, unaware that
catalepsy, although believed by many people to be a disease, is really
no disease at all. While it is known as a symptom of certain nervous
disorders, it may accompany any form of sickness, or may even be caused
by a mental or physical shock of some sort.

“It can also be induced in hypnotization by suggestion. Do not think
of it as a form of sickness, but, rather, as a very deep sleep, which
permits the patient much needed rest for an overburdened body and mind;
for it is a well-known fact that when catalepsy intervenes in any form of
sickness, death is usually cheated.”

“Would it be dangerous to my uncle’s health if we were to remove him to
his bedroom?” I asked. “It seems to me that a coffin is rather a gruesome
thing for him to convalesce in.”

“Agreed,” said the professor, “and I can see no particular harm in moving
him, provided he is handled very gently. Ruth, will you please have Mrs.
Rhodes make the room ready? Mr. Ansley and I will then carry his uncle
upstairs.”

While Miss Randall was doing her father’s bidding we tried to contrive
a way to outwit the superstitious farmers, who would arrive in a few
minutes if they made good their threat.

My eye fell upon two large oak logs, which young Severs had brought for
the fireplace, and I said:

“Why not weight the casket with these logs and screw the lid down? No
doubt they will carry it out without opening it, and when they are well
on their way we can place my uncle in your car and be out of reach before
they discover the substitution.”

“A capital idea,” said the professor. “We will wrap the logs well so they
will not rattle, and, as the casket is an especially heavy one, they will
be none the wiser until it is opened at the grave.”

I ran upstairs and tore two heavy comforters from my bed, and with these
we soon had the logs well padded. Miss Randall called that the room was
ready. The professor and I carefully lifted my uncle from the casket and
were about to take him from the room, when a gruff voice commanded:

“Schtop!”

A dozen masked men, armed indiscriminately with shotguns, rifles and
revolvers, were standing in the hall. We could hear the stamping of many
more on the porch. I recognized the voice and figure of the leader as
those of Glitch.

“Back in der coffin,” he said, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at me.
“Poot him back, or I blow your tam head off.”

Then several other men came in and menaced us with their weapons.


CHAPTER V.

I dropped my uncle’s feet and rushed furiously at Glitch, but was quickly
seized and overpowered by two stalwart farmers.

The professor, however, was more calm. He laid my uncle gently on the
floor and faced the men.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “may I ask the reason for this sudden and
unwarranted intrusion in a peaceful home?”

“Ve are going to bury dot vampire corpse mit a stake t’rough its heart.
Dot’s vot,” replied Glitch.

“What would you do if I were to tell you that this man is not dead, but
alive?” asked the professor.

“Alive or dead, he’s gonna be buried tonight,” said a burly ruffian,
stepping up to my uncle. “One o’ you guys help me get this in the coffin.”

A tall, lean farmer stepped up and leaned his gun against the casket.
Then the two of them roughly lifted my uncle into it and screwed down the
lid.

In the meantime, another had discovered the wrapped logs, to which he
called the attention of his companions.

“Well, I’ll be blowed!” he said. “Thought yuh was pretty slick, didn’t
yuh? Thought yuh could fool us with a coupla logs? Just for that we’ll
take yuh along to the party so yuh don’t try no more fancy capers.”

“Gentlemen,” said the professor, “do you realize that you will be
committing a murder if you bury this man’s body?”

“Murder, hell!” exclaimed one. “He killed my boy.”

“He sucked my daughter’s blood,” cried another.

“An’ my brother is lyin’ in his death bed on account of him,” shouted a
third.

“Come on, let’s go,” said the burly ruffian. “Some o’ you boys grab hold
o’ them handles, an’ we’ll change shifts goin’ out.”

“Yah. Ve vill proceed,” said Glitch. “Vorwarts!”

“If you will permit me, I will go and reassure my daughter before
accompanying you,” said the professor. “She is very nervous and may be
prostrated with fear if I do not calm her.”

“Go ahead and be quick about it,” said the ruffian. “Don’t try no funny
stunts, though, or we’ll use the stake on you, too.”

The professor hurried upstairs and, on his return a moment later, the
funeral cortege proceeded.

It was pitch dark outside, and therefore necessary for some of the men to
carry lanterns. One of these led the way. Immediately after him walked
six men bearing the casket, behind which the professor and I walked with
an armed guard on either side of us.

Following, were the remainder of the men, some twenty-five all told.
There was no talking, except at intervals when the pall-bearers were
relieved by others. This occurred a number of times, as the burden was
heavy and the way none too smooth.

I walked as one in a trance. It seemed that my feet moved automatically,
as if directed by a power outside myself. Sometimes I thought it all
a horrible nightmare from which I should presently awaken. Then the
realization of the terrible truth would come to me, engendering a grief
that seemed unbearable.

I mentally reviewed the many kindnesses of my uncle. I thought of his
generous self-sacrifice, that I might be educated to cope with the world;
and now that the time had come when I should be of service to him—when
his very life was to be taken—I was failing him, failing miserably.

I cudgeled my numb brain for some way of outwitting the superstitious
farmers. Once I thought of wresting the gun from my guard and fighting
the mob alone, but I knew this would be useless. I would merely delay,
not defeat, the grisly plans of these men, and would be almost sure to
lose my own life in the attempt. I was faint and weak, and my broken ribs
pained incessantly.

All too soon, we arrived at the pine grove, and moved toward a point from
which the rays of a lantern glimmered faintly through the trees. A few
moments more, and we were beside a shallow grave at which the six grim
sextons, masked like their companions, waited.

The casket was placed in the grave and the lid removed. Then a long,
stout stake, sharply pointed with iron, was brought forward, and two men
with heavy sledges moved, one to each side of the grave.

Here a discussion arose as to whether it would be better to drive the
stake through the body and then replace the lid, or to put the lid on
first and then drive the stake through the entire coffin. The latter plan
was finally decided upon, and the lid replaced, when we were all startled
by a terrible screaming coming from a thicket, perhaps a hundred yards
distant. It was the voice of a woman in mortal terror.

“_Help!_ Save me—save me!” she cried. “Oh, my God, will nobody save me?”

In a moment, all was confusion. Stake and mauls were dropped, and
everyone rushed toward the thicket. The cries redoubled as we approached.
Presently we saw a woman running through the underbrush, and after a
chase of several minutes, overtook her. My heart leaped to my throat as I
recognized Ruth Randall.

She was crouching low, as if in deadly fear of something which she seemed
to be trying to push away from her—something invisible, imperceptible,
to us. Her beautiful hair hung below her waist, and her clothing was
bedraggled and torn.

I was first to reach her side.

“Ruth! What is the matter?”

“Oh, that huge bat—that terrible bat with the fiery eyes! Drive him away
from me! Don’t let him get me! Please! _Please!_”

I tried to soothe her in my arms. She looked up, her eyes distended with
terror.

“There he is—right behind you! Oh, don’t let him get me! Please don’t let
him get me!”

I looked back, but could see nothing resembling a bat. The armed men
stood around us in a circle.

“There is no bat behind me,” I said. “You are overwrought. Don’t be
frightened.”

“But there _is_ a bat. I can _see_ him. He is flying around us in a
circle now. Don’t you see him flying there?” and she described an arc
with her hand. “You men have guns. Shoot him. Drive him away.”

Glitch spoke. “It’s der vampire again. Ve’ll put a schtop to dis business
right now. Come on, men.”

We started back to the grove. I was nonplussed—mystified. Perhaps there
was such a thing as a vampire, after all. But no, that could not be. She
was only the victim of overwrought nerves.

Once more we stood beside the grave. Two men were screwing down the
coffin lid. The three with the stake and sledges stood ready. I saw that
Miss Randall was trembling with the cold, for she had come out without a
wrap, and, removing my coat, I placed it around her.

The professor stood at the foot of the grave, looking down calmly at the
men. He appeared almost unconcerned.

The stake was placed on the spot calculated to be directly above the left
breast of my uncle, and the man nearest me raised his sledge to strike.

I leaped toward him.

“Don’t strike! For God’s sake, don’t strike!” I cried, seizing his arm.

Someone hit me on the back of the head, and strong arms dragged me back.
My senses reeled, as I saw first one heavy sledge descend, then another.
The stake crashed through the coffin and deep into the ground beneath,
driven by the relentless blows.

Suddenly, apparently from the bottom of the grave, came a muffled,
wailing cry, increasing to a horrible, blood-curdling shriek.

The mob stood for a moment as if paralyzed, then, to a man, fled
precipitately, stopping for neither weapons nor tools. I found temporary
relief in unconsciousness....

My senses returned to me gradually. I was walking, or, rather, reeling,
as one intoxicated, between Miss Randall and her father, who were helping
me toward the house. The professor was carrying a lantern which one of
the men had dropped, and fantastic, swaying, bobbing shadows stretched
wherever its rays penetrated.

After what seemed an age of painful travel we reached the house, and Miss
Randall helped me into the front room, the professor following. Sam and
Joe Severs were there, and someone reclined in the large morris chair
facing the fire. Mrs. Rhodes came bustling in with a steaming tea wagon.

I moved toward the fire, for I was chilled through. As I did so, I
glanced toward the occupant of the morris chair, then gave a startled
cry.

_The man in the chair was Uncle Jim!_

“Hello, Billy,” he said. “How are you, my boy?”

For a moment I was speechless. “Uncle Jim!” I managed to stammer. “Is it
really you, or am I dreaming again?”

Ruth squeezed my arm reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid. It is really your
uncle.”

I knelt by the chair and felt Uncle Jim’s arm about my shoulders. “Yes,
it is really I, Billy. A bit weak and shaken, perhaps, but I’ll soon be
as sound as a new dollar.”

“But how—when—how did you get out of that horrible grave?”

“First, I will ask Miss Ruth if she will be so kind as to preside over
the tea wagon. Then I believe my friend Randall can recount the events of
the evening much more clearly and satisfactorily than I.”

“Being, perhaps, more familiar with the evening’s deep-laid plot than
some of those present, I accept the nomination,” replied the professor,
smiling, “although, in doing so, I do not want to detract one iota from
the honor due my fellow plotters for their most efficient assistance,
without which my plan would have been a complete failure.”

Tea was served, cigars were lighted, and the professor began:

“In the first place, I am sure you will all be interested in knowing the
cause of the epidemic on account of which some of our neighbors have
reverted to the superstition of the dark ages. It is explained by an
article in _The Peoria Times_, which I brought with me this afternoon,
but did not have time to read until a moment ago, which states that the
countryside is being swept by a new and strange malady known as ‘sleeping
sickness,’ and that physicians have not, as yet, found any efficient
means of combating the disease.

“Now for this evening’s little drama. You will, no doubt, recall, Mr.
Ansley, that before we joined the funeral procession, I requested a
moment’s conversation with my daughter. The events which followed were
the result of that conversation.

“In order that the plan might be carried out, it was necessary for her
first to gain the help of Joe and Sam here, and then make a quick detour
around the procession. I know that there are few men who will not rush
to the rescue of a woman in distress, and I asked her to call for help
in order to divert the mob from the grave. She thought of the bat idea
herself, and I must say it worked most excellently.

“While everyone was gone, Joe and Sam, who had stationed themselves
nearby, came and helped me remove your uncle from the casket. As we did
so, I noticed signs of returning consciousness, brought about in some
measure, no doubt, by the rude jolting of the casket. Then the boys
carried him to the house, while I replaced the lid. You are all familiar
with what followed.”

“But that unearthly shriek from the grave,” I said. “It sounded like the
cry of a dying man.”

“Ventriloquism,” said the professor, “nothing more. A simple little trick
I learned in my high school days. It was I who shrieked.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Uncle Jim and I convalesced together.

When my ribs were knitted and his strength was restored, it was decided
that he should go to Florida for the winter, and that I should have
charge of the farm. He said that my education and training should make me
a far more capable manager than he, and that the position should be mine
as long as I desired it.

He delayed his trip, however, until a certain girl, who had made me a
certain promise, exchanged the name of Randall for that of Ansley. Then
he left us to our happiness.


THE END.




_Can the Dead Return to Life? Before You Answer, Read_

_The Conquering Will_

_By_ TED OLSON


_Gordon Paige is dead now, and surely there can be no harm in giving to
the world this mad story, contained in the manuscript he left behind.
Many will think that the man WAS mad; many will believe that he was
attempting to perpetrate an immense and grotesque hoax. I do not know. I
do know that Gordon always impressed me as the sanest of men, and surely
he never seemed a man to father so strange and horrible a practical joke.
But it is not for me to tell you what I believe, or attempt to force upon
you my own opinion. Rather I shall offer the story as he left it, and let
you interpret it as a joke or a madman’s dream, or a remarkable document
from that mysterious border realm of which we know so little._

What is Soul? Who can define it? What is that intangible quality that
makes me what I am, that brands me as a creature distinct, individual,
with an entity that is my own and none other’s?

Who can answer? I do not know. I can only tell you my story—the story of
Malcolm Rae—and ask that you give it what credence you can.

It was two years ago that I bade Jane Cavanaugh good-by at the railway
station in our little home town of Radford. She was weeping, and clumsily
I tried to comfort her.

“I sha’n’t be gone long, dearest,” I said. “A year isn’t long. I’ll be
back in June, when my work is done. Then—we’ll be married, and we’ll
never be separated again.”

“I know,” she answered. “I’m foolish.” She smiled up at me bravely, an
April smile, with the tears still glistening in her brown eyes. “But—I’ve
been frightened, somehow. It seems so far, up in that cold wilderness,
and I’ve had you such a short time. I won’t be foolish again.”

The northbound train began to move, and for the last time I caught her in
my arms and pressed my lips to hers.

“In June, dear. I’ll be back. I promise. Don’t worry,” I said again, as I
swung upon the step of the Pullman.

She was smiling—that brave, April smile—and I watched her until the train
carried me beyond sight of her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Northward we went, Dan Murdock and I. Somewhere in those barren mountains
in the untrammeled Northwest of Canada, a grizzled old prospector had
unearthed a store of that precious stuff, tungsten. Murdock and I had
been sent by our government to investigate it, determine its value, its
quantity, and report.

It was a long task that awaited us. August was already upon us. The
road inland was long and hard. It would be winter when we reached the
prospect, spring before we could hope to complete our data and return.

Four days took us to the end of the railroad—a station tumbled in
the midst of scarce-broken prairie and timberland. There we met the
prospector, a shriveled, wiry, hairy old man, marked indelibly with the
brand that men bear who have lived much in solitude.

From there our trail led northwest. Up waterways we pressed, across
silent, silver lakes, hemmed in to the very brim with an untouched
growth of pine and spruce; across portages, where streams thundered down
precipitous canyons while we laboriously transported canoe and duffel
through the timber, following faint paths that told plainly how rarely
they had known human foot prints.

August passed—a series of long days filled only with the toil of paddle
and portage. September was on us, and the days grew shorter, and sharp at
either end. We were in a veritable untrodden land now. The mountains were
close upon us. The portages grew more frequent, the way more rough and
toilsome. Norton, the leathery-skinned old prospector, informed us curtly
one morning, “Four more days, and we’re there.”

That day we abandoned the canoe, cacheing it safely in shrubbery and
underbush. For two days we pressed upward, packing across a ridge that
tested our strength to the utmost.

The morning of the third day found us once more on water. We had reached
a deep, swift river, a stream that flowed to the north. We had crossed
the divide and were on a tributary of the Mackenzie. From a cunning cache
Norton drew forth another canoe, and we sped at ease down the stream.

And then—came the tragedy. It was noon of the fourth day. From round the
bend in the river we heard the unmistakable roar of rapids.

“Portage?” queried Dan of our guide.

Norton shook his head. “Shoot ’er,” he answered curtly.

A moment later we swung round the bend. Before us the banks drew suddenly
closer together, and the river narrowed and shot down between granite
walls. The channel was checkered with boulders, around them the tortured
waters spat and hissed, flung themselves high in unavailing anger, yelled
their rage in deafening uproar.

Dan and I glanced questioningly. One narrow channel we could
see—perilously narrow, perilously swift. But it was too late to
reconsider. Already the waters quickened beneath us, bore us on with an
insidious smoothness that was belied by the speed with which the canyon
walls shot by. Norton sat poised at the bow, alert, ready. Murdock and I
gripped our paddles. In a moment we were in it.

With sickening speed we shot into the turmoil. The roar rang in our ears
terrifyingly. Spray shot over and drenched us. We battled furiously,
plunging our paddles deep as Norton signaled us. The light craft seemed
to leap and bound, like a runner at the hurdles, gathering impetus at
each new thrust.

Then—a rock seemed to leap up in our very path. Dan, kneeling
amidships, gave a cry of terror, and plunged wildly with his paddle.
The delicately-balanced boat swayed, lost for a moment its poise, slued
sideways.

A splintering crash, and I found myself in the seething water.

How I lived I do not know. I was a strong swimmer, but in that blind
turmoil, skill availed little. I was borne headlong. I was conscious of
boulders bludgeoning me cruelly. But suddenly the waters grew quieter. I
was swept into an eddy at the foot of the canyon. Somehow, I struck out
weakly, and, blind, breathless, and beaten, drew myself on a gravelly bar.

How long I lay there I can only guess. Bit by bit my strength returned. I
sat up. I was on the edge of a mountain meadow, through which the stream
swept, still foaming and boisterous. The thunder of the canyon came to me
noisily.

The sound of it called me suddenly to a realization of my position. I
strove to rise. A sickening, terrible pain shot through me, and as I
dropped back to the sand I knew that my left leg was shattered.

It was not long before I knew the worst. Murdock and Norton were dead. I
could not doubt the truth. Dan, as I knew, could not swim; and even had
he been an expert swimmer it would be but through blind good fortune that
any man could live in that seething torrent.

By such blind luck I had been saved. For what? Crippled, alone, with
neither food nor shelter, in a wilderness hundreds of miles from human
aid, with winter hanging imminent, what chance did I have? Saved? Yes—for
death by slow torture!

For a moment, as the realization sent a sick despair through me, I was
tempted to plunge once more into the river, and let the waters finish
their work. But I dismissed the cowardly impulse. I would not despair. I
_would not die_!

I took a more careful review of my surroundings. For the first time
I saw, on the bank not a hundred yards away, a cabin—a mere pen of
mud-plastered logs, but still a cabin. On the hillside above it was a
scar in the earth. It was Norton’s cabin, Norton’s mine. But Norton was
dead.

The sight gave me new courage. There was yet hope. I dragged myself to a
kneeling position, gritting my teeth until the pain cleared a bit, and
then began to creep toward the cabin.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was torture, every inch of the way. Twice I fainted with the sheer
agony. But I kept on. It had been noon when we neared the canyon. The
sun was setting when I drew my body across the cabin door and fell in a
stupor on the floor. There I lay until morning.

The pale dawn found me tossing in a high fever. I must have been
delirious for days. But after a time I woke, very weak, but rational. I
began to take stock of my surroundings.

I had hoped to find the cabin well stocked with provisions. A hasty
survey proved that my hopes were vain. The tiny room was almost barren.
A hand made cupboard stood in one corner, but it was all but empty. A
driblet of flour, a strip of moldy bacon, a few shreds of jerked venison.
Again despair shook me nauseatingly, again I banished it with grim
resolve.

With the scant supply of wood I built a fire, dragging myself somehow
around the room to get what I needed. There was water in a pail by the
fireplace. I brewed the jerked meat for an hour. The resultant mixture
was a weak, tasteless broth. Yet it was food—the first I had tasted for
days. I drank some of it, and felt stronger.

My shattered leg had begun to knit. I had set it as best I could before
the fever took me. Now it pained greatly, but with the aid of an old
broom that I found I made shift to move around. And again hope flared
warm in my heart. I built the fire high, and crawled under the robes in
Norton’s bunk.

In the night I woke uneasily. First I was conscious of the throbbing in
my leg; then I realized that what had aroused me was the sound of the
wind roaring and shrieking past the walls, yelling like a horde of demons
without.

Above my head was a window, made of caribou skin scraped parchment-thin,
and against this I could hear the spit and rattle of snow. The fire had
died to embers, and a bitter chill crept through the cabin. Winter had
come.

At dawn it was still storming. For three days the blizzard kept up. I
huddled in my robes, fed the fire from the diminishing pile of wood, ate
sparingly of the scanty food. And again the fear began to play upon my
heart with chill fingers; again I strove to banish it with grim resolve.

On the fourth day the snow ceased, but the wind remained unabated. It
grew terribly cold. And on that day my woodpile dwindled to nothing, my
last scrap of food vanished.

It grew colder. I kept the fire burning charily, feeding it, bit by
bit, the scanty furniture that Norton had made with axe and hammer. I
husbanded every bit, crouching over the merest spark of a flame, wrapping
my thin body in robe and fur to conserve the precious warmth.

And still the storm raved around the cabin. Still the screaming wind
drove the snowflakes against the windows, through badly-chinked
crevices—a malicious, devilish wind, that seemed, to my disordered brain,
to be an embodied spirit of evil bent on my destruction. And still the
cold penetrated, mocking my efforts to stave it off.

Hunger and cold and pain combined to sap my strength. I grew delirious.
For hours I forgot where I was, lived again the hours I had spent with
Jane, saw her as I remembered her, a slim, exquisite thing, dark of hair,
luminous of face, a spirit thing, too fine for man’s possession. And
again I pressed her in my arms, and swore that I would return.

Waking from such visions, the will to live burned very strong in me. I
_would_ live; I _would_ return. I swore it. Death could not conquer me;
could not conquer love. Yet all the time I grew weaker; the flame of life
flickered lower in my emaciated body.

The body was dying. I knew it. It scarce had strength now to cast more
wood on the dying fire. Within it the pulse of existence flickered
feebly. But never was the real _me_ more alive. I burned fiercely with
the desire to live. I swore I should not die.

Then one morning I awoke. The fire was out. Yet I was not cold. I
attempted to rise; my body did not answer. I attempted to speak; no words
came. Then I knew.

In the night the body had died. It lay there now, stiff, still. It had
ceased to live.

But _I_ was not dead. I could see my body lying there, a cast-off thing.
But _I_ was here.

The entity that was I had not perished with the flesh. The will to live
was still mine. And I was alive! I was infinitely alive.

My perceptions were a hundred times clearer. I saw, I heard, I felt, as I
never had before. And it seemed as if my whole being were concentrated in
the one desire—to see Jane, to tell her I still lived.

And then there shot through my brain a terrible, sickening thought. To
all the world’s knowledge I was dead. I was no longer flesh, but spirit.
I could see Jane, no doubt, but I could never make myself known to her. I
had lost her.

       *       *       *       *       *

The most exquisite torture of soul racked me as the realization came. I
was not dead. There was no death; my will had conquered it. But I was
hopelessly and forever exiled from the world I had known. That warm
familiar world that held love and so many other things, was forever taken
away from me.

Hopelessly exiled! Again my will revolted at the thought. Why was I
forever condemned to such exile? There lay the body. It had ceased to
live, in truth. I had shed it as one does a garment. But why could I not
don it again?

The body had stopped because of external, physical reasons. The soul
had fled because living soul could not inhabit dead flesh. But if the
physical conditions that had ended life were removed, could not the soul
again restore it to life? If aid, food, warmth were to come, could I not
live again in the body?

And so I waited. Soul kept vigil over body in that room—the two that
had been linked so inextricably for thirty-one years, now divorced so
irrevocably. You call it bizarre? That is because I tell it to you thus.
How do you know but that it has happened times without number? You have
watched by dead bodies, perhaps. How do you know that strange, invisible
guest may not have shared the vigil with you?

And so I waited. Night came. The wind had died a little outside, and
through the cold I heard the distant howl of wolves.

Again the howls came, and closer this time. It was a pack in full cry,
spurred on by hunger, questing through the frozen solitudes for food. And
now I could hear them in the clearing, and suddenly I realized what they
sought.

Forgetting my impotence, I strove with desperate hands to bar the door
more tightly. I seized my rifle—or tried to seize it. It was vain. Spirit
has no fear from dangers of this world; equally it has no means of
defense.

Round the cabin the wolves circled cautiously. I could hear them sniffing
at the door.

Then one brute dashed himself against the panels. The stout frame
quivered, but held. A long-drawn howl came; it thrilled me with terror.
Then another clawed at the caribou-skin of the window.

A gleaming claw shot through, a pair of slavering jaws followed. In a
minute they were in.

Can you dream of a thing so horrible as to watch your own body being torn
apart by wild beasts?

They snarled, they fought. Their fangs clipped and tore. I grew sick
with despair. The night was hideous with their snarls and yowling.

Unable to endure it, I fled. And horror tore at my heart. For now I knew
I was indeed exile. The fleshly cloak that I had forsaken, that I had
hoped to resume, was torn, destroyed.

I had only one wish now. To see Jane again, even though I could not speak
to her, could not hold her in my arms. To see her at least, bitter as it
would be, were still consolation.

There are no bounds of time or space to the unfettered soul. And so I
found myself, without knowing how, in that long, homelike room where we
had sat so often, with the fire flaming cheerily on the great hearth,
the friendly books and pictures, everything that was so good a setting
for the girl I loved. In the quiet peace of it I forgot that desolate
solitude, that cabin with its howling, fighting inmates.

Jane was seated reading by the window, but as I watched she laid aside
the book, and sat looking out of the window across the silent, moonlit
fields. And I saw two tears glide from her eyelashes, and glisten on her
cheeks. She spoke my name.

That evidence of her love was more than I could bear. I knelt beside her,
strove to take her in my arms, whispered a thousand broken endearments.
And she sat pensive, unresponsive, utterly unconscious of me. The tragedy
smote me again. I was spirit; she spirit in flesh. I was exiled.

And, with the ecstasy of despair, there flamed once more in me that
dogged, unreasoning will to live—to live again, I must say.

And, with it, I fled the room, guided somehow, blindly, by a new hope.

I found myself in another house—in a bedroom that was very quiet, with
an unnatural silence. In the bed lay a man. I knew him. It was my old
friend, Gordon Paige.

There were others, too. Gordon’s mother sat with her face in her hands,
his sister, her eyes dry and bright, knelt beside her and pressed her in
comforting arms. Then I saw the white-haired doctor turn mutely away. And
I knew why I had come.

The body of Gordon Paige lay there, inert, lifeless. With all the power I
knew I willed myself toward it.

The body of Gordon Paige stirred. He spoke. The light of sanity came back
into his dead eyes. The doctor turned to him in amazement. A minute later
he turned again.

“He lives! God knows how, but he lives. The crisis is past. He will
recover.”

And he _did_ recover. The body of Gordon Paige won back to life and
health.

_But the soul within his body was the soul of Malcolm Rae!_

       *       *       *       *       *

What is soul? What is self? I speak to you with the voice of Gordon
Paige. I write, and the handwriting is that of Gordon Paige.

But I—the entity that dwells in the body of Paige—_I am Malcolm Rae_.

In the spring they brought the news of Malcolm Rae’s death to Jane
Cavanaugh. She loved him—she was heart-broken. But she found comfort in
the presence of her old friend Gordon Paige.

We were married last week, Jane and I. It was in June, just a year after
the June in which Rae had promised to return. When I told Jane I loved
her, she said:

“I do love you, Gordon. But sometimes it seems wrong—after poor Malcolm
dying. But—you’re like him, Gordon. You’re so like Malcolm that I can’t
blame myself for caring.”

I wish I could tell her—that I _am_ Malcolm.

But the world is too incredulous. I do not dare.




_The Strange Tale of a Yellow Man and His Beloved Reptile_

Six Feet of Willow-Green

_By_ Carroll F. Michener


It was for no love of the Chinese that Allister risked his life in the
shark-plagued waters off Samoa.

The motive was largely a rigid sense of fair play, which had led him
into more than one hazard. Also, he hated the second mate, who was so
ridiculously afraid of Ssu Yin’s serpent.

Therefore the Chinese need have nourished no great feeling of obligation.
Scales for weighing honor and indebtedness, however, are not the same in
the East as in the West, where motives are perhaps more closely scanned;
and it would have been difficult to persuade Ssu Yin that he did not
owe more than life to Allister. He felt that he owed two lives; that of
his own leather-yellowed body and that of the woman whose soul, so he
believed, now sojourned on its vast pilgrimage along the Nirvana-road of
incarnations, within his snake’s scaly longitude.

To the Chinese, an obligation clearly understood is a collectible asset.
Death or the devil—or dishonor that is worse than either—claims him who
escapes payment of a just debt. Therefore it need not be surprising that
the magnitude of his fancied obligation to Allister discomfited Ssu Yin,
and left him more than melancholy for the remainder of the voyage.

On the other hand, his devotion to the serpent, a poisonous six feet of
willow-green relieved by the satin-white ribbon of its belly, was greater
than before, and the venom of his regard for the second mate, who had
dared toss the reptile’s basket overboard, was disquieting to observe.

The thing had happened in a flash that gave Allister no more than
a moment for reflection before the action that had bound him with
inseverable fetters to the destinies of Ssu Yin. The second mate, who
was Irish, with a soul fed upon belief in banshees and leprechauns and
the traditions of St. Patrick, had chafed bitterly at the captain’s
indifference toward the Chinaman’s obnoxious galley-pet.

His irritation had grown steadily since the third day out from Panama,
when the reptile’s presence on board had been discovered. The captain was
one of those rare humans in whom a snake breeds no particular revulsion;
he merely winked at Ssu Yin’s vagary, stipulating, as an afterthought,
that the serpent should be tied by the neck and at all times safely
confined to its bamboo cage.

The mate’s displeasure grew into agitation, and then into a saturnine
fear. Ssu Yin’s notion that the serpent was animated by the spirit of his
dead wife, a creature of frail morals whose fate it had been to be slain
in an act of infidelity, reduced the mate to paroxysms of superstitious
rage. A suggestion of insanity blazed from his eyes, and he vented
his irritation upon the crew in a variety of diabolical mistreatment.
Stealthily he plotted the serpent’s destruction.

He had long to wait, for Ssu Yin was rarely beyond sight of his somnolent
pet. But one day, growing reckless from the excess of his somewhat
alcoholic fear, the mate seized the bamboo cage, well beyond reach of its
occupant’s fangs, lifted it brusquely through the window of the cook’s
galley—from under the very eyes of Ssu Yin—and gave it a triumphant heave
overboard.

With a yell that seemed to supply added impulse to his flying heels and
to stiffen his queue into a rigid horizontal, Ssu Yin darted from the
galley and flung himself after his ophidian treasure.

Allister turned automatically toward a life boat, but the mate thrust
him back. A fanatical cruelty colored the leer in the man’s face as he
watched Ssu Yin bobbing helplessly some yards from the bamboo cage, quite
evidently unable to swim.

“Aren’t you going to launch that lifeboat?” Allister bawled at him.

The mate spat over the rail, with a sullen negation.

“The hell you won’t,” snarled Allister, poising swiftly to plunge after
the Chinaman. “Let’s see if you’ll do it for a white man, then.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The mate lowered the boat, not so much because Allister was white as
because he was a brother of the captain.

There was a calm sea, and no difficulty in the rescue. The crew fished
up the three of them, Allister supporting the exhausted Ssu Yin, who in
turn held aloft, out of the wash of the sea, his most unhappy dry-land
reptile.

The mate shut himself up in his cabin and drank Jamaica rum with such
proficiency that it became necessary to lodge him in the brig. He
wallowed there for the remainder of the voyage into Penang, where Ssu
Yin, with the serpent clasped to his meager bosom, scuttled ashore and
vanished from the mate’s bleary ken.

Allister, for whom the world was in its opening chapters, lost himself in
bizarre and dizzy pages of Oriental life. At the end of three years he
was “on the beach,” tossed up with other human jetsam from the slime of
the Orient’s undertow.

He had brawled with sailors from many seas in the dives of Hongkong,
tasted the wickedness of native inland cities, and squandered himself in
a thousand negligible pursuits between Bangkok and Peking. He was the
eternal parable of West meeting East, a conjunction perpetually fatal to
the insecure soul. For it is only the strong who can sip safely at the
pleasant vices of a mellower civilization.

On a day squally with the pestilent dust of an obscure Chinese outport,
Allister sat gazing at a wooden door in a wall. He was oblivious to
outward discomfort, although his clothes were remnants through which the
wind drove chill misery. He felt only one need, and his mind had room for
but one thought, and that was the gratification of an unholy lust. It was
three days since opium had caressed his shrieking nerves.

Beggars, exhibiting their unspeakable sores, the ghastly souvenirs of
real or simulated disease, jostled him in their crawling search for
charity; it was the plaza of a temple where he had taken up his watch.

Curses, and the muttered insults that are flung to foreigners, came to
him from the crowd, but he appeared not to hear; his senses were subject
only to one diversion, and that was the wall before him, with its wooden
door, and the peephole that for an hour of eternities had remained blind.
If he could not gain the attention of Ssu Yin, he would be doomed to
another night of drugless terror.

To knock on the door would be useless; he had tried that. Only a certain
alarum would gain admittance, and no amount of cunning had been capable
of revealing this to him. To shout was equally futile, for Ssu Yin
had become almost wholly deaf, the result of his barber’s unskillful
wax-scraping—an accident with an equally unfortunate sequel, the barber
having been bitten to death shortly afterward by Ssu Yin’s serpent.

It was necessary, Allister well knew, to wait for the soya-brown eye that
glistened intently through the peephole at a certain hour of the day—the
eye of Ssu Yin, focused expectantly upon some indeterminate object within
the temple grounds.

The impatient accents of a woman, half-concealed behind the discolored
marble flank of a stone lion with the head of a dog, roused Allister. He
had been long enough in the Orient to absorb an understanding of many
dialects.

“The serpent-eared grandfather of a skillet is late,” complained the
voice, and there was an answering murmur from another woman at her side.

Allister stole a glance at them, and saw that they, like himself, were
interested in the wooden door. One was young, and probably, though not
definitely, a courtesan; she may have been merely an adventurous and
discontented second-wife. Her companion was an older woman, evidently a
servant.

His eyes returned to the hole in the door, but his ears continued to
listen for the words of the women. The servant was speaking:

“How long, Tai-tai, must my Crimson Lotus submit to the vile attentions
of this opium hawker? Surely it should not be difficult——”

“It is more difficult than thou thinkest, mother of no sons.”

“Will he not take my Peach Blossom—my Lotus—into his stinking hovel? Will
he look upon your beauty in no place other than the teahouse?”

“He fears the serpent.”

“The serpent?”

“Have I not told thee, daughter of an addled egg? He cherishes a creeping
creature that he swears was once his wife in a former life. He fears the
fangs of her jealousy.”

“A serpent may be crushed by the heel——”

“That shall be thy task, then. Nay, find the way, and it shall be my
heel, and mine the silver _sycee_ that lies under the bricks of his
_kang_.”

“Find the way?”

“The secret of the knocks that gain admittance, O Half Moon of Wisdom—buy
it from one of the slaves of the pipe that come here each day.”

Allister heard no more, for there was of a sudden a deeper shadow, a more
animate void, within the aperture of the door. He shook himself together,
and arose, for he was conscious of the eye of Ssu Yin.

After a moment the door opened, and the opium seller stood forth. He
was imperceptibly startled when Allister touched his sleeve, for his
attention had been directed to the vanishing glint of embroidery that
beckoned him toward the tea pavilion of a Thousand and Three Beatitudes.

There was no greeting from either, and there was no need of word or
gesture. Allister’s drug-lust uttered its own argument, and Ssu Yin bowed
with the air both of acquiescence and of acknowledged obligation. He
shouted backward into the passage behind the open door, and shuffling
feet responded.

The door closed behind Allister’s starved figure, and Ssu Yin, conscious
of the street-crowd admiration that followed the unwonted gayety of his
attire, crossed a miasmatic lotus pool and entered the teahouse.

       *       *       *       *       *

Allister was able to think more clearly when the stupor wore away, though
mind and body were torn by a devastating revulsion. He lifted himself
abruptly from the filthy bunk in which he lay, and the feeble, awkward
movement upset a stand upon which was his chandoo pipe, still nauseous
with burnt opium. The effort left him suddenly faint, and with alarm he
shuddered back into the bunk, closing fiery-lidded eyes.

“Can’t be far from the end,” he murmured to himself. “If I could only get
away—if I could only get back to the States!”

This was the usual burst of remorse; it was like all the rest, a feeble
protest against ill-directed destiny. He knew that, of his own effort, he
never would get back to the States, away from the insidious East. He had
tried that; he had worked until the money was in his hands, only to dive
more steeply for a time toward the poppy fields of oblivion.

The consul-general had shipped him out on a transport, but he had gone
only as far as Manila. The call of the drug had been too insistent. If
the vessel only had been going straight East, without a stop, to the
California coast, he might have made it.

He _would_ make it! He would get the money once more—earn it, perhaps,
but somehow he would get it, and go Home.

After a second effort, he succeeded in struggling to his feet, then in
staggering out of the room into a larger one where there was the light of
a horn lantern, and the comforting aroma of tea.

Ssu Yin sat gurgling contemplatively at his water-pipe, his eyes fixed
upon two brilliant points of light in the half-shadows over the
_kang_. He did not stir at Allister’s approach, though he muttered an
acknowledgment of the other’s presence. Slowly Allister’s bleared sight,
following the direction of Ssu Yin’s comprehended the significance of
those cold-blue darts of phosphorescence. They were set in a rigid,
cylindrical, limblike standard, projecting motionless from a pyramid of
symmetrical coils. Often as he had beheld the serpent of Ssu Yin, on
the poppy excursions that brought him so frequently to the sea cook’s
illicit den, he had never conquered a subtle fear, a rage for crushing,
stamping out, obliterating. He had tried to explain this as an expression
of man’s traditional enmity toward the creeping creatures of the earth.
Curiously, to witness the same fear in another was his sole antidote. In
the presence of one who was more afraid than himself he could laugh down
his own feeling, as had happened in the case of the second mate.

He sat down beside the brazier and helped himself to a gulp of tea.
Ssu Yin, removing his eyes from their fixed stare, with a gesture that
suggested the snapping of an invisible thread binding them to the eyes of
the serpent, regarded Allister with an attentive but unfathomable look.
Though his countenance expressed nothing, he was, Allister observed, in
an unwonted mood. It was as if there had been a misunderstanding between
himself and his reptilian familiar.

“Was there sweetness in the Elder Brother’s honorable pipe of August
Beginnings?” inquired Ssu Yin, bringing forth the foreign ear-trumpet
that looked incongruous against its oriental setting.

A grimace of pain was Allister’s only answer.

“And was the sleep of this poor worm’s wise and illustrious benefactor
filled with the jassmine-incense of celestial happiness?”

“May your flesh be jellied and your bones splintered,” was Allister’s
discourteous shot into the trumpet. “May your ancestors——”

“Harmless is the bluster of the paper tiger,” interrupted Ssu Yin, with
a playful malice. He went on in a more kindly vein: “A gem cannot be
polished without friction, or a man perfected without adversity. The
friction has been thine, Elder Brother, even as it is written; also the
adversity; but a wise man also has said that the gods cannot help him who
loses opportunities.”

“Oh, drop the classics, Ssu Yin, and tell me what you’re driving at!”

“The Elder Brother must set his feet unto new paths, or he will learn to
walk soon in the Eternal Shades.”

“I’m through, Ssu Yin. No more chandoo for me. Tomorrow——”

“The man who overestimates himself is like a rat falling into a scale and
weighing himself.”

Allister was stung by the contempt of his host’s words, but he feared
to retort. His sense of need came more fully upon him. His head swam,
leadenly, and his tongue was thick.

“The pipe, Ssu Yin—only once more. And tomorrow——”

“Spawn of frog begets but frog; the wise man does not give his cloak to
the stealer of his coat; and to cure a habit by indulging it is to push a
stone with an egg.”

“No, Ssu Yin, I mean it this time——”

“Dragging the lake for the moon in the water, adding fuel to put out a
fire,” ran the relentless river of Ssu Yin’s scornful proverbs.

Nevertheless, Ssu Yin arose and led the way to the sleeping-room. He
set forth within Allister’s reach a bamboo pipe with black tassels and
a mouthpiece of jade, lighted the lamp, and from a receptacle within
his capacious sleeve jealously produced three miniature cylinders of
amber-hued opium.

Cynically, Ssu Yin observed the trembling hands of the white man as he
held one of the precious morsels over the flame, watched it sizzle,
dissolve, evaporate. He waited until the operation thrice had been
performed, each puff sending Allister nearer to the paradise of drugs,
and stood gazing at the young man’s emaciated features long after the
squalid room had been translated, for Allister, into a pearly grotto
through which he stepped forth on the winged feet of inexhaustible youth
into a world of unimaginable color, transcendent beauty and unspeakable
delight.

“A just debt—a just debt is mine,” muttered Ssu Yin, solemnly, “and it is
thus that I have paid. For this have I merited no less than the reproach
of the gods.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When Allister returned again from the lotus fields of Elysium, his eyes
were more fevered, his yellowed skin closer drawn over cadaverous cheeks,
and his weakness even greater than before.

This was the tomorrow of which he had spoken to Ssu Yin.

But what had any Oriental tomorrow to do with him? Here there were
promises only of more lethal hours that did not relieve so much as they
accented the deepening miseries leading toward an indubitable end.

Tomorrow——

He sprang up suddenly, the effort startling his heart into wild
uncertainties. The recurrence of a feeling of resentment, long nourished,
supported him.

“Ssu Yin, the superstitious dog—rich—preaching to me in nasty proverbs
and feeding me this spawn of hell when he might be sending me home!”

The thought took possession of him, made him stealthy and steel-nerved.
He would take the money—Ssu Yin owed it to him, the heathen ingrate; this
time he would have a share in that hoard of _sycee_ beneath the bricks
of the _kang_.

He crept into the other room, fearing to find Ssu Yin there, a delay to
his plot. But Ssu Yin was not in the room; the house seemed empty even of
servants. The seller of opium probably was at his daily tryst, Allister
thought, in the teahouse of the Beatitudes.

For the moment Allister had forgotten the serpent, and it was only in the
act of turning his darting steps toward the _kang_ that he remembered.
In that instant a ray of sunlight revealed the still creature, eternally
somnolent, as immobile as the stones against which its gelid coils were
ranged.

The old fear seized him, and with it the rage to kill; but his weakness
returned, and he was incapable of that. He remained as motionless as
the snake, thinking of its reputed iniquities. The opium den of Ssu Yin
was not without a reputation for crime. It had had its murders, strange
deaths that baffled the native doctors of both “inside” and “outside”
anatomy.

The serpent, he knew, was master of man in a duel of eyes, and Allister
felt relief at a sound of interruption. Someone had entered the house.
The shock loosened his limbs, and he crept back to his foul bunk, waiting
for the philosophical gibes of Ssu Yin, sick with revulsion at thought of
his intended theft.

His ears told him in a moment, however, that the wary step and the
listening caution of the one who had entered, were not Ssu Yin’s.
Presently there were hurried movements, unwonted sounds, a breathless
intenseness that took audible form, in the outer room. Stealthily,
Allister moved nearer to see.

The figure of a woman was beneath the ray of sunlight now, cutting off
its warning of the coiled spectre of dissolution. She stooped over
the _kang_, lifting the bricks, laying them aside with a careless
impatience. A cavity grew, and from it presently, with a sigh of
gratification, she plucked a silver ingot—followed it with others, until
a mound of them, too heavy for her own strength, lay at her feet.

Allister watched her in amazement. Was she unaware of the snake? Or was
she, like Ssu Yin, its master, immune to ophidian fear?

She stood up, turned toward Allister, as if at some psychic warning of
his presence, and he recognized her as the woman of the temple yard—the
Crimson Lotus, Ssu Yin’s teahouse siren.

Doubtless her apprehensions heightened her error, but in the half-light
it must have been easy to mistake Allister’s immobile figure for the
darkly vengeful one of Ssu Yin.

She cried out, took an involuntary step backward, tripped upon a _sycee_
ingot, and a bared arm, thrust outward to break her fall, met the
serpent’s fangs.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the nine-toned sing-song of a Cantonese who is at peace with himself,
Ssu Yin entered his hovel incanting a bar of that old song of Cathay,
“The Millet’s in Flower.”

He paused at the door of his inner room, in the middle of a note, and
allowed the details of the tableau to etch themselves upon his brain.

Across the _kang_ lay his woman—his Crimson Lotus—inert, lifeless. Upon
her still breast, its viridescence blending strangely with the soft
tints of her silk tunic, was piled the deadly pyramid of the coiled
serpent—flat, arrowy head drawn back awaiting the impulse to strike,
glistening red tongue stirring with forked vibrations, and phosphorescent
eyes blazing with a sinister fury.

Within reach of its fangs was crouched Allister, one hand touching,
with a suggestion of pity, the face of the woman, the other, clasping a
silver ingot, poised cataleptically in the midst of an intended blow.
His was the arrested animation of carved marble, the impotent fascination
of a bird obeying the hypnosis of the serpent’s eye.

Slow rage filled Ssu Yin—a calm cruelty. Here lay his broken Lotus
Bud; a thief, an accomplice, a wanton, or a viperous traitor to his
heart’s homage—what did it matter? And here was his “Elder Brother,” his
benefactor, the white man—dog, despoiler—who would have robbed him of all.

Well, a simple solution—the fangs of his serpent, slavering for their
prey....

But the poise of a hundred philosophical generations began to quiet his
thick pulses—the restraints of a race that has schooled itself to play
the game of life by meticulous rule. A debt was his—he must pay it.

Ssu Yin realized, suddenly, that an abrupt movement, the slightest
translation of Allister’s rigid pose into activity, would bring to him
the darting caress of oblivion.

Cautiously, Ssu Yin approached, uttering a curious sound that always,
until now, had brought an answering acquiescence into the eyes of the
serpent. He came closer, at last laying his parchment-skinned hand upon
the vibrant coil, seeking a grip that would keep him safe from a scratch
of fangs.

But something was amiss with Ssu Yin’s mastery over the snake. He
recognized this in a thrill of terror at the moment when he knew it was
forever too late. He would have explained, had there been time for such
inquiry, that it was jealousy in the soul of the transmigrated woman who
had been his wife—jealousy of the Crimson Lotus. This it was, he would
have said, that animated the serpent’s yellow needles of death.

The poison gripped him, but a sense of unfinished justice gave him
strength while he battered the cringing reptile into an amorphous,
hideous mass.

With Allister, dazed, half understanding, he still had the business of
words. A courteous smile crackled the parchment of his face as he took
from his sleeve an envelope and held it out to Allister.

“Three lives for two,” he murmured, “and the debt is more than paid. May
the August Elder Brother’s voyage into the friendly bosom of the West be
as pleasant as the repose of Buddha.”

Allister’s wondering fingers disclosed within the envelope a steamer
ticket to Seattle. He put out a protesting hand, began self-accusing
phrases, but the seller of opium was beyond argument. Ssu Yin was on his
knees murmuring before the shelf of the gods:

“Unabashed, Great Ancestors—into the Vale of Longevity Ssu Yin walks
without shame.”




_The Occultism of Ancient Egypt Permeates_

_The_ Hall _of the_ Dead

A Strange Tale

By FRANCIS D. GRIERSON


“You have good nerves?” asked Professor Julius March, with a somewhat
cynical smile.

Annette Grey shrugged her shoulders.

“People who work for their living,” she replied, “cannot afford nerves.”

The Professor nodded.

“There is something in that,” he answered, thoughtfully. “At the same
time, I must make the position clear to you. As you are aware, I am an
Egyptologist, and in my house here I have many queer things. Some people
dislike the idea of working among mummies and——”

Annette interrupted him with a deprecating gesture.

“Believe me,” she said, “that sort of thing does not affect me in the
least. As your secretary, I am prepared to work where and when you like.”

“My former secretary—” the professor began, and paused.

“Your former secretary disappeared,” said the girl. “Of course I know
that; you will remember that I applied for the vacancy after reading
about her in the paper. I do not propose to disappear; the terms you
offer are too good.”

She smiled faintly, and the Egyptologist shrewdly eyed her.

“Well,” he said at last, “your qualifications and education appear to
recommend you for the work I should want you to do. It is secretarial
work in the broadest sense of the term—from typing my notes (when you
have learned to decipher my abominably bad handwriting) to looking up
references in the British Museum, or—should occasion arise—accompanying
me on a flying visit to Egypt. I give you fair warning that I shall work
you hard, but, apart from the salary and board, which I have already
named, you will not find me ungenerous if you prove yourself valuable.”

“Then I may consider myself engaged?”

March bowed.

“Certainly,” he replied. “You will probably learn presently,” he added,
in his cynical way, “that I am regarded as an eccentric person, and
somewhat of a hard taskmaster—”

“I prefer to form my own opinion,” said Annette quietly.

Again he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

       *       *       *       *       *

So Annette Grey took up her residence in the rambling old house on
the outskirts of London in which Professor Julius March had gradually
accumulated relics of ancient Egypt that were regarded with respect by
the curators of some of the greatest museums in the world.

There were those who hinted that the Professor had not always been
scrupulous in the methods he adopted to secure his rarer curios; but
March laughed at such stories when anyone had the hardihood to repeat
them to him, openly attributing them to the jealousy of less fortunate
rivals. Wealthy and profoundly learned, he had become known as one of the
greatest Egyptologists of his day.

Annette studied her new employer with the patience characteristic of her
nature, and she found the study an interesting as well as a useful one.
March, for the most part, was reserved and silent, but he was capable of
bursts of extraordinary excitement. He devoted himself, with an almost
religious fervor, to the pursuit which he had made his life study, and
the few friends he possessed—for he was not a popular man—were almost all
brother archeologists.

Tall and thin, with black eyes peering through large
tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles, his gray hair tumbled in a shaggy mass
over his broad forehead, he had a habit of thrusting his square chin
aggressively forward when he spoke. His long, graceful fingers moved
in nervous sympathy with what he was saying, and he would spring from
his chair and walk rapidly up and down with catlike steps that reminded
Annette of a panther ceaselessly pacing to and fro behind the bars of its
cage.

Possessed of great endurance, he would sit for hours at a stretch poring
over an ancient papyrus, disdaining food and sleep. Then, plunging into
a cold bath, he would emerge glowing, eat an enormous meal and set off
for a long walk, indifferent as to whether it happened to be day or the
middle of the night.

When March first asked her whether or not she had good nerves, Annette
had supposed him to be referring to the disappearance of Beatrice Vane,
his former assistant. Beatrice, a beautiful girl just budding into the
maturity of womanhood, had vanished utterly, leaving her clothes and
other possessions behind her, but no clue as to where she had gone.
March, with his lawyer, Henry Sturges, had sought the assistance of the
police, and every effort had been made to trace the missing girl, but
without success.

Attorney Sturges, who had recommended Beatrice Vane to Professor March,
had been the girl’s guardian. An orphan, she had been left a small annual
income, the capital of which was under Sturges’ control as trustee. She
had received a good education, and the lawyer had procured her employment
with Julius March in order that she might occupy her time and at the same
time supplement the scanty income which declining financial conditions
had left her.

March spoke highly of her work, and was more affected by her
disappearance than many, who saw only the cynicism of the man, would
have believed. He feared, Annette supposed, that his new secretary would
think it unlucky to step into the shoes of the girl who had vanished so
mysteriously, and she hastened to disabuse his mind of any such idea.

But Annette soon found that there existed an additional reason for his
question. The old house, she found, was divided into two parts. In one,
the smaller of the two, lived March and his staff. A bachelor, he was
looked after by an elderly housekeeper, one or two maids, a chauffeur
and a confidential valet, who had been with him for years. These people
attended to what he called the “domesticities” of the place.

The larger part of the house was consecrated to his hobby, and had
been, indeed, altered and partially reconstructed to suit his unusual
requirements. Into this Egypt in miniature the servants were sternly
forbidden to penetrate. There March would bury himself amid his mummies
and papyri, and sometimes, in his morose moods, even his secretary was
forbidden access.

Annette had a comfortably-furnished sitting-room of her own, and a little
room furnished as an office, but a great part of her work, she found, was
to be done in the room which March grimly called the “Hall of the Dead.”

It was, indeed, an apartment in which only a girl of strong nerves could
have worked without glancing fearfully over her shoulder. Floored with
black-and-white marble, alternated in a curious pattern, it was dimly lit
by a lamp swung from the roof by bronze chains. To afford the stronger
light necessary for the study of ancient inscriptions, a smaller lamp
stood on each of two small tables, the incongruous effect of their
electric wiring being mitigated by their antique shape. These lamps,
however, illuminated only their immediate neighborhood, leaving the
greater part of the huge room in semi-obscurity.

Round the room were placed at regular intervals mummies and mummy-cases,
whose grave immobility seemed but a mask which they could tear off at
will, descending to move about the hall with measured steps and to
converse on topics that had been of living importance to a long-dead
civilization.

In the center of the hall stood a great stone table, curiously grooved
and hollowed, and between the mummies were placed objects of metal and
earthenware, the uses of which Annette could only guess.

In this strange room March would pass hour after hour. Annette soon
learned to understand and accommodate herself to his methods. The sharp
sound of an electric bell in her room would bring her to the Hall of
the Dead, notebook and pencil in hand. The heavy door, controlled by an
automatic mechanism, would roll back as she approached, closing silently
behind her as she entered and took her seat, without a word, at one of
the smaller tables.

Acknowledging her presence only by a gesture, March would stride up
and down the room with his quick tread, pausing now and again to
examine a document or to apply a magnifying glass to the inscription
on a mummy-case, muttering to himself as he resumed his rapid pacing.
Suddenly, without warning, he would commence to dictate, in sharp,
staccato sentences, admirably lucid and without a superfluous word.

He would cease as suddenly as he had begun, and for perhaps half an hour,
or longer, he would remain buried in thought, resuming his dictation as
unexpectedly as he had ceased, but without ever losing the sequence of
his ideas.

Sometimes this would go on for hours. On such occasions he would
recollect himself suddenly, glance at the ancient water-clock on its
carved pedestal, and dismiss Annette with a word of apology for his
forgetfulness.

Once an incident occurred which revealed yet another side of this man’s
complex character.

Annette had received a lengthy piece of dictation, and had been at work
in her office for nearly an hour, transcribing her notes. She was a
competent writer of shorthand, but some of the technical expressions
which March used were quite unfamiliar, and she did not care to interrupt
him, preferring to wait until he had finished before asking him any
questions. On this occasion it had seemed fairly plain sailing, but
toward the end of her notes she came across a sign the significance of
which completely baffled her.

Finding that the context was of no assistance, and not wishing to delay
the work, which she knew the Professor required as quickly as possible,
she resolved to consult him.

It was the first time she had visited the Hall of the Dead unbidden, and
she was uncertain how to attract his attention from outside, for there
was no knocker or bell on the great door. The mechanism which controlled
it, however, either did not depend on the person inside, or could be
so set as to work independently, for as she reached the threshold some
concealed spring was put into operation and the door opened before her as
usual. Still standing on the threshold, she was about to enter, when she
stopped as though turned into stone.

Inside the hall she saw Julius March kneeling before one of the
mummy-cases—the mummy-case of a woman. His head rested against the knees
of the image, and his body was shaken by great sobs.

Amazed, moved by the strange sight, Annette turned and fled to her own
room. Behind her the door of the Hall of the Dead swung noiselessly into
its frame.

       *       *       *       *       *

A week later, Annette entered the little-used drawing-room of Professor
March’s house shortly before seven o’clock in the evening, and sat down
near the bright fire ready to receive his guests. For March was giving
one of his rare dinner-parties.

A few moments later the door opened, and the servant ushered in Attorney
Sturges and a friend of his, a pleasant, rather simple-looking man named
Sims.

“I fear we are a little early, Miss Grey,” said Sturges, when he had
presented his friend.

“Not at all,” Annette replied easily. “Professor March asked me to make
his excuses to you; he was detained at the British Museum and only
arrived a few minutes ago. He is dressing, and will be down in a few
minutes. Meanwhile, I must play hostess.”

“And most adequately,” murmured Sturges, with old-fashioned courtesy.

Then, as the door closed behind the servant, he spoke rapidly:

“We came a little early on purpose,” he explained. “You are prepared,
Miss Vane?”

“Quite,” said the girl calmly.

“Good. Inspector Sims agrees with me that if we are ever to discover the
mystery of your sister’s disappearance, it will be tonight. Sims has been
practising his part, and does it admirably.”

The Scotland Yard man smiled.

“I think I can play it,” he said. “And I congratulate you, Miss Vane, on
the way you have handled the matter. This idea is an excellent one, and I
admit I should never have thought of it myself. I hope, too,” he went on,
without the slightest alteration in his tone, as a step sounded outside
and the door opened, “that Professor March will not deny me a peep at the
wonderful treasures be keeps here.”

“Why, of course not,” cried March heartily, as he entered the room. “I
caught your last words, Mr. Sims,” he went on, “—for I am sure you are
Sturges’ psychic friend—and I shall be delighted to show you round my
little museum. Well, Sturges, I must apologize to you both for keeping
you waiting like this; but you have been in good hands.”

He bowed courteously to Annette.

“It is very good of you, Mr. Sims,” he went on, “to come and visit a
recluse like this. Sturges has told me of your powers of necromancy, and
I confess I am hoping to see something very wonderful.”

The words were polite and were uttered with perfect civility, but the old
lawyer laughed gently.

“It’s no good, March,” he said; “you cannot quite get the true ring. You
scientific fellows always scoff at the unseen, and decline to believe
anything that cannot be set down in writing, like an algebraic equation.”

“Not at all,” replied the Professor, with sudden gravity. “On the
contrary, my researches have convinced me that there are mysteries to
which, if we only had the clue—but we’ll talk of that later,” he added,
with a sudden change of tone. “My first duty, as your host, is to feed
you; come and help me perform the sacred rite of hospitality.”

Laughing, he opened the door and bowed Annette to the head of the little
procession to the dining-room, where they were presently seated round a
candle-lit table of richly-polished mahogany.

It was a strange dinner-party, at which two, at least, of the diners
found it difficult to appreciate the sallies of the host. Mr. Sims,
however, expanded under the influence of the Professor’s geniality. March
was in unusually high spirits, for he had just succeeded in translating a
hieroglyphic inscription which had defeated the Museum authorities, and
he devoted himself to the sport of drawing out his psychic guest with a
delicate irony which, to do him justice, never passed the bounds of good
taste.

The innocent Mr. Sims responded to this subtle flattery with a readiness
which delighted the Professor, and even Annette and the lawyer could not
refrain from smiling at the naïveté with which Sims played his part.

At last the dinner drew to a close, and March rose.

“I am not going to let you off, Mr. Sims,” he said. “I am eager to learn
something of the methods of the modern spiritualists, for I admit I am
more familiar with those of the past. But I think we ought to have a more
suitable atmosphere for the _seance_,” he added, chuckling. “Miss Grey,
I hope you will not leave us? I think my Egyptian room would form an
admirable background for Mr. Sims’ experiments.”

Annette smiled, with something of an effort, and led the way to the Hall
of the Dead.

Despite himself, Sims could not repress an exclamation of awe at the
sight of the great, gloomy room, with its solemn figures and mysterious
shadows.

The Professor rubbed his hands, well pleased at the effect he had
produced.

“Now, Mr. Sims,” he said, “here is a carved chair on which a Pharaoh once
sat. Enthrone yourself there. We will sit, metaphorically, at your feet,
and listen to what you are pleased to tell us.”

Sims bowed, but did not return the Professor’s smile. Gravely he seated
himself in the heavy wooden chair, rested his elbow on one of the
quaintly-carved arms, and let his head sink onto his hand. The others
grouped themselves near and waited, in a heavy silence.

Sensitive to impressions, the Professor’s gay mood faded gradually into a
tense expectancy that made his long fingers work nervously. He startled
as Sims’ voice broke the silence sharply.

“I am aware, Professor March,” said Sims in a hard, level tone that
startled his hearers, “that you are a skeptic.”

The Professor murmured something, but Sims went on, without heeding him.

“I feel tonight that I am going to prove to you that I can see things
that are hidden....”

He paused, and again the silence was broken only by the sound of heavy
breathing. As suddenly as before, Sims spoke again:

“Listen!” he said. “I see a great room, half lit by a lamp in the roof.
There is a brighter light near a table in the center of the room. It is a
stone table, such as was used in ancient Egypt by the embalmers.”

The Professor drew in his breath with a sharp gasp, but the voice went
steadily on:

“Beside the table I see a man. He is bending over something—something
white. It is the body of a woman—”

“_Stop_, damn you!” screamed the Professor; and Sims, springing from his
chair, took something from the pocket of his dinner-jacket.

The Professor laughed discordantly—the laugh of a madman.

“Put up your pistol,” he cried. “You will not need it. I don’t know who
you are, and, damn you, I don’t care! Do you hear that? _I don’t care!_
Listen, all of you; listen, I say! Today I have completed my task; I have
learned the secret which I have sought so patiently. I am going to join
my Princess, my Hora.”

He ceased, and threw his arms out in a great gesture to the mummy-case in
front of which he had been standing. Huge drops of sweat stood out on his
forehead, and he tore open his linen collar with a madman’s strength. But
it was in a controlled, almost tender voice that he went on:

“Listen to me, and I will tell you a wonderful thing. Countless years
ago I—I who speak to you here tonight—was a priest in Egypt. I was vowed
to the service of Isis. But one day there came to the temple, where I
ministered, a woman. A woman? Nay, a goddess! A being of such beauty that
my heart leaped within me at the sight of her loveliness.

“She was the Princess Hora. We loved. Ten thousand words could say no
more. But an evil fate tore her from me; the Pharaoh had seen her, and
coveted her. Sooner than lie in his foul embrace she plunged a dagger
into her white bosom....”

He paused, and for a few moments covered his face with his hands, his
shoulders quivering. Then he tore his hands away and stretched them once
more toward the painted image that looked so calmly down at him.

“Hora, my Hora!” he cried passionately. “I have sought thee for
centuries, through age after age. And now, at last thou hast come to
me—and gone again. But only for a little while, a few brief moments, for
I follow thee tonight.”

Again he paused, and again he resumed, mastering his emotion:

“She came to me here, here in this house, where I have labored so long,
striving to regain my knowledge of that past which is sometimes so clear,
and sometimes, O Isis, so terribly dark! She came to me, my beautiful
Hora; came clad in the garb of today, bearing the name of Beatrice.”

A low sob broke from Annette, but he went on, unheeding:

“I told you, Hora, I _tried_ to tell you—but your eyes were filmed by
the gods. You could not understand.... You spurned me. Then it was that
I understood that for us there could be only one way. One touch of this
little knife, steeped in a poison so deadly that your soul had flown ere
your body had fallen into my arms.

“Tenderly I bathed you and poured into your veins the secret essences
that keep the flesh firm and fair as in life, and bore you to the tomb
where you sit, waiting for me. But in another world, Hora, you wait for
me, a thousand times more beautiful, and knowing that I, your lover, have
sought you and found you at last. Hora, _I come_!”

With a wild cry, he raised the little dagger which he had drawn from his
pocket. Sims sprang forward, but before he could reach him Professor
Julius March had buried it in his heart. Hardly had the blade touched
his flesh than he swayed, stumbled and crashed down at the feet of the
mummy-case.

For a moment the others gazed at the prostrate form. Then Inspector Sims
sprang forward and fumbled with trembling fingers at the fastenings of
the mummy-case. Suddenly the front fell forward, and Annette uttered a
terrible cry.

In the case, thus revealed, sat the girl who had been Beatrice Vane.
She was nude, the chaste beauty of her lovely form standing out against
the dark interior of the case. So wonderfully had the madman done his
work that no scar marred the grace of the firm bosom, the long, rounded
limbs, the head set proudly on the ivory neck. She sat as might have sat
the Princess Hora, had she so wished, beside the Pharaoh himself on his
Egyptian throne.

Sims drew back and bowed his head reverently as Annette, stumbling
forward, laid her head on her dead sister’s knees in a grief too terrible
for tears.




_The_ Parlor Cemetery

_A Grisly Satire_

_By_ C. E. Howard


“Good morning! I’m getting the information for the new city directory.
May I step in and rest a moment while I’m asking you a few questions?”

“Well, ye—es, I reckon yuh kin come in and set,” conceded the old lady
who had answered my knock, “but I won’t give yuh no order, Mister. I
haint much of a booker.”

“Oh, I don’t sell the books,” I hastened to assure her, as I laid my
sample volume on the floor by my chair and placed my hat on it. “I just
go around from house to house gathering the names for it. The company
publishes and sells the book. I don’t have anything to do with that part
of it.”

“Oh, you jes’ do th’ authorin’? It must take yuh consid’ble time to write
as big a book as that! Do yuh do it all ’lone?”

“No; we have fifty-four men working on it now, and it will take about two
months to get it all. Now may I ask—?”

“How much does it cost?”

“This year they will sell for fifteen dollars—”

“_Apiece!_” she shrilled. “My land o’ livin’! Whoever buys th’ things?”

“All the big stores keep them, especially the drug stores, for the
benefit of the public, you know. Now your name is—?”

“Well, what’s it all ’bout, anyhow?” she insisted. “An’ what’s it fur? Is
it a tillyphone dickshanary?”

“Something like that. It contains the names and addresses of everybody
living in this city, and all the big establishments keep one so that if
anybody wishes to find out where anyone else lives they just go in some
store and look in this directory and there it is. Now, will you give me
your name for the new book, please?”

“_My_ name? W’y, my name is—Now, is this a-goin’ to cost me anything? Yuh
know I said I wouldn’t take none afore I let yuh in.”

“It will not cost you a cent,” I told her earnestly, “and it may do you
some good. See”—running through the leaves of the book in which I entered
the statistics—“how many people I have interviewed this morning, and all
of them gave me the information I asked for. Now you will see all there
is to it; right down here on this top line I write your name—what did you
say it was?”

“I never said yit; but it was Cook.”

“Ah!” We were off at last! “Cook”—I paused at the “k” and asked, “Do you
spell it the short way or with an ‘e’?”

“Which?”

“How do you spell it? ‘C-double-o-k,’ or ‘C-double-o-k-e’?”

“No; not with no ‘e’ on to it! That would be cooky! It was jes’ plain
Cook—C-o-o-k.”

I was willing to let it go at that and wrote it down. “And your first
name now?”

“My fust name? I don’t tell my fust name to no strangers—’specially
_men_!”

“I beg your pardon, but I am not asking that from impertinence, Mrs.
Cook,” I explained carefully. “We do not mean to pry into people’s
personal affairs—such things are of no concern to us—but you see there
are probably a hundred or more Cooks in this city and if we didn’t have
their first names there would be no telling them apart. All the ladies so
far have told me their first names,” I declared, holding my book toward
her with the evidence.

After peering at it intently for some time she relaxed in her chair,
reassured. “Well, ’tain’t no name to be ’shamed of, if _’tis_
old-fashioned. It’s Ann.”

“Ann—‘A-n-n’.” I spelled aloud, to give her the chance to correct me if
necessary. Thinking of the famous query connected with that name and
thankful I didn’t have to ask that, too, I continued:

“You have a husband?”

“No, not now. I’ve had ’em, though.”

“Ah, a widow, then—that is, I presume your husband is not alive, Mrs.
Cook?” I essayed gently, avoiding, as always, the direct interrogation as
to grass-widowship.

“No; they’re all on ’em dead now; but, Mister, my name ain’t Cook—it’s
Hay!”

“What!” I exclaimed. “Why, I understood you to say it was Cook?”

“Well, yuh understood right. It _was_ Cook—that what’s yuh asked me, what
it _was_—but it’s Hay now. ’Bout two years after Cook went up in smoke I
married a feller named Hay, see?”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Oh yes,” I smiled cheerfully, and, reversing my pencil I endeavored to
rub off the former husband’s name.

Of course the flimsy paper tore. I yanked out the sheet and began again.

“‘H-a-y,’ Hay,” I put down, writing lightly with an eye to more erasures
or corrections. “Just the plain, short Hay, I presume?”

“Yes, jes’ th’ plain Hay—not timothy ner alfalfy ner none o’ them fancy
hoss brekfus foods. My lan’!” she broke out in astonishment, “I sh’uld
think the’ comp’ny’d git men to do this work that c’uld spell!”

“That is one of the things we are told to be most careful about,
Mrs.—ah—Hay. We must always ask everybody’s name and just how they spell
it, even if we think we know. Often people having the same sounding
name spell it differently, and if it goes in the directory wrong they
generally blame us. And now, may I ask,” I said sympathetically,
recalling the peculiar way in which she had spoken of the late Mr. Cook’s
decease, “if your former husband lost his life in a fire?”

“Who, Cook? Oh, yuh mean what’d I mean when I spoke o’ ’im goin’ up
in smoke? No, he was plumb dead—I was sattyfied o’ that, afore he was
burned. That’s th’ way I’ve had ’em all done; kin’ of a habit I got into,
I reckon, but seems to me ’twas a pretty good habit. That’s Cook, second
from th’ right-hand end,” she said calmly, pointing to an object on the
humble mantel as though she were indicating a specimen in a museum.

“_How! What?_” I gasped, as every separate hair on my head arose and
tried to spring from its root-cell.

“W’y, I had all my husban’s’ bodies consoomed by fire—what d’yuh call
it, cremated?—w’en they up an lef’ me, an’ that’s the’ ashes of all on
’em in them dishes there! Seems t’ me that’s th’ bes’ way t’ do with
dead folks—have your own cem’terry right in your house where it’s handy.
It’s ’specially nice when one moves ’round a good deal like I’ve done. I
never c’uld a-forded t’ gone visitin’ here an’ there t’ that many graves
scattered ’bout in dif’rent states. Besides, it saves tumstones an’ th’
’spense o’ takin’ care o’ the lots.”

Gradually, I grasped the woman’s meaning as she continued to rock back
and forth and utter her placid Mrs. Jarley explanation. The men who had
been so unfeelingly abrupt as to “up an’ leave” this poor creature had
evidently, each in his turn, been cremated, and now their ashes, side by
side, served to adorn the mantel and comfort the heart of the faithful
widow. “Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay....” I gazed at the row
of assorted receptacles with awe and back at the woman with feelings
still more curious.

“Some folks thinks them’s odd kin’ o’ coffins,” she continued, “but I
d’know what c’uld be more ’propriate. Yuh see, I’ve tried t’ have each
one sort o’ repasent either th’ man hisself or his trade. Now, for
instance, this here one,” she explained, rising and placing her hand on
a small stone jar at the left end of the line—there were five of these
unique memorials altogether—“this was my fust husban’, John Marmyduke.
Th’ label on th’ crock, yuh’ll notice, is ‘Marmylade’, an’ that’s purt’
near his name, an’ then it almose d’scribes his dispazishun, too. Th’
grocer tol’ me that marmylade was a kin’ o’ English jam, an’ John was
sort o’ sweet-tempered, fer a man, so I thought one o’ them stun things
’ud do fine to keep him in.

“This is William Thompson here,” she continued, tapping a small tea caddy
with her thimble. “He was a teacher, an’ I always called ’im Mr. T. so
w’en he departed I thinks to myself, thinks I, ‘One o’ them little chests
that Chinymens packs tea in is jes’ th’ ticket fer _yuh’_—tea standin’
for both his name an’ his callin’, do you see?”

I expressed my admiration for this delightful idea, and she proceeded
with her cataloguing:

“This third cuhlection, in th’ fruit jar, is Mason. That was his name an’
his trade, an’ he belonged to that lodge an’ that’s the make o’ th’ jar,
so, considerin’ all them facks, I d’know what c’uld be a fitter tum fer
_’im_. Mason fell off a roof one day an’ broke his back, an’ though he
lived six months, somehow, he was never much ’count arter that. He was
a big man—weighed 225 afore breakfus—an’ he made such a pile o’ ashes,
spite o’ their keepin’ him in the oven double time, that it took a gallon
jar to hol’ his leavin’s. I had some quart jars on hand already an’
’spected to put ’im in one of ’em, but I never begrudged buyin’ a bigger
one fer he was always, or purt near always gen’rous with me, an’ then I
knew I was savin’ an undertaker’s bill, anyhow.

“Now, I wa’n’t altogether sattyfied with th’ coffin I fin-ly chose fer
Cook,” she said, looking at me doubtfully, as she motioned toward the
small japanned tin bread-box that was the next mortuary souvenir on
the shelf. “I worried over th’ matter th’ hull time he was sick, but I
never got a mite o’ help from _’im._ Ev’ry time I tried to git that man
to suggest what he thought he’d rest cumft-ble in he’d go on frightful.
Doctor said his temper prob’bly shortened his life.

“Well, at last I _dee_-cided on the bread box as comin’ as near to
repasentin’ him as anything I c’uld think on—his name bein’ Cook an’ him
havin’ occupated as a baker as long’s he was ’live. What’s your ’pinion
’bout it, Mister?”

I declared that if Mr. Cook did not now rest in peace and content he was
certainly a hard man to please.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Th’ las’ one there, as I tole yuh,” she went on, with something like
animation, “is Mr. Hay, an’ I do feel consid’able proud over _his_
casket—it sure was a happy thought o’ mine. See?” She took down the
object and held it in the sunlight where I could get a plainer view. “He
died jes’ las’ year.”

Mr. Hay’s ashes reposed in one of the large square glass perfume bottles
such as most druggists carry, and the ornate label thereon had become the
painfully true epitaph, “New Mown Hay”!

When I could trust my voice, I inquired, “was he ill long?”

“No; he wa’n’t ill a-tall. He left me kinda on’spectedly. However, he
always _was_ a great man fer doin’ things on th’ impulse o’ th’ moment.
We was livin’ out on a farm then, an’ one day Mr. Hay was cutting grass
in th’ orchard an’ I ’spose he must ’a’ struck a nest o’ bees. Anyhow,
somethin’ started th’ team an’ they run ’way an’ throwed him off in
front o’ th’ knives, an’ th’ horses stepped on him a few times an’ th’
machine finished it up. He cert’inly was most completely dead when we
reached him. Hired man tole me he had to gether him up with a rake an’
wheelbarrer. Only forty-six years ol’, too, he was—mowed down in his
prime!

“Well, this is a funny world, ain’t it? Some women kin take one man an’
keep him ’live an’ whole fer fifty or sixty years, but I sure had bad
luck with my batch o’ husban’s. It’s a comfort to me, though, that I
kin have ’em with me in death, at least. I take down their monnyments
ev’ry mornin’ an’ dust ’em off, an’ w’enever I go on th’ keers vis’tin’
anywheres I pack one in my valeese an’ carry it along. When I git it out
an’ put it up in my room, w’erever I be, I feel right to hum.”

I succeeded in getting answers to the rest of my questions in another
half hour, and I went on my way, dazed. And though, when my day’s work
was over, I had no rarebit for supper, yet a vision came to me sometime
between the dark and the daylight. I thought I saw myself fall ill and
die, and my body was prepared for cremation.

I struggled to escape, to call out, but in vain. They slid me into a
kiln and the inexorable heat dissolved flesh, blood and bone. Then some
brutal, careless wretch came and swept me up on a dustpan, and put me in
a sack and delivered me over to an eager old woman, whose face seemed
strangely familiar.

This ghoulish woman bore me away to her home and went to work trying to
pack me down in a catsup bottle. It was too small. It seemed to press on
my throat. I was choking. I struggled. I shrieked.

And I awoke—to find, thank Heaven, that a large crayon portrait above my
bed had fallen down and was now around my neck, and the man in the next
room was hammering on the wall with his shoe and shouting and swearing at
me.


Send Photographs by Radio

That pictures can be broadcast by radio was proved recently when
photographs of President Harding, Vice President Coolidge and Governor
Pinchot of Pennsylvania were sent from the Naval Radio Station in
Washington, D. C., to a radio receiving station in Philadelphia.




_A “Haunted House” Story with a Touch of Humor_

Golden Glow

By Harry Irving Shumway


When you’re rolling along through the country at forty miles an hour, and
have been so doing for several hours, any excuse to stop and stretch is
a welcome excuse. It gives you an opportunity to light a longed-for pipe
and takes the kinks out of your back. I lighted mine.

My friend, Doctor Wilbur Hunneker, whom I have never called anything but
Hunky, vaulted from the driver’s seat without the formality of opening
the door.

“Judas Iscariot!” he grunted, slapping the dust from his shoulders and
digging at his eyes. “Some dust and some breeze!”

“What you stop here for?” I asked him, propping my feet up on the
windshield. “Not that I don’t welcome any hesitation in the fierce
procedure which you call touring. But why here?”

He grinned and pointed toward a tumbled-down, decrepit-looking cottage,
almost entirely covered with woodbine. In front of it grew the most
magnificent clusters of Golden Glow I have ever seen. There were hundreds
of these beautiful yellow heads swaying in the sunlight, and they were in
strange contrast to the drab and weather-beaten background of the house.

“Going to pick you a nosegay,” he said. “You haven’t energy enough to
gather wild flowers for yourself, so I’ll do it for you.”

“Go to it,” I said, relieved, and sank back on the deep cushions in a
cloud of my own smoke. “But look out for the pooch. Also day-time ghosts.
That old shack may have both.”

“I’m not afraid of either,” he replied, and moved through the high grass
toward the house.

Lazily, I watched him selecting the choicest blooms. Then my gaze
wandered over the old squatty-looking house.

It was indeed a derelict, a perfect example of the abandoned home. I
couldn’t imagine anyone having been near it or in it for a score of
years. The small window-panes were covered with cobwebs and the marks of
falling leaves and pelting rains of many years. The door in the center
was innocent of paint, and great seams ran down and across its sections,
witnesses of the battles it had put up against the roaring storms.

The stone slabs, slanted and sunken, which served as steps to the door
were moss-covered and almost hidden from sight by the luxuriantly growing
grass. Not a sound came from the place, or indeed from anywhere else.

Hunky returned to the car, grinning at me with a huge bunch of the golden
flowers. He presented them with a sweeping gesture. Not to be outdone in
courtesy, I rose and made him a mocking bow.

“Accept these tokens of my esteem, I prithee.”

“I do, Sir Knight, and go to hell,” I replied. “If you’re through with
this horticultural business what d’you say we get to the fishing? That’s
what we started out for—trout, not yellow bellies.”

He held up his hand in protest.

“There is no element of romance in your sordid make-up. You’re as flat
in the head as the fish you catch. Take a look at that old house. What
stories it might tell! What ghosts may have prowled about in its sombre
interior! I see a broken pane in the quaint side window of the door.
Adventure calls. Watch me.”

The nut! He noiselessly moved toward the door. Then he gingerly thrust
his hand through the jagged opening in the side window and felt for the
key. I saw by the smile on his face that he had found it. He removed his
hand, turned the outside knob—and the door opened. He peered around, and
then went inside.

It wasn’t premonition or an unknown feeling of anything that prompted
me to leap over the side of that car and beat it for the inside of that
house. It was a glimpse of one corking fine mantle that I caught through
the open door. Old mantles, newel-posts and corner china-closets exert an
influence over my artistic soul that brooks no laziness. I’ll walk ten
miles through a bog any day to get a peep at something rare and fine in
old woodwork. This one called to me, and I went.

I had on rubber-soled shoes, as did my companion, and hence made little
noise. Hunky was nowhere in sight, but there was a side door beyond the
fire-place and I knew he must be prowling about on the other side of it.

“Say, Hunky, did you see this old mantle?” I called, moving toward the
door.

I went through it—and found myself looking at two most unexpected
things—Hunky, with his hands raised above his head, and a nice,
blue-black automatic held in the unwavering hand of an old woman who was
sitting in a chair.

       *       *       *       *       *

“You, too!” she snapped at me, “Up with ’em! Now what the hell are you
two crooks breaking into an old woman’s home for?”

“Good heavens, ma’am,” stammered Hunky. “We—that is—I thought it was a
deserted farm house. No intention of annoying anybody. We are simply
touring—just a lark to break in here.”

“‘Lark’, hey?” said the old woman, a most unpleasant glare in her eyes.
“D’you call it a lark to bust into my home and maybe rob me? How do I
know you mightn’t have murdered me?”

“I assure you, madame,” I interrupted, “my friend here had no intention
of doing the slightest harm. It was, as he says, a lark—just to show off
to me. I followed him because I was interested in the old woodwork—and
not your modern hardware,” I added.

She lowered the gun slowly.

“Hum. Well, you don’t look like desperate characters now I take a good
look at you. I was frightened, I guess.”

“Sorry,” said Hunky. “No intention of frightening anybody, and it was
silly of me to break in. I apologize.”

“Well, I guess that’s all right. I’ll let you go. But don’t come around
here scarin’ me again,” replied the evil-looking old woman. “Now you get!”

We got. Hunky stepped on the gas and we traveled. I hope I am not a
saffron member of the coward league, but just the same I own there are
many views I prefer infinitely more than the muzzle of a dog that both
barks and bites. Hunky was not much upset. He’s familiar with guns. I
prefer fishing rods.

“A quaint old party,” he mused, as we got under way. “Old house,
everything all dust-covered, old woman—and an up-to-date automatic in her
fist. How many old farm ladies pack new guns?”

Now I was awake. “Yes, and how many old ladies up in this section of the
hinterland speak with an unbucolic accent. I know the local dialect, and
she doesn’t belong.”

“We’ll stop here for gas,” said Hunky, guiding the car around another
which was filling from a tank by a country store.

A thick-set young man was turning the gasoline pump-handle and another
man, athletic in build and in his early thirties, was watching the flow
into the tank of his car.

Nobody up in that section of the world ever hurries, and the conversation
between the two was easy and unruffled.

“Sure you won’t disappoint us?” asked the store-keeper.

“No fear,” answered the other. “Cases all taken care of and I can get
away with no trouble. Better give me two quarts of oil, Ed, medium.”

The one called Ed went inside, and Hunky and I followed him in search of
tobacco. He obliged me with a package and also some conversation which he
seemed anxious to spill.

“That feller out there is our district attorney,” he said. “Wouldn’t
think it, would you? Young and all that. Fact, he’s the youngest district
attorney in our state. He plays short field on our baseball team—The
Hunterville Tigers.”

“So he’s district attorney?” inquired Hunky.

“Sure is, and smart as they make ’em.”

Hunky wandered out to the cars in front. I followed. He approached the
young official, who was putting up the hood of his car in readiness for
the oil.

“Sir,” said Hunky to him. “Are you District Attorney for this county?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the man, straightening up and gazing back at Hunky
with a pair of very frank and fearless gray eyes.

“In that case I want to tell you something,” said Hunky. “I just broke
into an old house about three miles down this road. It looked to be a
deserted house, all covered with woodbine and a lot of golden glow in the
front of it.”

“That’s the Old Collishaw House. It is deserted. No one has lived there
for fifteen years.”

“I thought so, too—consequently when I ventured through a door and looked
smack into the barrel of an unprepossessing revolver you can realize I
was surprised some.”

The young District Attorney pushed his hat up from his forehead. There
seemed nothing at all that could be hidden from his eyes, and now he bent
their gaze on Hunky.

“Hum,” he said finally. “If that had happened at night I’d say that you
were seeing things.”

Hunky laughed.

“My friend had the same pleasure and also assisted me in reaching for the
sky. It was an old lady who was on the other end of that gun.”

“Old lady?”

“Yes. She searched us mentally and told us to get out. We did. That
wasn’t more than fifteen minutes ago. Here’s the strange thing about it
to my mind. Old house, old lady, everything moss-covered and dusty—and a
brand new up-to-date automatic in the old dame’s hand.”

The other man mused over this without comment. Finally he shot a question
at us.

“Where are you two going?”

“Fishing in Cold Stream Pond. Come up here every year. My name is Doctor
Wilbur Hunneker and my friend’s is Edward Triteham.”

“You wait here for me,” said the District Attorney, quickly making a
decision. “I’m going to run down there. If some one is hanging around
that house I want to know who it is and what they want. Will you wait
here until I return?”

“Certainly,” Hunky replied. “Or I’ll go with you if you like.”

“No,” the other quickly answered, getting into his roadster. “I’ll go it
alone. See you later.”

       *       *       *       *       *

He shot off down the road in a cloud of powdery dust.

Hunky and I went into the cool interior of the country store and regaled
ourselves with root beer and the store-keeper’s conversation, which for
the moment was wholly of the young District Attorney. He was a most
remarkable county official, we were told.

It seemed but a moment when the subject of the talk was back in another
swirl of dust. He jumped out of his car. We went out to meet him.

“Gone,” he said laconically to our inquiring look. “But somebody was
there all right. What the devil they wanted is more than I can fathom.
Nothing disturbed—isn’t much to disturb. But it bothers me. You’re sure
about that gun?” His eyes bored us.

Hunky faced him.

“Quite,” he said quietly. “I know guns. Also, I know the look in eyes
behind them. I’m a physician and I have to know people. This old woman
had some good reason for wanting to scare us away.”

“I know that,” replied the young man, with his mouth set in a line. “Guns
and deserted houses don’t make a very reassuring picture.”

“Did you look all around the house?” inquired my friend.

“Sure. Probably those old eyes were on me while I was doing it. She
couldn’t have gone far; possibly she was in the woods nearby. I made
only a cursory examination so as not to excite suspicion if she or
anybody else had been watching. Now let’s see, what’s back of that house.
The old wood lot—a pasture——”

“That’s all,” spoke up the store-keeper. “Then the railroad cuts through
beyond that.”

“Railroad!” said the District Attorney sharply. “Why, that’s about the
point where that wreck was yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes,” replied the store-keeper. “The pasture lot runs right down to the
bend, and it was on that bend that the cars left the track.”

“By George! you’re right,” exclaimed the District Attorney.

He seemed to ponder the situation for a few moments. Then he made a
movement as if to be off.

“I won’t detain you gentlemen,” he said quickly. “If you want to fish
you’d better be on your way. Just about time to make it before sundown.”

Hunky smiled.

“I’m not so keen on fishing as my friend Triteham here,” he said quietly.
“I’d much rather go along with you to see that wreck.”

The District Attorney eyed him carefully. Then:

“All right. I’d be glad of your company if you feel that way about it.”

“Something tells me I had better leave the fish to their watery beds
today,” said I.

“All right,” answered our new acquaintance.

And the three of us started on a brisk walk in what seemed a circuitous
direction. The District Attorney knew the lay of the land, and after
about twenty minutes we came upon the railroad tracks. Here we turned
back in the direction of the deserted house.

In about three-quarters of an hour we came upon a distant view of the
wreck around a bend. A railroad gang was at work, straightening the
tangled mess caused by three freight cars which had left the rails.

The District Attorney approached the foreman of the gang and made himself
known.

“Anybody hurt?” he asked.

“Nope. Not going very fast. We hope to get the tracks cleared by
tomorrow.”

“Do you mind if I look around—over the cars?” asked the District Attorney.

“Go ahead,” replied the foreman.

The three of us began inspecting the whole train from engine to caboose.
The District Attorney scrutinized everything.

After the examination, which seemed to offer up nothing of special
interest, our new friend suggested we retrace our steps. We straggled
along the ties, each to himself, nobody having much to say.

“Something tells me,” finally spoke the District Attorney, “that your old
woman with the gun and this wreck are connected in some way. Certainly
there is nothing either mysterious or valuable about that old house. Why
should someone become suddenly interested in it enough to go around armed
and to warn away intruders? The only thing significant is that wreck. If
it is that—then developments will take place quickly and in darkness.”

“It is getting dark now,” I suggested.

“Yes. I’m going to stick around here and see what I shall see. You boys
can find your way back to the store. Just follow the tracks and turn into
the path at the bridge.”

Hunky smiled. “If it’s all the same to you, we’d like to stick.”

The District Attorney hesitated a moment, then said: “All right. It will
be a lonely vigil, and maybe you can help if anything does happen.”

We stopped about half a mile from the wreck, and sat down to wait for
darkness. In the woods twilight is short, and we hadn’t long to wait.
Back we turned and worked cautiously toward the wreck.

The gang was still at work, and in the distance we could see their
grotesque shapes by the light of their lanterns. The operations were up
ahead and we kept just in the rear and about a hundred feet to one side
of the caboose. This vantage point enabled us to command a view of the
wreck and the approach to it from the pasture and woods. Our own position
was well concealed.

Four hours went by, slowly because of the damp and cold of the night. The
illuminated hands of my wrist watch told me it was between eleven and
midnight. Banks of fleecy fog clung here and there to the low trees and
the ground. The night sounds of the woods mingled eerily with the sharp
noises made by the wrecking crew. It was cold and damp.

Suddenly the sharp eyes and ears of the District Attorney must have told
him something, for his hand went out in warning. Whatever the warning
was, it proved correct because we became aware, almost at once, of five
dark figures stealing up the slight incline toward that part of the train
which remained on the rails. Then we noticed two more figures edging
their way toward the front end of the wreck where the operations were
being conducted.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Let ’em start whatever they intend doing,” whispered the District
Attorney. “We are outnumbered, two to one, unless the crew backs us up.
You’re both set?”

“We’re both armed and we’re both good shots,” answered Hunky.

The five figures showed no hesitation in their movements, but made for
the fourth car from the caboose. We could see two of them hold a third
man upon their shoulders while he worked at the door.

Beyond, the other two had surprised the work gang and we could see their
hands go up in the flickering light.

“Let’s get nearer,” whispered the District Attorney.

Slowly, we began to move forward. We were about one hundred and fifty
feet from the larger group when an unexpected shot rang out. The men
working on the door became alert in a second.

We could see the five men dragging boxes from the car, the door of which
they had slid back. They weren’t any too quiet about it, so our footsteps
were not heard.

The District Attorney ran quickly forward in a crouching position. We
followed and spread out so as not to be in his line. When he was within
twenty feet one of the robbers turned—and he never turned again in this
world. The District Attorney dropped him with one shot.

Both our guns barked at the same time. So sudden and unexpected had been
our onslaught that we had a bully jump on them. The resistance, while
spirited and desperate for a few seconds, was quickly overcome. Three of
them were laid out, either wounded badly or dead. One tried to get into
the car, and Hunky dropped him right in the doorway. He came down with a
thud on the ground. The one remaining man surrendered, and we disarmed
him.

Shots were coming from the head of the train, and, leaving the scene of
our first encounter, we rushed down there. The two on guard had turned
for a minute, and the boss of the wrecking crew had drawn his gun and
opened up on them. They were caught between two fires and couldn’t get
away.

In a matter of minutes we had them all trussed up. The others we carried
into the caboose for the time being.

The District Attorney wasted little time on them. He turned his attention
to the car which had been opened by the robbers. When Hunky and I came
up he was a puzzled man.

“Turnips!” he exploded. “A whole carload of ’em! Must be something else
in here.”

The three of us tugged and hauled for a quarter of an hour, while a
brakeman held a lantern for us to see by. Our efforts were finally
rewarded by something which we were not surprised to find by that time.

Yes, indeed. Case after case of whisky! That was the cargo those birds
were after.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was plain enough now. The gang was part of an organized whisky-ring
engaged in smuggling whisky from Canada into the United States. They
had, through the connivance of confederates, secreted the liquor at the
point of embarkation beneath a larger load of turnips. The car would have
reached its destination and been secretly unloaded by members of the gang
waiting for it, possibly in the big train yards at night.

Then had come the wreck. Perhaps someone in the employ of the road had
wired the gang. Anyway, they had learned of it and hustled to the scene
desperate on getting the liquor.

The connection must have been between the old deserted house, which we
had stumbled on by mistake, and the wreck. Evidently they had planned to
carry the stuff in cases to the deserted house and thence over the road
by automobiles. Undoubtedly, we would find several big high-powered cars
when we got to the house.

The District Attorney, Hunky and I went into the caboose after checking
up the loot which proved to be over one hundred cases. Some of the crooks
were stretched out and some sitting up. Two of them would never do any
more robbing in this sprightly existence.

One was sitting hunched upon a stool and a mighty evil-looking bird he
was. His black eyes scowled all kinds of malevolence at us. He looked
vaguely familiar and when I caught his eye I recognized him.

“Hum. Changed your sex, I see,” I snapped at him.

He didn’t favor me with a reply—just glared at me.

“Recognize our old pal, Hunky?” I said to my friend. “This is the old
lady who gave us the scare in the farm house.”

“By George, you’re right,” said Hunky. “What was the idea of the
masquerade?”

But the fellow wouldn’t tell. And he never did say, as far as we ever
could learn, why he had chosen to play the part of an old woman. Perhaps
he had figured that in that role he would be better able to avert
suspicion if he had been seen around the deserted farm house. Perhaps it
would have worked, too, had he not made the mistake of holding us up with
that suspiciously new and modern gun.




_America’s Greatest Magazine of Detective Fiction_


Detective Tales has leaped to a foremost place among the all-fiction
magazines, and in its field it now ranks as the greatest of them all. In
size and quality, no other publication of detective stories can compare
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fiction. Thrills, mystery, suspense, excitement—there’s not a dull line
in the entire magazine.

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_In the April Issue_

The April issue of DETECTIVE TALES contains 192 pages of thrilling
stories—novelettes, two-part tales and a tremendous number of shorter
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DETECTIVE TALES




_The Eyrie_


Here we are with the second issue of WEIRD TALES—and we’re going strong!
Or at least—judging by the number of congratulatory letters that the
postman drops on our desk every morning—we’re making lots of friends.

But, says the boss, are we also making money? A fair question! As we
remarked before, WEIRD TALES is an experiment. There has never been
another magazine quite like this, hence nobody knows whether or not
such a magazine will pay. And, of course, if a magazine doesn’t pay it
promptly ceases to exist.

We do believe, though, that WEIRD TALES has entered upon a long and
flourishing journey. We know there are multitudes of readers who like
this kind of magazine and are willing to buy it. Are these readers
numerous enough to support WEIRD TALES? The answer is up to you.

But we’ll never get anywhere unless we all work together. It’s our job to
publish the right sort of magazine. It’s yours to buy it. If we both do
these things as we should—why, then, of course, WEIRD TALES is sure to
succeed. Nothing can stop it.

And if anybody thinks that ours is the easiest task he should sit at our
desk for a day or so and wade through the rivers of manuscripts that are
flooding us like the waters of spring. From this great welter of material
we must select such stories as we think you’d like to read. And since it
is manifestly impossible to know the likes and dislikes of some ten of
thousands of readers, we are often uncertain what to put in and what to
leave out. Generally, we try to solve this perplexing problem by choosing
only those stories in which we ourselves can become genuinely interested,
assuming that anything that interests us will likewise interest others.
Maybe we’re wrong about this; but—what would YOU do if you were editor of
WEIRD TALES?

Although most of the manuscripts we receive are obviously hopeless, all
must be read. Of the thousands of manuscripts sent to our office not one
has been returned, or ever will be returned, unread. We cannot afford to
take a chance on missing something really good.

Too many authors place too much stress upon atmospheric conditions when
they take their trusty typewriters in hand to turn out a goose-flesh
thriller. Seven in ten, when opening their stories, employ a variant of
the well-worn dictum: “’Twas a dark and stormy night.” Why is this? Must
the heavens weep and the thunder growl to make a weird tale? We think
not. Weird, indeed, is “The Forty Jars,” published in this issue, and yet
the story takes place on a red-hot desert beneath a blazing sun.

But let’s look through some of these letters on our desk. Here’s
something short and snappy from H. W. of Sterling, Illinois:

    “My dear Mr. Baird: I have just notified my attorney to start
    suit against you and your new magazine for personal injury. My
    eyes are rather poor, and the first number was so interesting
    that I sat up nearly all night reading it—and as a result I’ve
    been wearing smoked glasses ever since. WEIRD TALES seems to
    me to fill a long felt want in magazine circles. I have always
    delighted in stories of the ‘Dracula’ type and that Sax Rohmer
    stuff, and I never could understand why the editors didn’t wake
    up. You, as a pioneer in the field, are giving them something
    to think about. Meanwhile, if you make the next number as
    interesting as the first, I’ll likely go blind.”

Despite the danger to H. W.’s eyesight, we tried to make this number even
more interesting than the first. And we’re going to make the next number
more interesting than this.

We have here a letter from C. L. Austin, 328 Locust Avenue, Amsterdam, N.
Y., that simply must be printed if for no other reason than as an answer
to the last ten words of it:

    “Gentlemen: Having read the first issue of your magazine, WEIRD
    TALES, I must admit that I like the stories very much. They are
    entirely out of the ordinary. There is no question but what
    this magazine will be a big success, providing the editor is
    not hedged in by a multitude of ‘don’t’s’ from the managing
    department. It is a well-known fact that many times an editor
    would like to accept material that in many ways would conflict
    with the policy of the magazine, and there is a loss of what
    no doubt would be valuable material. In fact, I have known
    for some time that adverse criticism of half a dozen people
    in different sections of the country have power to change the
    entire editorial policy of a magazine.

    “And unless the editor is the kind of man who is brave enough
    to stick for his ideals, regardless of his job, there must be
    much vacillation, with a consequent loss of valuable material
    and a depreciation in the reading value of the magazine. I
    notice that you say you will publish all letters received,
    providing there is no objection by the writers. Well, really
    now, old chap, I’ve no possible objection, but I doubt that you
    have the nerve to do it.”

With no desire to engage in a controversy with Mr. Austin, we must say
to him emphatically that the editorial policy of WEIRD TALES is not
dictated by the business office. We will stand or fall on our platform of
“something new in magazine fiction.” If you support us, we shall be able
to give you what you want. If you turn thumbs down, we’ll blow out the
gas and go home in the dark. In any event, there will be no compromise.
WEIRD TALES, as long as it lives, will always be “The Unique Magazine.”

Here’s another:

    “Dear sir: I have just read your new magazine, WEIRD TALES,
    also The Eyrie by yourself. SOME magazine, I’ll say! There
    is a real kick to these stories—something that is pitifully
    lacking in the stories of most magazines. Why editors shy at
    ‘weird’ and ‘horror’ stories has always been a mystery to me.
    I like meat in my literature the same as I do in my menu. This
    willy-nilly stuff of would-be cowboys (when there aren’t any
    such animals nowadays) is sickening. So is sugar when eaten to
    excess. Keep this magazine going. There is a demand for such
    literature. We all love mystery and stories that give us cold
    spine (we of the public), whether the editors think so or not.
    This magazine of yours will prove it, I’m sure. Believe me,
    I’m for it! For the same reason I have always read Poe. And to
    prove this, I am enclosing a check for a year’s subscription.
    Money talks. We are always willing to pay for what we like.”

That letter came from Dr. Vance J. Hoyt, suite 818, Baker Detwiler
Building, Los Angeles, California, and that’s the sort of letter we
particularly like to read. As the doctor says, money talks,—and it speaks
with an eloquent tongue!

So, also, do letters of frank criticism such as the following:

    “I’m glad to say that I think the first issue of WEIRD TALES
    very good. I read ‘Ooze,’ ‘The Ghoul and the Corpse,’ ‘Fear,’
    ‘The Place of Madness,’ ‘The Unknown Beast,’ ‘The Sequel,’
    ‘The Young Man Who Wanted to Die.’ Of these I was mightily
    taken with ‘The Ghoul and the Corpse,’ which, to my mind, ran
    a close race with ‘Ooze’—in fact, as to handling, I think
    the best written, by far, of any that I read. Taylor’s story
    was good—my wife read it, and liked it—and so did I, as to
    theme. The handling left something to be desired in the way of
    smoothness, but, as a story, it was the cat’s whiskers. ‘The
    Unknown Beast’ was about the poorest, pressed for this honor
    by Story’s ‘Sequel.’ But, all in all, I am heartily in accord
    with your editorial dictum that people DO like and want grim
    stories. I know that I’m one who does. And I read ‘The Grim
    Thirteen,’ with some amazement that none of these stories had
    sold previously.

    “I think some of our editors are so hide-bound, so cribbed,
    cabined and confined within the narrow limits of an
    increasingly myopic purview that, for the life of them, they
    can see nothing but stereotypes. Or else they’re not really
    editors, but just hired men who have to pass the stuff up to a
    ‘business’ boss who doesn’t know a single thing about fiction,
    or life, either, for that matter. All in all, I congratulate
    you on something really good—AND new.—H. C., Summit, N. J.”

We have received a considerable number of letters like the following from
S. O. B. of Beulah, New Mexico:

    “Your enterprise hits me in the right spot. I am a lover of
    Poe’s stuff, and have often felt that the general editorial
    prejudice against weird stories today isn’t, after all, a true
    reflection of the people’s taste. I hope my opinion is correct
    and that WEIRD TALES may receive a hearty welcome.”

Also like this:

    “Congratulations on your new magazine, WEIRD TALES! The first
    edition was a veritable ghastly, ghostly knockout! Most every
    one enjoys an occasional ghost story, and a thrilling novelette
    like ‘Ooze’ is a better tonic than Tanlac.—D. L. C., Denver,
    Colorado.”

Victor Wilson of Hazen, Pa., writes us:

    “I have just finished reading the first installment of ‘The
    Thing of a Thousand Shapes.’ It is fine, and one who has a good
    imagination should not ‘start it late at night.’ I wish to
    congratulate you on your fine fiction magazine. I am a reader
    of several other magazines of up-to-date fiction, but yours
    is the first of its kind. I have not read all of the stories,
    but I like ‘The Place of Madness,’ ‘The Grave,’ and ‘Hark! The
    Rattle!’”

And here’s a line o’ type or two from our star contrib, Anthony M. Rud:

    “WEIRD TALES seems to have hit your mark excellently well. It
    possesses glamor for me in every yarn but two—which I won’t
    attempt to criticize as both well may suit other readers
    exactly.”

We wish Rud had told us the names of those two yarns. Strange as it may
seem, we’re always more interested in adverse criticism than in praise.

Still, we can’t deny that we like to get letters like this one from C. P.
O. of Gainesville, Texas:

    “Dear Mr. Baird: Allow me to number myself among the first
    subscribers to the new venture. Check enclosed. The sub-title,
    ‘unique,’ really describes the magazine, even in these days of
    specialization in the magazine field.... WEIRD TALES appears
    at a time when the public is interested in this type of story,
    I believe, as I notice in the monthly bulletins of Brentano’s,
    McClurg’s and Baker & Taylor that quite a collection of ghost,
    psychic and weird tales are appearing in book form. Most famous
    authors wrote one or more weird tales; to mention a few:
    Dickens, Thackeray, Poe, Bierce, O’Brien, F. Marion Crawford
    and De Maupassant. I fear you will find greater trouble in
    securing good material for WEIRD TALES than for DETECTIVE
    TALES, for, after all, the detective story is a matter of
    craftsmanship while the really first-class ghost or weird tale
    is a matter of art.”

It is hard to get good material for WEIRD TALES; but we’re glad to work
hard for it—to go almost to any length for it—if, by so doing, we can
offer something distinctive and worthwhile and UNIQUE in magazines.

Here’s another letter from Texas:

    “Dear sir: I just bought a copy of WEIRD TALES, and I have read
    most of the stories and consider them very good. I believe that
    a magazine of this type will be very popular. In fact, I am
    sure it will be, and I trust nothing will happen to change your
    policy in regard to the type of material you are now using and
    expect to use in the future.—J. H. C., Houston, Texas.”

William S. Waudby of Washington, D. C., wrote to us, “You have struck the
right key with WEIRD TALES, and congratulations are in order for Vol. 1,
No. 1,” while E. E. L. of Chicago wrote to us, in part, as follows:

    “Gentlemen: ... You will probably be deluged with a lot of
    stuff, for everybody who writes is sometimes compelled to
    commit to paper some seductive phantasm of his brain for
    the sheer pleasure of doing it.... Poe took more than 5,000
    words to develop his supreme story of horror, and those who
    have an ambition to imitate the Master will often require a
    larger canvas. Your story lengths—1,000 to 20,000 words—will
    give everybody a chance to show what he can do. May I not
    express the hope that your magazine will prove a success, and
    that you will publish therein stories that otherwise would
    molder in filing-cases, and which will be lifted from your
    pages to become a permanent part of our literature?... If the
    contributions can maintain a sufficiently high level you can
    count on me as one of your permanent subscribers, for I dearly
    love to read stories of this character.”

With regard to WEIRD TALES for May: We meant to say a good deal about
it in this month’s Eyrie, but we’ve consumed so much space with our
correspondence that we’ve precious little room left. All we can tell
you now is that if you are seeking the “usual type” of fiction you will
not find it in the May issue of WEIRD TALES. But if you are looking for
“something different”—something that you’ve never expected to see in any
magazine—then the place to find it is in the May WEIRD TALES. Need we say
more?—THE EDITOR.

[Illustration]




THE SKELETON IN YOUR CLOSET!


Open the door and tell us the weird event of your family history. It may
sound terrible to you after reading it but to others would prove only
ordinary reading matter.

The similarity of these “skeletons” cannot be other than remarkable and
interesting to our readers.

Your “skeleton” should not exceed 1000 words or run less than 500. If
possible have them typewritten.

Your name and address will not be published with the story if accepted.
For each “skeleton” published we will pay $5.00.

_No unpublished stories returned unless requested and accompanied by
return stamped envelope._

                                THE EDITOR
                   WEIRD TALES 854 N. Clark St. CHICAGO

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Are You Reading

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A Complete Story in Every Issue

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IF YOU CAN TELL IT FROM A DIAMOND SEND IT BACK]

                            LADIES      GENTS

A genuine full carat size sparkling gem full of life and fire. Set in
Ladies’ and Gent’s handsome Platinoid finish mounting as pictured.
Startle your friends and relatives! You will be proud to own a DIAMOGEM.
Buy direct from Importers. Do not be misled by offers of similar
appearing gems. Buy a genuine DIAMOGEM. Others ask twice and five
times as much for inferior gems. We are the sole and only importers
of DIAMOGEMS. We offer Radiant Rings within the reach of everyone!
BECAUSE—WE DEFY THE DIAMOND TRUST! THE CASTE WALL OF THE DIM AGES IS
BROKEN DOWN—AT LAST—YOU can wear a ring glittering with the prismatic
fury and white blinding light shot forth from a flawless DIAMOGEM
INDISTINGUISHABLE from the radiant Kimberley Cut Diamonds so costly that
they graced the arms and fingers of only the Queens of the past and the
Great Wealthy of today. YOU are the one benefited! The fight is for you!
SPECIAL ADVERTISING OFFER. For a short time only, as an advertising offer
you can get the ring without sending one penny! Send paper strip around
finger for size. Pay postman $1.97 when ring is delivered. We pay postage.

$1.97 C. O. D.

                           GENERAL PRODUCTS CO.
                   1333 Fulton Street DEPT. 12 CHICAGO

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[Illustration: Pay Cash—Save 50%

10 Jewel 20 Year Case

$7.45

BRACELET _FREE_

SEND NO MONEY]

We are offering our finest ladies’ watches below wholesale cost. 20-yr.
guarantee. 10-jewels, 14k, gold-filled watch, silk grosgrain ribbon and
clasp. ALL for $7.45 prepaid. $15 value. Stem wind and set. Stylish
octagon surround case. Gold dial. Splendid time-keeper. Sent in velvet
gift case. Order today and get gold bracelet FREE. Send no money, just
name and address. Satisfaction guaranteed or money refunded. Write today.

                         SUPREME JEWELRY MFG. CO.
                     Dept. 318 434 Broadway New York

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“The Devil’s Fingerprint”

By LAURIE McCLINTOCK and CULPEPER CHUNN

Is a Story of Thrills and Mystery

YOU’LL FIND IT IN DETECTIVE TALES

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[Illustration: $1.00 BRINGS YOU THIS FINE GUN!]

ORDER No. 3713

WESTERN SPECIAL

32 or 38 CALIBER

_A real man’s gun._ A hard hitting, straight shooter, 6 in. barrel
top-break style with automatic shell ejector. American made, double
action and special grips. Handsomely finished in fine blue steel.
Protect yourself and home. Just mail a dollar bill and we will send
you one at our _low bargain price_. Order NOW.

Balance only $10.95 C. O. D. plus postage

FREE GUN AND NOVELTY CATALOG

           AMERICAN NOVELTY CO. 2455-57 Archer Ave., CHICAGO

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[Illustration: DIAMONDS]

WATCHES on CREDIT

LOFTIS BROS & CO. EST 1858

Genuine Diamonds _GUARANTEED_

_SEND FOR CATALOG_

Over 2,000 bargains. Select as many articles as you wish and have all
charged in one account. Sent prepaid for your Free Examination. Catalog
explains everything.

LIBERTY BONDS ACCEPTED

JEANETTE Diamond Ring

Blue white, radiant, perfect cut Diamond. The ring is 18-K Solid White
Gold, curved and pierced. Extra special at.... $100

We import Diamonds direct from Europe and sell direct to you. Our immense
buying power is a great saving to you. Customers testify to Loftis values.

Diamonds Win Hearts

17-JEWEL ELGIN

No. 15—Green Gold, engraved, guaranteed 25 years, 12 size, gilt dial.
Assorted patterns, $35

    No. 16—Wrist Watch, 18-K Solid White Gold, 17 Jewels, $30;
    14-K, 15 Jewels                                       $32

CREDIT TERMS on all articles: One-fifth down, balance divided into equal
payments within eight months. _Send for Catalog._

LOFTIS Bros. & Co. 1858

THE OLD RELIABLE ORIGINAL CREDIT JEWELERS

                               DEPT. M-376
                     106 N. State St., Chicago, Ill.
                         Stores in Leading Cities

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[Illustration: MYSTIC EGYPTIAN LUCK RING]

Good Luck, Long Life, Health and Prosperity are said to come to those who
wear the Egyptian Luck Ring. Cleopatra is said to have worn one of these
rings to protect her from misfortune. Many people wearing them today
claim they bring power and success to men—charm, admiration, and love to
women. This guaranteed Sterling Silver Egyptian Luck Ring is of unique
design and beauty. Send strip of paper for size. Say whether ladies’
or gents’. Cash $1.45; C. O. D. $1.55. Order today. Money back if not
pleased.

                          EGYPTIAN GEM IMPORTERS
                   651 Maxwell St., Dept. 163, Chicago

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Tailoring Agents Wanted

Make $75.00 per week and up selling our fine, made-to-measure, all-wool
suits at $39.50 retail, direct to wearer; biggest value ever offered;
positively sell on sight; liberal profits paid in advance. We attend to
delivery and collections. Write at once giving full particulars as to
your past experience. Full line of samples and everything to work with
will be sent with the least possible delay.

                            W. Z. GIBSON, Inc.
             Dept. P-1001, 161 W. Harrison St., Chicago, Ill.

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[Illustration: Great _New_ Invention _for seekers of_ Health Power Beauty]

Elco Health Generators at last are ready for you! If you want more
health—greater power to enjoy the pleasures and delights about you, or if
more beauty is your desire—write! Ask for the book on these inventions
which has just been prepared. It will be sent to you without cost. It
tells you how Elco Health Generators aid you in leaving the lethargy
and hopelessness of bad health and weakness behind forever. Re-vitalize
yourself. Bring back energy. Be wholly alive. Write today!

10 Days Free Trial—Write for Free Book!

Elco Electric Health Generators

These great new inventions generate Violet Ray, Vibration, Electricity
and Ozone—combined or separate.

Free Trial

They operate on the electric light in your house or on their own motive
power at less than 50 cents per year. Elco Health Generators are
positively the only instruments which can give you in one Electricity,
Violet Ray—Vibration and Ozone—the four greatest curative agents. Send
the coupon below. Get the Free Book NOW!

For All These:

    Paralysis
    Pimples
    Pulling Hair
    Headache
    Lumbago
    Nervousness
    Rheumatism
    Sore Throat
    Asthma
    Black Heads
    Catarrh
    Insomnia
    Skin Diseases
    Hay Fever
    Neuralgia
    Deafness
    Pain
    Development
    Neuritis
    Obesity

Mail Coupon for FREE Book!

Do not put this paper down without sending the coupon. Don’t go on as you
are with pains and with almost no life and energy. You owe it to yourself
to be a better man or woman. You were put here to enjoy life—not just to
drag through it. So do not rest another day until you have put your name
on the coupon here. That will bring the whole story of these great new
inventions. Do it today—now.

                          Lindstrom & Company
           438-448 N. Wells Street, Dept. 13-94 Chicago, Ill.

    Please send me your fine book, “Health—Power—Beauty” and full
    information on your 10-day Free Trial Offer.

    _Name_ ____________________

    _Address_ ____________________

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[Illustration: SERGE DRESS

Fringed PANELS

_Elaborately Embroidered_

Lace Collar FREE!]

Write for this stunning dress today and we’ll give you FREE the exquisite
lace collar! We guarantee you will say this is the most becoming dress
you ever wore and the biggest bargain you ever saw. Money back quick if
you can match the style and quality anywhere for less than $3.98. Save
$$—prove it at our risk!

SALE $3.98

Material guaranteed! Ever-Wear Serge, soft and fine quality. Two
panels, elaborately embroidered with wool French Knot medallions and
gold-stitched black silk scroll design, are finished with black silk
fringe. Silk braid pipes panels and sleeves. Long bolt of silk material
forms tie and streamers. Elegant workmanship and full cut!

Don’t Send a Penny!

Next Season’s prime style and worlds’s biggest money’s worth—this
surprise bargain will bring us 100,000 permanent customers. Rush name,
size: Women’s 28 to 40 inch bust. Misses’ 16 to 20 years. Deposit $3.98
and postage and try it on! Remember beautiful lace collar FREE if you
order right away! Pay on arrival!

_Your money back if you aren’t delighted!_

Navy Blue or Brown

State Color

                       INTERNATIONAL MAIL ORDER CO.
                           Dept. E201B CHICAGO

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[Illustration: Complete Shaving Set]

$8 VALUE for ONLY $2.88

CHOICE of Latest Style Safety Razor or Straight Razor, together with
16-in. highly polished nickel plated stand, plate glass adjustable
mirror, porcelain cup and rubber-set brush, all for ONLY $2.88—postage
paid.

FREE! With safety razor, 1 doz. blades. In ordering state style razor
wanted. Send No Money. Order now.

                   PEOPLES MAIL ORDER HOUSE, Dep. M-178
                 1145 Blue Island Ave. Chicago, Illinois

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Berton Braley’s

_New Story In_

DETECTIVE TALES

_Will Keep You Laughing From Start to Finish_

DON’T MISS IT!

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[Illustration: 2 TIRES FOR $9.95]

(SIZE 28 × 3)

FREE TUBE WITH EACH TIRE

Standard Tire Prices Smashed Again!—and some sensational cut, too! Think
of it—two tires for almost the price of one and a FREE inner tube with
each tire. No double treads or sewed tires. Thousands of customers are
getting maximum mileage out of these tires, and you, too, can get up to

10,000 MILES

Here’s your opportunity—if you act at once. This is a special lot
selected for this record-breaking sale. Order today—right now. They’re
going fast.

_Compare These Amazing Reductions on Two Tires of Same Size_

    SIZE     1 TIRE    2 TIRES
    28 × 3    $6.75     $9.95
    30 × 3     7.25     11.95
    30 × 3½    8.25     13.95
    32 × 3½    9.45     15.95
    31 × 4    10.65     17.45
    32 × 4    11.85     19.75
    33 × 4    12.45     20.90
    34 × 4    13.25     21.95

Prices on larger sizes quoted on request. Prices f.o.b. Chicago.

SEND NO MONEY!

We ship subject to examination by Express before payment of C. O. D.
charges, or by Parcel Post after payment of C. O. D. charges. Examine
tires on arrival, and if not completely satisfied, return same unused
and your money will be promptly refunded. Specify straight side or
clincher. ACT NOW.

                          ROCKWELL TIRE COMPANY
             1506 S. Michigan Ave., Dept. 40-D, Chicago, Ill.

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[Illustration: Beautiful Guaranteed Watch $3.30]

Here’s your only opportunity to get this elegant high grade thin model
watch with choice of gold, silver, radium, or fancy engraved dial for
only $3.30 C. O. D. Open face, stem wind and set. Adjusted. Fully tested.
Guaranteed perfect timekeeper. A watch you’ll be proud to own.

FREE

If you write at once—beautiful waldemar knife and chain with your order.
Send No Money. Pay postman on arrival only $3.30 and the watch, knife,
and chain are yours. Satisfaction Guaranteed. Order today sure.

      First National Watch Co., 651 Maxwell St., Dept. 116, Chicago

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HENRY LEVERAGE Author of “Whispering Wires” Has Another Exciting Story in
this Month’s DETECTIVE TALES

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[Illustration: WANTED! U.S. RAILWAY MAIL CLERKS]

Get $1600 to $2300 a Year

STEADY WORK

PAID VACATIONS

NO LAYOFFS

Common Education Sufficient

Travel—See the Country

MEN 18 OR OVER SHOULD MAIL COUPON IMMEDIATELY

                    Franklin Institute, Dept. R253.
                            Rochester, N. Y.

    Sirs: Send me, without charge (1) specimen Railway Mail Clerk
    Examination questions; (2) list of Government jobs obtainable,
    (3) tell me how I can get a position.

    Name _______________________

    Address ____________________

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What Would You Give to Become A Really Good Dancer?

[Illustration]

How much would it be worth to you to make yourself so popular through
your ability to dance all of the very latest steps, that everyone would
be anxious to have you attend their social affairs?

Good dancers always have the best time. The best dancers and the
prettiest girls always want a good partner. From the business as well as
the social standpoint, it is really time and money profitably spent to
add dancing to your other accomplishments. Especially so, since it now
costs so little—and a fine dancing ability can be mastered in only a few
hours.

Arthur Murray has perfected a method by which you can learn in the
privacy of your own home, to dance any of the latest dances in a few
minutes—and all of them in a short time. Instructions are so simple that
even a child can quickly learn. In one evening you can master the steps
of any single dance. Partner or music are not necessary. After learning
you can dance with the best dancer in your town and not make a single
misstep.

[Illustration: Arthur Murray

Dancing Instructor to the Vanderbilts]

Learn Without Partner or Music

Arthur Murray’s remarkable method is so clearly explained and lucidly
written that you don’t need any one to explain the instructions. The
diagrams show every movement—just how to make each step of every dance,
and the written instructions are concise and easily remembered. After
you have quickly learned the steps by yourself in your own room, you can
dance perfectly with any one. It will also be quite easy for you to dance
in correct time on any floor to any orchestra or phonograph music.

Arthur Murray is recognized as America’s foremost authority on social
dancing. Such people as the Vanderbilts, Ex-Gov. Locke Craig of North
Carolina and scores of other socially prominent people chose Mr. Murray
as their dancing instructor. Dancing teachers the world over take lessons
from him—and it is a fact that more than 50,000 people have learned to
become popular dancers through his Learn-at-home methods.

Free Proof You Can Learn the Latest Steps in an Evening

Private instructions in Mr. Murray’s studio would cost you $10 per
lesson. But through his new method of teaching dancing at home, you get
the same high-class instructions at a ridiculously low price. And if you
aren’t delighted, the instruction doesn’t cost you one cent.

To prove that he can teach you, Mr. Murray will send you his full
sixteen-lesson course for five days’ free trial. Through these sixteen
lessons you will learn, The Correct Dancing Position—How to Gain
Confidence—How to Follow Successfully—The Art of Making Your Feet Look
Attractive—The Correct Walk in the Fox Trot—The Basic Principles in
Waltzing—How to Waltz Backward—The Secret of Leading—The Chasse in the
Fox Trot—The Forward Waltz Step—How to Leave One Partner to Dance with
Another—How to Learn and Also Teach Your Child to Dance—What the Advanced
Dancer Should Know—How to Develop Your Sense of Rhythm—Etiquette of the
Ballroom.

Here’s What a Few Say

    I practiced yesterday and learned the Fox Trot through the
    night. Tonight I danced a number of times with a good dancer
    to the music of a phonograph and had no trouble in leading or
    balance.

                                                    J. M. Mealy,
                                                    Flatwood, W. Va.

    I am getting along very nicely with the instructions. I have so
    many pupils I have to have a larger place.

                                                  Albert J. Delaney,
                                                  Bay City, Mich.

    Before I got your lessons I couldn’t dance a step, but now I
    go to dances and have a good time, like the rest of them. I’ll
    always be thankful, that I have taken your course.

                                                  Beggi Thorgerison,
                                                  Ethridge, Mont.

Special Proof Offer

Satisfy yourself that the new course can quickly teach you all of the
new dances and latest steps. See for yourself how easily you can master
all of the newest dances and be able to enjoy yourself at the very next
affair to which you are invited. Just fill in and mail the coupon—or
a postcard or letter will do, enclosing $1.00 in full payment—and the
special course will be promptly sent to you. Keep the course for five
full days—practice all the steps—learn everything the lessons teach,
because that is the only way you can prove to your full satisfaction that
Arthur Murray’s method is the quickest, easiest and most delightful way
to learn how to dance correctly and expertly. Then, within five days, if
you desire to do so, you may return the course and your deposit will be
promptly refunded without any questions. But should you decide to keep
the course, as you surely will, it becomes your property without further
payments of any kind.

Your Satisfaction Guaranteed

Several times Arthur Murray has been asked how one can learn by mail to
dance? The answer and the proof that you can learn is found in these
special lessons. After reading them over and practicing the steps as
shown in the diagrams, no one can help but feel convinced that Arthur
Murray’s course does teach everything promised. And so positive is Mr.
Murray that he can teach you that he absolutely guarantees your complete
satisfaction or your money will be fully refunded.

You have always wanted to learn to dance—you have always promised
yourself that some day you would learn. Here is your best opportunity.
And remember, you now receive the 16 lessons for only $1.00.

                              ARTHUR MURRAY
                   Studio 653 801 Madison Ave. New York

                       Arthur Murray, Studio 653,
                      801 Madison Avenue, New York

    To prove that you can teach me to dance in one evening at home
    you may send the sixteen-lesson course in plain cover. I am
    enclosing $1.00 in full payment, but it is understood that this
    is not to be considered a purchase unless the course in every
    way comes up to my expectations. If, within 5 days, I decide
    to return the course I may do so and you will refund my money
    promptly and without question.

    Name ______________________________________

    Address ___________________________________

    City _______________ State ________________

    (Price outside U. S. $1.10 cash with order.)

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[Illustration]

$1000 REWARD For the Capture of This Man

Convict 6138, escaped from the State Penitentiary; Name, Charles Condray;
Age, 37; Height, 5 ft. 8 in. Weight, 141 pounds; Hair, light brown; Eyes,
gray.

Easy enough to identify him from his photograph and this description, you
may say—but, Condray took the name of “Brown”, dyed his hair, darkened
his skin, grew a mustache, put on weight and walked with a stoop. Yet, he
was captured and identified so positively that he knew the game was up
and returned to the penitentiary without extradition.

How was it accomplished? Easy enough for the Finger Print Expert. They
are the specialists, the leaders, the _cream_ of detectives. Every day’s
paper tells their wonderful exploits in solving mysterious crimes and
convicting dangerous criminals.

More Trained Men Needed

The demand for trained men by governments, states, cities, detective
agencies, corporations, and private bureaus is becoming greater every
day. Here is a real opportunity for YOU. Can you imagine a more
fascinating line of work than this? Often life and death depend upon
finger print evidence—and big rewards go to the expert. Many experts earn
regularly from $3,000 to $10,000 per year.

Learn at Home in Spare Time

And now you can learn the secrets of this science at home in your spare
time. Any man with common school education and average ability can become
a Finger Print Detective in surprisingly short time.

_Why don’t You be a Finger Print Expert?_

Free Course in Secret Service

For a limited time we are making a special offer of a _Professional
Finger Print Outfit, absolutely Free_, and _Free Course in Secret Service
Intelligence_. Mastery of these two kindred professions will open a
brilliant career for you.

Write quickly for fully illustrated free book on Finger Prints which
explains this wonderful training in detail. Don’t wait until this offer
has expired—mail the coupon now. You may never see this announcement
again! You assume no obligation—you have everything to gain and nothing
to lose. Write at once—address

                      University of Applied Science
            Dept. 13-94 1920 Sunnyside Ave. Chicago, Illinois

                     UNIVERSITY OF APPLIED SCIENCE
         Dept. 13-94, 1920 Sunnyside Avenue, Chicago, Illinois

    Gentlemen:—Without any obligation whatever, send me your new,
    fully illustrated, FREE book on Finger Prints and your offer
    of a FREE course in Secret Service Intelligence and the Free
    Professional Finger Print Outfit.

    _Name_ _____________________________________________________

    _Address_ __________________________________________________

    __________________________________________ _Age_ ___________