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




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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, 854
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same, either wholly or in part.

Copyright, 1923, by The Rural Publishing Corporation.

                  VOLUME 1      25 Cents      NUMBER 3




_Contents for May, 1923_

  _Nineteen Thrilling Short Stories_
  _Two Complete Novelettes_
  _Two Two-Part Stories_
  _Interesting, Odd and Weird Happenings_


    THE MOON TERROR                                   A. G. BIRCH       5
        _A Remarkable Novel_

    THE SECRET FEAR                      BY KENNETH DUANE WHIPPLE      22
        _A “Creepy” Detective Story_

    JUNGLE BEASTS                               WILLIAM P. BARRON      23
        _A Complete Novelette_

    THE GOLDEN CAVERNS                              JULIAN KILMAN      30
        _A Condensed Novel_

    VIALS OF INSECTS                         PAUL ELLSWORTH TRIEM      39
        _Short Story_

    AN EYE FOR AN EYE                                 G. W. CRANE      49
        _Short Story_

    THE FLOOR ABOVE                                  M. HUMPHREYS      52
        _A Short Story with a Horrifying Climax_

    PENELOPE                                     VINCENT STARRETT      57
        _A Fantastic Tale_

    THE PURPLE HEART                                  HERMAN SISK      61
        _The Story of a Haunted Cabin_

    FELINE                                            BRUCE GRANT      62
        _A Whimsical Storiette_

    TWO HOURS OF DEATH                          E. THAYLES EMMONS      64
        _A Ghost Story_

    MIDNIGHT BLACK                               HAMILTON CRAIGIE      67
        _Short Story_

    THE HAUNTED AND THE HAUNTERS                    BULWER LYTTON      70
        _An Old Masterpiece_

    THE WHISPERING THING     LAURIE McCLINTOCK AND CULPEPER CHUNN      78
        _The Conclusion of a Frightful Mystery Novel_

    THE DEATH CELL                                     F. K. MOSS      85
        _A Weird Short Story_

    THE DEVIL PLANT                            LYLE WILSON HOLDEN      89
        _A Story of Ghastly Retribution_

    THE THUNDER VOICE                            F. WALTER WILSON      92
        _The Story of a Hairy Monster_

    CASE NO. 27                                MOLLIE FRANK ELLIS      96
        _A Few Minutes in a Madhouse_

    THE FINALE                                     WILLIAM MERRIT      99
        _A Short Story_

    THE CLOSED CABINET                                                101
        _A Story of the Eighteenth Century_

    THE EYRIE                                       BY THE EDITOR     113

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                               _The Unique
                                Magazine_

                               WEIRD TALES

                                _Edited by
                               Edwin Baird_

                                VOLUME ONE
                               NUMBER THREE

                                25c a Copy

                                MAY, 1923

                        Subscription $3.00 A YEAR
                             $3.50 IN CANADA




_The Astounding Events in This Remarkable Novel Leave the Reader
Breathless with Amazement_

The Moon Terror

_By_ A. G. BIRCH


CHAPTER I.

THE DRUMS OF DOOM.

The first warning of the stupendous cataclysm that befell the earth in
the third decade of the twentieth century was recorded simultaneously in
several parts of America during a night in early June. But, so little was
its awful significance suspected at the time, it passed almost without
comment.

[Illustration]

I am certain that I entertained no forebodings; neither did the man
who was destined to play the leading role in the mighty drama that
followed—Dr. Ferdinand Gresham, the eminent American astronomer. For we
were on a hunting and fishing trip in Labrador at the time, and were not
even aware of the strange occurrence.

Anyway, the nature of this first herald of disaster was not such as to
cause alarm.

At 12 minutes past 3 o’clock a. m., when there began a lull in the
night’s aerial telegraph business, several of the larger wireless
stations of the Western hemisphere simultaneously began picking up
strange signals out of the ether. They were faint and ghostly, as if
coming from a vast distance—equally far removed from New York and San
Francisco, Juneau and Panama.

Exactly two minutes apart the calls were repeated, with clock-like
regularity. But the code used—if it _were_ a code—was undecipherable.

Until near dawn the signals continued—indistinct, unintelligible,
insistent.

Every station capable of transmitting messages over such great distances
emphatically denied sending them. And no amateur apparatus was powerful
enough to be the cause. As far as anyone could learn, the signals
originated nowhere upon the earth. It was as if some phantom were
whispering through the ether in the language of another planet.

Two nights later the calls were heard again, starting at almost the same
instant when they had been distinguished on the first occasion. But this
time they were precisely three minutes apart. And without the variation
of a second they continued for more than an hour.

The next night they reappeared. And the next and the next. Now they began
earlier than before—in fact, no one knew when they had started, for they
were sounding when the night’s business died down sufficiently for them
to be heard. But each night, it was noticed, the interval between the
signals was exactly one minute longer than the night before.

Occasionally the weird whispers ceased for a night or two, but always
they resumed with the same insistence, although with a newly-timed
interval.

This continued until early in July, when the pause between the calls had
attained more than thirty minutes’ duration.

Then the length of the lulls began to decrease erratically. One night the
mysterious summons would be heard every nineteen and a quarter minutes;
the next night, every ten and a half minutes; at other times, twelve and
three-quarters minutes, or fourteen and a fifth, or fifteen and a third.

Still the signals could not be deciphered, and their message—if they
contained one—remained a mystery.

Newspapers and scientific journals at last began to speculate upon the
matter, advancing all manner of theories to account for the disturbances.

The only one of these conjectures attracting widespread attention,
however, was that presented by Professor Howard Whiteman, the famous
director of the United States naval observatory at Washington, D. C.

Professor Whiteman voiced the opinion that the planet Mars was trying
to establish communication with the earth—the mysterious calls being
wireless signals sent across space by the inhabitants of our neighboring
world.

Our globe, moving through space much faster than Mars, and in a smaller
orbit, overtakes its neighboring planet once in a little over two years.
For some months Mars had been approaching the earth. At the beginning of
June it had been approximately 40,000,000 miles away, and at that time,
Professor Whiteman pointed out, the strange wireless calls had commenced.
As the two worlds drew closer together the signals increased slightly in
power.

The scientist urged that while Mars remained close to us the government
should appropriate funds to enlarge one of the principal wireless
stations in an effort to answer the overtures of our neighbors in space.

But when, after two more days, the ethereal signals ceased abruptly
and week passed without their recurrence, Professor Whiteman’s theory
began to be derided, and the whole thing was dismissed as some temporary
phenomenon of the atmosphere.

It was something of a shock, therefore, when, on the eighth night after
the cessation of the disturbances, the calls were suddenly resumed—much
louder than before, as if the power creating their electrical impulses
had been increased. Now wireless stations all over the world plainly
heard the staccato, mystifying challenge coming out of the ether.

This time, too, the interval between the signals was of a new
length—eleven minutes and six seconds.

The next day the matter took on still further importance.

Scientists all along the Pacific Coast of the United States reported
that in the night their seismographs had recorded a series of light
earthquakes; and it was noted that these tremors had occurred precisely
eleven minutes and six seconds apart—simultaneously with the sounding of
the mysterious wireless calls!

After that the aerial signals did not stop during any part of the
twenty-four hours. And the earth shocks continued, gradually increasing
in severity. They kept perfect time with the signals through the ether—a
shock for every whisper, a rest for every pause. In the course of a
couple of weeks the quakes attained such force that in many places they
could be distinctly felt by anyone standing still upon solid ground.

Science now became fully aware of the existence of some new and
sinister—or at least unfathomed—force in the world, and began to give the
matter profound study.

However, both Dr. Ferdinand Gresham and myself remained in complete
ignorance of these events; for, as I have said, we were in the interior
of Labrador. We both possessed a keen love of the wilderness, where, in
vigorous sports, we renewed our energy for the work to be done in the
cities—the doctor’s as director of the great astronomical observatory at
the National University; mine in the prosaic channels of business.

To the public, which knew him only through his books and lectures, Dr.
Gresham perhaps appeared the last person in the world anyone would
seek for a companion: a man silent, preoccupied, austere, unsociable.
But underneath this aloofness and taciturnity was a character of rare
strength, good nature and loveableness. And, once beyond the barriers
of civilization, his austerity vanished, and he became a prince of good
fellows, actually reveling in hardships and danger.

The complete change in him on such occasions brought to mind a strange
phase of his life about which not even I, his most intimate associate,
knew anything—a period in which he had undertaken a mysterious pilgrimage
alone into the dark interior of China.

I only knew that fifteen years before he had gone in quest of certain
amazing astronomical discoveries rumored to have been made by Buddhist
savants dwelling in monasteries far back in the Himalayas or the
Tian-Shan, or some of those inaccessible mountain fastnesses of Central
Asia. After more than four years he had dragged back, ill and suffering,
bearing hideous disfigurations upon his body, the look in his eyes of a
man who had seen hell, and maintaining inviolate silence regarding his
experiences.

On regaining his health after the Chinese adventure, he had immersed
himself in silence and work, and year by year since then I had seen
him steadily rise in prominence in his profession. Indeed, his name
had come to stand for vastly more in the scientific world than merely
the advancement of astronomical knowledge. He was a deep student along
many lines of scientific endeavor—electricity, chemistry, mathematics,
physics, geology, even biology. To the development of wireless telegraphy
and the wireless transmission of electrical energy he had devoted
particular effort.

The doctor and I had left New York a few days before the wireless
disturbances began. Returning by a small private vessel, which was not
equipped with wireless, we continued in ignorance of the world’s danger.

It was during our homeward sea voyage that the earthquakes began to grow
serious. Many buildings were damaged. In the western portions of the
United States and Canada a number of persons were killed by the collapse
of houses.

Gradually the affected area expanded. New York and Nagasaki, Buenos
Aires and Berlin, Vienna and Valparaiso began to take their places on
the casualty list. Even modern skyscrapers suffered broken windows and
falling plaster; sometimes they shook so violently that their occupants
fled to the streets in a panic. Water and gas mains began to break.

Before long, in New York, one of the railroad tunnels under the Hudson
River cracked and flooded, causing no loss of life, but spreading such
alarm that all the tubes under and out of Manhattan were abandoned. This
brought about a fearful congestion of traffic in the metropolis.

Finally, toward the beginning of August, the earthquakes became so
serious that the newspapers were filled every day with accounts of the
loss of scores—sometimes hundreds—of lives all over the world.

Then came a happening fraught with a monstrous new terror, which was
revealed to the public one morning just as day dawned in New York.

During the preceding night, a great Atlantic liner, steaming westward
approximately along the fiftieth parallel of latitude, had _run aground_
about 700 miles east of Cape Race, Newfoundland—at a point where all
nautical charts showed the ocean to be _nearly two miles deep_!

Within an hour there had come reports of a similar nature from other
ships two or three hundred miles distant from the first one. There was
no telling how vast in extent might be the upheaved portion of the sea
bottom.

Hardly had the wireless stations finished taking these startling stories
from midocean before there began to arrive equally strange reports from
other quarters of the globe.

Someone discovered that the sea level had risen almost six feet at New
York. The Sahara Desert had sunk to an unknown depth, and the sea was
rushing in, ripping vast channels through the heart of Morocco, Tripoli
and Egypt, obliterating cities and completely changing the whole face of
the earth.

Within a few hours the high water in New York harbor receded about a
foot. Mount Chimborazo, the majestic peak of more than 20,000 feet
altitude in the Ecuadorean Andes, began to fall down and spread out over
the surrounding country. Then the mountains bordering the Panama Canal
started to collapse for many miles, completely blocking that famous
waterway.

In Europe the Danube River ceased to flow in its accustomed direction
and began, near its junction with the Save, to pour its waters back past
Budapest and Vienna, turning the plains of western Austria into a series
of spreading lakes.

The world awoke that summer morning to face a more desperate situation
than ever had confronted mankind during all the centuries of recorded
history.

And still no plausible explanation of the trouble—except the Martian
theory of Professor Howard Whiteman—was forthcoming.

Men were dazed, astounded. A feeling of dread and terror began to settle
upon the public.

At this juncture, realizing the need of some sort of action, the
President of the United States urged all the other civilized nations
to send representatives to an international scientific congress in
Washington, which should endeavor to determine the origin of the
terrestrial disturbances and, if possible, suggest relief.

As speedily as airplanes could bring them, an imposing assemblage of the
world’s leading scientists gathered in Washington.

Because of his international reputation and the fact that the congress
held its sessions at the United States naval observatory of which he was
chief, Professor Whiteman was chosen president of the body.

For a week the scientists debated—while the world waited in intense and
growing anxiety. But the learned men accomplished nothing. They could
not even agree. The battle seemed one of man against nature, and man was
helpless.

In a gloomy state of mind they began to consider adjournment. At 10
o’clock on the night of the nineteenth of August the question of
terminating the sessions was scheduled for a final vote.

That night, as the hands of the clock on the wall above the presiding
officer’s head drew near the fateful hour, the tension throughout the
assemblage became intensely dramatic. Everyone present knew in his heart
that further deliberation was useless, but the fate of the human race
seemed to hang upon their decision.

Even after the sound of the clock’s striking had died out upon the
stillness of the room, Professor Whiteman remained seated; he seemed
haggard and downcast. At last, however, he drew himself up and opened his
lips to speak.

At that moment a secretary tiptoed swiftly in and whispered briefly to
the presiding officer. Professor Whiteman gave a start and answered
something that sent the secretary hurrying out.

Betraying strange emotion, the scientist now addressed the assemblage.
His words came haltingly, as if he feared they would be greeted with
ridicule.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “a strange thing has happened. A few minutes
ago—the wireless signals that have always accompanied the earthquakes
ceased abruptly. In their place came—a mysterious summons out of
the ether—whence no one knows—demanding a conversation with the
presiding officer of this body. The sender of the message declares his
communication has to do with the problem we have been trying to solve.
Of course—this is probably some hoax—but our operator is greatly excited
over the circumstances surrounding the call, and urges that we come to
the wireless room at once!”

With one accord, everyone rose and moved forward.

Leading the way to another part of the observatory grounds, Professor
Whiteman ushered the company into the operating room of the wireless
plant—one of the most powerful in the world.

A little knot of observatory officials already was clustered about the
operator, their manner denoting that something unusual had been going on.

At a word from Professor Whiteman, the operator threw over his rheostat
and the hum of the rotary spark filled the room. Then his fingers played
on the key while he sent out a few signals.

“I’m letting them—_him_—know you’re ready, sir,” the operator explained
to the astronomer, in a tone filled with awe.

A few moments slipped by. Everyone waited breathlessly, all eyes glued
upon the apparatus, as if to read the momentous message that was expected
to come from—no one knew where.

Suddenly there was an involuntary movement of the muscles of the
operator’s face, as if he were straining to hear something very faint and
far away; then he began writing slowly upon a pad that lay on his desk.
At his elbow the scientists unceremoniously crowded each other in their
eagerness to read:

    “To the Presiding Officer of the International Scientific
    Congress, Washington,” he wrote. “I am the dictator of human
    destiny. Through control of the earth’s internal forces I am
    master of every existing thing. I can blot out all life—destroy
    the globe itself. It is my intention to abolish all present
    governments and make myself emperor of the earth. As proof of
    my power to do this, I”—there was a pause of several seconds,
    which seemed like hours in the awful stillness—“I shall, at
    midnight tomorrow, Thursday (Washington time), cause the
    earthquakes to cease until further notice.

                                                              “KWO.”


_CHAPTER II._

THE DICTATOR OF DESTINY.

By the next morning the entire civilized world knew of the strange
and threatening communication from the self-styled “dictator of human
destiny.”

The members of the scientific congress had sought to keep the matter
secret, but all the larger wireless stations of North America had picked
up the message, and thence it found its way into the newspapers.

Ordinarily, such a communication would have attracted nothing more
than laughter, as a harmless prank; but the increasing menace of the
earthquakes had wrought a state of nervous tension that was ready to
clothe the whole affair with sinister significance.

It was an alarmed and hysterical public that gathered in the streets
of all the great cities soon after daylight. One question was on every
tongue:

Who was this mysterious “KWO,” and was his message actually a momentous
declaration to the human race, or merely a hoax perpetrated by some
person with an overly vivid imagination?

Even the signature to the communication was such as to arouse curiosity.
Was it a name? Or a combination of initials? Or a title, like “Rex,”
signifying king? Or a nom de plume? Or the name of a place?

No one could say.

Anyone capable of discovering the secrets of the earth’s internal forces,
and harnessing those forces for his own ends, unquestionably was the most
wonderful scientist the world had ever seen; but, though every important
nation of the globe was represented at the scientific congress in
Washington, not one of those representatives had ever heard of successful
experiments along this line, or knew any prominent scientist named KWO,
or one possessing initials that would make up that word. The name sounded
Oriental, but certainly no country of the Orient had produced a scientist
of sufficient genius to accomplish this miracle.

It was a problem concerning which the best-informed persons knew no more
than the most untutored child, but one which was of paramount importance
to the group of savants assembled in Washington. Until more light could
be shed on this subject they were powerless to form any conclusions.
Accordingly, their first effort was to get into further communication
with their unknown correspondent.

All through the night the operator at the naval observatory’s wireless
plant in Washington sat at his key, calling over and over again the three
letters that constituted mankind’s only knowledge of its adversary:

                              “KWO—KWO—KWO!”

But there was no answer. Absolute silence enveloped the menacing power.
“KWO” had spoken. He would not speak again. And after twelve hours even
the most persistent members of the scientific body—who had remained
constantly in the wireless room throughout the night—reluctantly desisted
from further attempts at communication.

Even this failure found its way into the newspapers and helped to divide
public opinion. Many persons and influential papers insisted that “KWO’S”
threat was nothing more than a hoax. Others, however, were inclined to
accept the message as the serious declaration of a human being with
practically supernatural powers. In advancing this opinion they were
supported by the undeniable fact that from the time the mysterious
“KWO” began his efforts to communicate with the head of the scientific
congress, until his message had been completed, the strange wireless
signals accompanying the earth tremors had ceased entirely—a thing that
had not happened before. When he was through speaking, the signals
had resumed their clocklike recurrence. It was as if some power had
deliberately cleared the ether for the transmission of this proclamation
to mankind.

A feeling of dread—of monstrous uncertainty—hung over everyone and
increased as the day wore on. Ordinary affairs were neglected, while the
crowds in public places steadily increased.

By nightfall of Thursday even the loudest scoffers at the genuineness
of the “dictator’s” threat began to display symptoms of the general
uneasiness.

Would the earthquakes begin to subside at midnight?

Upon the answer to this question hung the fate of the world.

It was an exceedingly hot night in most parts of the United States.
Scarcely anywhere was a breath of air stirring; the whole country was
blanketed by a suffocating wave of humidity. Low clouds that presaged
rain—but never brought it—added to the general feeling of apprehension.
It was as if all nature had conspired to furnish a dramatic setting for
the events about to be enacted.

As midnight drew near the excitement became intense. In Europe, as
well as in America, vast throngs filled the streets in front of the
newspaper offices, watching the bulletin boards. The Consolidated News
Syndicate had arranged special radio service from various scientific
institutions—notably the Washington naval observatory, where savants were
watching the delicate instruments for recording earth shocks—and any
variation or subsidence in the tremors would be flashed to newspapers
everywhere.

When the hands of the clocks reached a point equivalent to two minutes of
midnight, Washington time, a vast hush fell upon the assembled thousands.
The very atmosphere became aquiver with suspense.

But if the scene in the streets was exciting, that within the instrument
room of the United States naval observatory, where the members of the
international scientific congress waited was dramatic beyond description.

About the room sat the scientists and a couple of representatives from
the Consolidated News. Professor Whiteman himself was stationed at the
seismographs, while at his elbow sat Professor James Frisby, in direct
telephone communication with the wireless operator in another part of the
grounds.

The light was shaded and dim. The heat was stifling. Not a word was
spoken. Scarcely a muscle moved. All were painfully alert.

Every eleven minutes and six seconds the building was shaken by a
subterranean shock. The windows rattled. The floor creaked. Even the
chairs seemed to lift and heave. It had been that way for weeks. But
would this night see the end?

With maddening slowness, the hands of the big clock on the wall—its face
illuminated by a tiny electric lamp—drew toward the hour of twelve.

Suddenly there came one of the earthquakes, that, while no different from
its predecessors, heightened the tension like the crack of a whip.

All eyes flew to the timepiece. It registered thirty-four seconds past
11:49 o’clock.

Therefore, the next tremor would occur at precisely forty seconds after
midnight.

If the unknown “KWO” were an actual being, and kept his word—at that time
the shocks would begin to subside!

The suspense became terrible. The faces of the scientists were drawn and
pale. Beads of perspiration stood out on every brow. The minutes passed.

The electric correcting-device on the clock gave a sharp _click_,
denoting midnight. Forty seconds more! The suffocating atmosphere seemed
almost to turn cold under the pressure of anxiety.

Then, almost before anyone could realize it, the earthquake had come and
gone! And not one particle of diminution in its violence had been felt!

A sigh of relief involuntarily passed around the room. Few moved or
spoke, but there was a lessening of the strain on many faces. It was too
soon yet, of course, to be sure, but—in most hearts there began to dawn a
faint ray of hope that, after all, this “dictator of human destiny” might
be a myth.

But suddenly Professor Frisby raised his hand to command quiet, and bent
more intently over his telephone.

A short silence followed. Then he turned to the gentlemen and announced
in a voice that seemed curiously dry:

“The operator reports that no wireless signal accompanied this last
earthquake.”

Again the nerve tension in the assembly leaped like an electric spark.
Several more minutes passed in silence.

Then came another quake.

Had there been a decrease in its force? Opinion was divided.

All eyes sped to Professor Whiteman, but he remained absorbed at his
seismographs.

In this silence and keen suspense eleven minutes and six seconds again
dragged by. Another earthquake came and went. Once more Professor Frisby
announced that there had been no wireless signal attending the tremor.
The savants began to settle themselves for a further wait, when—

Professor Whiteman left his instrument and came slowly forward. In the
dim light his face looked lined and gray. Before the rows of seats he
stopped and faltered a moment. Then he said:

“_Gentlemen, the earthquakes are beginning to subside!_”

For a moment the scientists sat as if stunned. Everyone was too appalled
to speak or move. Then the tension was broken by the rush of the
Consolidated News men from the room to get their momentous tidings out to
the world.

After that the ground shocks died out with increasing rapidity. In an
hour they had ceased entirely, and the tortured planet once more was
still.

But the tumult among the people had only started!

With a sudden shock the globe’s inhabitants realized that they were in
the grip of an unknown being endowed with supernatural power. Whether
he were man or demi-god, sane or mad, well disposed or malignant—no one
could guess. Where was his dwelling place, whence the source of his
power, what would be the first manifestation of his authority, or how far
would he seek to enforce his control? Only time could answer.

As this situation dawned upon men, their fears burst all bounds. Frantic
excitement took possession of the throngs.

Only at the naval observatory in Washington was there calmness and
restraint. The gathering of scientists spent the night in earnest
deliberation of the course to be followed.

Finally it was decided that nothing should be done for the present; they
would merely await events. When it had suited the mysterious “KWO” to
announce himself to the world he had done so. Thereafter, communication
with him had been impossible. Doubtless when he was ready to speak again
he would break his silence—not before. It was reasonable to suppose that,
now he had proved his power, he would not be long in stating his wishes
or commands.

Events soon showed this surmise was correct.

Promptly at noon the next day—there having in the meantime been no
recurrence of the earthquakes or electrical disturbances of the ether—the
wireless at the naval observatory again received the mysterious call for
the presiding officer of the scientific congress.

Professor Whiteman had remained at the observatory, in anticipation of
such a summons, and soon he, with other leading members of the scientific
assembly, was at the side of the operator in the wireless room.

Almost immediately after the call:

                              “KWO—KWO—KWO!”

went forth into the ether, there came a response and the operator started
writing:

    “_To the Presiding officer of the International Scientific
    Congress_:

    “_Communicate this to the various governments of the earth_:

    “_As a preliminary to the establishment of my sole rule
    throughout the world, the following demands must be complied
    with_:

    “_First: All standing armies shall be disbanded, and every
    implement of warfare, of whatsoever nature, destroyed._

    “_Second: All war vessels shall be assembled—those of the
    Atlantic fleets midway between New York and Gibraltar, those
    of the Pacific fleets midway between San Francisco and
    Honolulu—and sunk._

    “_Third: One-half of all the monetary gold supply of the world
    shall be collected and turned over to my agents at places to be
    announced later._

    “_Fourth: At noon on the third day after the foregoing demands
    have been complied with, all the existing governments shall
    resign and surrender their powers to my agents, who will be on
    hand to receive them._

    “_In my next communication I will fix the date for the
    fulfillment of these demands._

    “_The alternative is the destruction of the globe._

                                                            “_KWO._”

It was on the evening of this eventful day that Dr. Gresham and I
returned from Labrador. A little after 10 o’clock we landed in New York
and, taking a taxicab at the pier, started for our bachelor quarters in
apartments near each other west of Central Park.

As we reached the center of town we were amazed at the excited crowds
that filled the streets and at the prodigious din raised by newsboys
selling extras.

We stopped the car and bought papers. Huge black headings told the story
at a glance. Also, at the bottom of the first page, we found a brief
chronological summary of all that had happened, from the very beginning
of the mysterious wireless signals three months before. We scanned it
eagerly.

When I finished the newspaper article I turned to my companion—and was
struck with horror at the change in his appearance!

He was crumpled down upon the seat of the taxi, and his face had taken
on a ghastly hue. At first I though he had suffered a stroke. Only
his eyes held a sign of life, and they seemed fixed on something far
away—something too terrifying to be a part of the world around us.

Seizing him by the shoulders, I tried to arouse him, exclaiming:

“For heaven’s sake! What is the matter?”

My words had no effect, so I shook him roughly.

Then he slowly began to come to his senses. His lips moved, without any
sound passing them. But presently he found voice to murmur, as if talking
in his sleep:

“It has come! The Seuen-H’sin—_the terrible Seuen-H’sin_!”

An instant later, with a great effort, he drew himself together and spoke
sharply to the chauffeur:

“Quick! Never mind those addresses we gave you! Rush us to the Grand
Central Station! _Hurry!_”

As the car suddenly swerved into a side street, I turned to the doctor.

“What’s the matter? Where are you going?” I asked.

“To Washington!” he snapped, in reply to my second question. “As fast as
we can get there!”

“In connection with this earthquake terror?” I inquired.

“Yes!” he told me; “for—”

There was a pause, and then he finished in a strange, awed voice:

“What the world has seen of this devil ‘KWO’ is only the faintest
prelude to what may come—events so terrible, so utterly opposed to all
human experience, that they would stagger the imagination! _This is the
beginning of the dissolution of our planet!_”


_CHAPTER III._

THE SORCERERS OF CHINA

“Doubtless you never heard of the Seuen-H’sin.”

The speaker was Dr. Ferdinand Gresham, and these were the first words
he had uttered since we entered our private compartment on the midnight
express for Washington, an hour before.

I lowered my cigar expectantly.

“No,” I said; “never until you spoke the name in a momentary fit of
illness this evening.”

The doctor gave me a swift, searching glance, as if questioning what I
might have learned. Presently he went to the door and looked out into the
passage, apparently assuring himself no one was within hearing; then,
locking the portal, he returned to his seat and said:

“So you never heard of the Seuen-H’sin—‘The Sect of the Two Moons’? Then
I will tell you: the Seuen-H’sin are the sorcerers of China, and the most
murderously diabolical breed of human beings on this earth! They are the
makers of these earthquakes that are aimed to wreck our world!”

The astronomer’s declaration so dumfounded me that I could only stare at
him, wondering if he were serious.

“The Seuen-H’sin are sorcerers,” he repeated presently, “whose devilish
power is shaking our planet to the core. And I say to you solemnly that
this ‘KWO’—who is Kwo-Sung-tao, high priest of the Seuen-H’sin—is a
thousand times more dangerous than all the conquerors in history! Already
he has absolute control of a hundred millions of people—mind and body,
body and soul!—holding them enthralled by black arts so terrible that the
civilized mind cannot conceive of them!”

Dr. Gresham leaned forward, his eyes shining brightly, his voice
betraying deep emotion.

“Have you any idea,” he demanded, “what goes on in the farthermost
interior of China? Has _any_ American or European?

“We read of a republic superseding her ancient monarchy, and we meet her
students who are sent here to our schools. We hear of the expansion of
our commerce along the jagged edges of that great Unknown, and we learn
of Chinese railroad projects fostered by our financiers. But no human
being in the outside world could possibly conceive what takes place
in that gigantic shadow land—vague and vast as the midnight heavens—a
continent unknown, impenetrable!

“Shut away in that remote interior—in a valley so little heard of that it
is almost mythical—beyond trackless deserts and the loftiest mountains
on the globe—this terrible sect of sorcerers has been growing in power
for thousands of years, storing up secret energy that some day should
inundate the world with horrors such as never have been known!

“And yet you never heard of the Seuen-H’sin! No; nor has any other
Caucasian, except, perhaps, a chance missionary or two.

“But I tell you _I have seen them_!”

Dr. Gresham was becoming strangely excited, and his voice rose almost
shrilly above the roar of the train.

“I have seen them,” he went on. “I have crossed the Mountains of Fear,
whose summits tower as high as from the earth to the moon, and I have
watched the stars dance at night upon their glaciers. I have starved upon
the dead plains of Dzun-Sz’chuen, and I have swum the River of Death.
I have slept in the Caves of Nganhwiu, where the hot winds never cease
and the dead light their campfires on their journey to Nirvana. And I
have seen, too”—there was a strange, entranced look on his face as he
spoke—“I have seen the Shadow of God on Tseih Hwan and K’eech-ch’a-gan!
But in the end I have dwelt in Wu-yang!

“Wu-yang,” he continued, after a brief pause, “is the center of the
Seuen-H’sin—a wondrous dream city beside a lake whose waters are as
opalescent as the sky at dawn; where the gardens are sweet-scented with
a million blooms, and the air is filed with bird songs and the music of
golden bells.

“But forgive me,” sighed the doctor, rousing himself from his ecstatic
train of thought; “I speak in the allegories of another land!”

We were silent for a time, until finally I suggested:

“And the Seuen-H’sin—The Sect of the Two Moons?”

“Ah, yes,” responded Dr. Gresham: “In Wu-yang the Beautiful I dwelt among
them. For three years that city was my home. I labored in its workshops,
studied in its schools, and—yes; I will admit it—I took part in those
hellish ceremonies in the Temple of the Moon God—to save myself from
death by fiendish torture. And, as my reward, I watched those devils at
their miraculous business—_the making of another moon_!”

We smoked a moment in silence. Then:

“Surely,” I objected, “you do not believe in miracles!”

“Miracles? Yes,” he affirmed seriously—“miracles of science. For the
sorcerers of China are scientists—the greatest that this world has yet
produced! Talk to me of modern progress—our arts and sciences, our
discoveries and inventions. Bah! They are child’s play—clap-trap!—beside
the accomplishments of this race of Chinese devils! We Americans boast of
our Thomas Edison. Why, the Seuen-H’sin have a thousand Edisons!

“Think of it—thousands of years before Copernicus discovered that the
earth revolves around the sun, Chinese astronomers understood the
nature of our solar system and accurately computed the movements of the
stars. The use of the magnetic compass was ancient even in those days.
A thousand years before Columbus was born their navigators visited the
western coast of North America and maintained colonies for a time. In the
year 2657 B. C. savants of the Seuen-H’sin completed engineering projects
on the Yellow River that never have been surpassed. And forty centuries
before Christ the physicians of China practiced inoculation against
smallpox and wrote erudite books on human anatomy.

“Scientists? Why, man alive, the Seuen-H’sin are the greatest scientists
that ever lived! But they haven’t the machinery or the materials or the
factories that have made the Western nations great. There they are—shut
up in their hidden valley, with no commercial incentives, no contact with
the world, no desire but to study and experiment.

“Their scientific development through centuries beyond number
has had only one object, which was the basis of their fanatical
religion—the discovery of a means to split this earth and project
an offshoot into space to form a second moon. And if our train
stopped this minute you probably could feel them somewhere beneath
you—hammering—hammering—hammering away at the world with their terrible
and mysterious power, which even now it may be too late to stop!”

The astronomer rose and paced the length of the compartment, apparently
so deep in thought that I was loath to disturb him. But finally I asked:

“Why do these sorcerers desire a second moon?”

Dr. Gresham resumed his seat and, lighting a fresh cigar, began:

“Numerous legends that are almost as old as the human race represent
that the earth once had two moons. And not a few modern astronomers have
held the same theory. Mars has two satellites, Uranus four, Jupiter five
and Saturn ten. The supposition of these scientists is that the second
satellite of the earth was shattered, and that its fragments are the
meteors which occasionally encounter our world in their flight.

“Now, in the far, far distant past, before the days of Huang-ti and
Yu—even before the time of the great semi-mythical kings, Yao and
Shun—there ruled in China an emperor of peculiar fame—Ssu-chuan, the
Universal.

“Ssu-chuan was a man of weak character and mediocre talents, but his
reign was the greatest in all Chinese history, due to the intelligence
and energy of his empress, Chwang-Keang.

“In those days, the legends tell us, the world possessed two moons.

“At the height of his prosperity Ssu-chuan fell in love with a very
beautiful girl, called Mei-hsi, who became his mistress.

“The Empress Chwang-Keang was as plain as Mei-hsi was beautiful, and in
time the mistress prevailed upon her lord to plot his wife’s murder,
so that Mei-hsi might be queen. Chwang-Keang was stabbed to death one
evening in her garden.

“With her death begins the history of Seuen-H’sin.

“Simultaneous with the murder of the empress, one of the moons vanished
from the sky. The Chinese legends say the spirit of the great ruler
took refuge upon the satellite, which fled with her from sight of the
earth. Modern astronomers say the satellite probably was shattered by an
internal explosion.

“Now that the firm hand of Chwang-Keang was lifted from affairs of state,
everything went wrong in China—until the country reverted virtually to
savagery.

“At last Ssu-chuan aroused himself from his pleasures sufficiently to
take alarm. He consulted his priests and seers, who assured him that
heaven was angry because of the murder of Chwang-Keang. Never again,
they said, would China know happiness or prosperity until the vanished
moon returned, bringing the spirit of the dead empress to watch over the
affairs of her beloved land. Upon her return, however, the glory of China
would rise again, and the Son of Heaven would rule the world.

“Upon receiving these tidings, the legends relate, Ssu-chuan was consumed
with pious zeal.

“Upon a lofty mountain behind the city he built the most magnificent
temple in the world, and installed there a special priesthood to beseech
heaven to restore the second moon. This priesthood was named the
Seuen-H’sin, or Sect of the Two Moons. The worship of the Moon God was
declared the state religion.

“Gradually the belief that the Seuen-H’sin was to restore the second
moon—and that, when this happened, the Celestial Kingdom again would
enjoy universal rule—became the fanatical faith of a fourth of China.

“But finally, in a fit of remorse, Ssu-chuan burnt himself alive in his
palace.

“The empire of Ssu-chuan dissolved, but the Seuen-H’sin grew greater.
Its high priest attained the most terrible and far-reaching power in
China. But in the second century B. C., Shi-Hwang-ti, the great military
emperor, made war upon the sorcerers and drove them across the Kuen-lun
mountains. Still they retained great wealth and power; and in Wu-yang
they made a city that is the dream spot of the world, equipped with
splendid colleges for the study of astronomy and the sciences and magic.

“As astronomical knowledge increased among the Seuen-H’sin, they came to
believe that the moon once was a part of the earth, having been blown out
of the hollow now filled by the Pacific Ocean. In this theory certain
eminent American and French astronomers lately have concurred.

“The Chinese sorcerers conceived the idea that by scientific means the
earth again could be rent asunder, and its offshoot projected into space
to form a second moon. Henceforth, all their labors were directed toward
finding that means. And the lust for world domination became the religion
of their race.

“When I dwelt among them they seemed to be drawing near their goal—and
now they probably have reached it!

“But if we may judge from these demands of Kwo-Sung-tao, their plans for
world conquest have taken a new and simpler turn: by threatening to use
their mysterious force to dismember the globe they hope to subjugate
mankind just as effectively as they expected to do by creating a second
moon and fulfilling their prophecy. Why wreck the earth, if they can
conquer it by threats?

“If they are able to enforce their demands it will not be long before
civilization is face-to-face with those powers of evil that grind
a quarter of China’s millions beneath their ghastly rule—a rule of
fanaticism and terror that would stun the world!”

Dr. Gresham paused and peered out the window. There was an unearthly look
on his face when he again turned toward me.

“I have seen,” he said, “those hideous powers of the Seuen-H’sin—things
of horror such as the Western mind cannot conceive! When the beating of
my heart shall cease forever, when my body has been buried in the grave,
and when the Seuen-H’sin’s torture scars”—he tore open his shirt and
revealed frightful cicatrices upon his chest—“have vanished in the final
dissolution, then, even then, I shall not forget those devils out of hell
in Wu-yang, and I shall feel their power clutching at my soul!”


_CHAPTER IV._

DR. GRESHAM TAKES COMMAND

It was shortly before dawn when we alighted from the train in Washington.
Newsboys were calling extras:

“Terrible disaster! Nine thousand lives lost in Mississippi River!”

Purchasing copies of the papers, Dr. Gresham called a taxicab and
directed the chauffeur to take us as rapidly as possible to the United
States Naval Observatory in Georgetown. We read the news as we rode along.

The great railroad bridge across the Mississippi River at St. Louis had
collapsed, plunging three trains into the stream and drowning virtually
all the passengers; and a few minutes later the Mississippi had ceased to
flow past the city, pouring into a huge gap that suddenly had opened in
the earth at a point about twenty-five miles northwest of the town.

Nearly everyone in St. Louis who could get an automobile had started for
the point where the Mississippi was tumbling into the earth, and before
long a vast crowd had assembled along the edges of the steaming chasm,
watching the phenomenon.

Suddenly there had come a heavy shock underground and the crack had
heaved nearly shut, sending a vast geyser, the full width of the stream,
spouting a couple of thousand feet aloft. A few moments later this
huge column of water had thundered back upon the river banks where the
spectators were gathered, stunning and engulfing thousands. At the same
time the gash had opened again and into it the torrent had swept the
helpless multitude. Then it had closed once more and remained so, and the
river had resumed its flow.

It was estimated that more than 9,000 persons had perished.

“Kwo-Sung-tao has stopped his earthquakes,” remarked Dr. Gresham, when
he had finished scanning the newspaper reports, “but irreparable damage
has been done. Enough water doubtless has found its way into the heated
interior of the globe to form a steam pressure that will play havoc.”

Soon we drew up at the white-domed observatory crowning the wooded hill
beyond Wisconsin Avenue. It was our good fortune to find Professor Howard
Whiteman and several prominent members of the international scientific
congress still there.

After a brief conversation with these gentlemen—to whom he was well known
by reputation—Dr. Gresham drew Professor Whiteman and two of his chief
assistants aside and began questioning them about the disturbances. He
gave not the slightest hint of his knowledge of the Seuen-H’sin.

The doctor was particularly interested in every detail regarding the
course taken by the quakes—whether or not all of them had come from the
same direction, what that direction was, and how far away the point of
origin seemed to be.

Professor Whiteman said the seismographs indicated the tremors all _had_
come from one direction—a point somewhere to the northwest—and had
traveled in a general southeasterly course. It was his opinion that the
seat of the disturbances was about 3,000 miles distant—certainly not more
than 4,000 miles.

This appeared greatly to surprise my companion and to upset whatever
theories he might have in mind. Finally he asked to see all the data on
the tremors, especially the actual seismograph records. At once we were
taken to the building where these records were kept.

For more than an hour Dr. Gresham intently studied the charts and
calculations, making new computations of his own and referring to
numerous maps. But the longer he worked, the more puzzled he became.

Suddenly he looked up with an exclamation, and after seemingly weighing
some new idea, he turned to me and said:

“Arthur, I need your help. Go to one of the newspaper offices and look
through the files of old copies for an account of the capture of the
Pacific Steamship _Nippon_ by Chinese pirates. Try to find out what cargo
the vessel carried. If the newspaper accounts do not give this, then try
at the State Department. But hurry!”

We had kept our taxicab waiting, so I was soon speeding toward one of the
newspaper offices on Pennsylvania Avenue. As I rode along I brought to
mind the strange and terrible story of the great Pacific liner.

The _Nippon_ was the newest and largest of the fleet of huge ships in
service between San Francisco and the Orient. Fifteen months previous,
while running from Nagasaki to Shanghai, across the entrance to the
Yellow Sea, she had encountered a typhoon of such violence that one of
her propeller shafts was damaged, and after the storm abated she was
obliged to stop at sea for repairs.

It was an intensely dark, quiet night. About midnight the officer of the
watch suddenly heard from the deck amidship a wild, long-drawn yell.
Then all became quiet again. As he started to descend from the bridge he
heard bare feet pattering along the deck below. And then more cries arose
forward—the most awful sounds. Rushing to his cabin, he seized a revolver
and returned to the deck.

Surging over the rail at a dozen points were savage, half-naked yellow
forms, gripping long, curved knives—the dreaded but almost-extinct
Chinese pirates of the Yellow Sea. The fiends swiftly attacked a number
of passengers who had been promenading about, murdering them in cold
blood.

Meanwhile, other pirates were rushing to all parts of the ship.

As soon as he recovered from his first horrified shock, the officer
leaped toward a group of the Chinamen and emptied his revolver into them.
But the pirates far outnumbered the cartridges in his weapon, and when
his last bullet had been fired several of the yellow devils darted at
him with gleaming knives. Whereupon the officer turned and fled to the
wireless operator’s room nearby.

He got inside and fastened the heavy door just a second ahead of his
pursuers. While the Chinamen were battering at the portal, he had the
operator send out wireless calls for help, telling what was occurring on
board.

Several ships and land stations picked up the strange story as far as I
have related it, at which point the message ceased abruptly.

From that instant the _Nippon_ vanished as completely as if she never had
existed. Not one word ever again was heard of the vessel or of a single
soul on board.

It required only a few minutes’ search through the newspaper files to
find the information I sought, and soon I was back at the observatory.

Dr. Gresham greeted me eagerly.

“The Steamship _Nippon_,” I reported, “carried a cargo of American shoes,
plows and lumber.”

My friend’s face fell with keen disappointment.

“What else?” he inquired. “Weren’t there other things?”

“Lots of odds and ends,” I replied—“pianos, automobiles, sewing machines,
machinery—”

“_Machinery?_” the doctor shot out quickly. “What kind of machinery?”

I drew from my pocket the penciled notes I had made at the newspaper
office and glanced over the items.

“Some electrical equipment,” I answered. “Dynamos, turbines,
switchboards, copper cable—all such things—for a hydro-electric plant
near Hong-kong.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the doctor in elation. “I was sure of it! We may be
getting at the mystery at last!”

Seizing the memoranda, he ran his eyes hurriedly down the list of items.
Profound confidence marked his bearing when he turned to Professor
Whiteman a moment later and said:

“I must obtain an immediate audience with the President of the United
States. You know him personally. Can you arrange it?”

Professor Whiteman could not conceal his surprise.

“Concerning these earthquakes?” he inquired.

“Yes!” my friend assured him.

The astronomer looked at his colleague keenly.

“I will see what I can do,” he said. And he went off to a telephone.

In five minutes he was back.

“The President and his cabinet meet at 9 o’clock,” announced the
director. “You will be received at that hour.”

Dr. Gresham looked at his watch. It was 8:30.

“If you will be so kind,” said Dr. Gresham, “I would like to have you go
with us to the President—and Sir William Belford, Monsieur Linne and the
Duke de Rizzio as well, if they are still here. What we have to discuss
is of the utmost importance to their governments, as well as to ours.”

Professor Whiteman signified his own willingness to go, and went to hunt
the other gentlemen.

This trio my friend had named comprised undoubtedly the leading minds
of the international scientific congress. Sir William Belford was the
great English physicist, head of the British delegation to the congress.
Monsieur Camille Linne was the leader of the French group of scientists,
a distinguished electrical expert. And the Duke de Rizzio was the famous
Italian inventor and wireless telegraph authority, who headed the
representatives from Rome.

The director soon returned with the three visitors, and we all hastened
to the White House. Promptly at 9 o’clock we were ushered into the room
where the nation’s chief executive and his cabinet—all grim and careworn
from a night of sleepless anxiety—were in session.

As briefly as possible, Dr. Gresham told the story of the Seuen-H’sin.

“It is their purpose,” he concluded, “to crack open the earth’s crust by
these repeated shocks, so the water from the oceans will pour into the
globe’s interior. There, coming into contact with incandescent matter,
steam will be generated until there is an explosion that will split the
planet in two.”

It is hardly to the discredit of the President and his advisers that they
could not at once accept so fantastic a tale.

“How can these Chinamen produce an artificial quaking of the earth?”
asked the President.

“That,” replied the astronomer frankly, “I am not prepared to answer
yet—although I have a strong suspicion of the method employed.”

For the greater part of an hour the gentlemen questioned the astronomer.
They did not express doubt of his veracity in his account of the
Seuen-H’sin, but merely questioned his judgment in attributing to that
sect the terrible power to control the internal forces of the earth.

“You are asking us,” objected the Secretary of State, “virtually to
return to the Dark Ages and believe in magicians and sorcerers and
supernatural events!”

“Not at all!” returned the astronomer. “I am asking you to deal with
modern facts—to grapple with scientific ideas that are so far ahead of
our times the world is not prepared to accept them!”

“Then you believe that an unheard-of group of Chinamen, hiding in some
remote corner of the globe, has developed a higher form of science than
the brightest minds of all the civilized nations?” remarked the Attorney
General.

“Events of the last few weeks seem to have demonstrated that,” replied
Dr. Gresham.

“But,” protested the President, “if these Mongolians aim at splitting the
globe to project a new moon into the sky, why should they be satisfied
with an entirely different object—the acquisition of temporal power?”

“Because,” the scientist informed him, “the acquisition of temporal power
is their ultimate goal. Their only object in creating a second moon is to
fulfill the prophecy that they should rule the earth again when two moons
hung in the sky. If they can grasp universal rule _without_ splitting the
globe—merely by _threatening_ to do so—they are very much the gainers.”

The Secretary of the Navy next voiced a doubt.

“But it is evident,” he remarked, “that if Kwo-Sung-tao makes the heavens
fall, they will fall on his own head also!”

“Quite true,” admitted the astronomer.

“Then,” persisted the Secretary, “is it likely that human beings would
plot the destruction of the earth when they knew it would involve them,
too, in the ruin?”

“You forget,” returned the doctor, “that we are dealing with a band of
religious fanatics—undoubtedly the most irrational zealots that ever
lived!

“Besides,” he added, “the Seuen-H’sin, in spite of its threats, does not
expect to destroy the world completely. It contemplates no more than the
blowing of a fragment off into space.”

“What, then, shall be done?” inquired the President.

“Place at my disposal one of the fastest destroyers of the Pacific
fleet—equipped with certain scientific apparatus I shall devise—and let
me deal with the Seuen-H’sin in my own way,” announced the astronomer.

The gathering at once voiced vigorous objection.

“What you propose might mean war with China!” exclaimed the President.

“Not at all,” was the answer. “It is possible not a single shot will be
fired. And, in any event, we will not go anywhere near China.”

The consternation of the officials increased.

“We shall not go near China,” Dr. Gresham explained, “because I am
certain the leaders of the Seuen-H’sin are no longer there. At this very
hour, I am convinced, Kwo-Sung-tao and his devilish band are very much
nearer to us than you dream!”

The gathering broke into excited discussion.

“After all,” remarked Sir William Belford, “suppose this expedition
_should_ plunge us into hostilities. Unless something is done quickly, we
are likely to meet a fate far worse than war!”

“I am willing to do anything necessary to remove this menace from the
world—if the menace actually exists,” the President stated. “But I am
unable to convince myself that these wireless messages threatening
mankind are not merely the emanations of a crank, who is taking advantage
of conditions over which he has no control.”

“But I maintain,” argued Sir William, “that the sender of these messages
_has_ fully demonstrated his control over our planet. He prophesied a
definite performance, and that prophecy was fulfilled to the letter. We
cannot attribute its fulfillment to natural causes, nor to any human
agency other than his. I say it is time we recognized his power, and
dealt with him as best we may.”

Several others now began to incline to this view.

Whereupon the Attorney General joined in the discussion with considerable
warmth.

“I must protest,” he interposed, “against what seems to me an
extraordinary credulity upon the part of many of you gentlemen. I view
this affair as a rational human being. Some natural phenomenon occurred
to disturb the solidity of the earth’s crust. That disturbance has
ceased. Some joker or lunatic was lucky enough to strike it right with
his prediction of this cessation—nothing more. The disturbance may never
reappear. Or it may resume at any moment and end in a calamity. No one
can foretell. But when you ask me to believe that these earthquakes were
due to some human agency—that a mysterious bugaboo was responsible for
them—I tell you _no_!”

Monsieur Linne had risen and was walking nervously up and down the room.
Presently he turned to the Attorney General and remarked:

“That is merely your opinion, sir. It is not proof. Why may these
earthquakes not be due to some human agency? Have we not begun to solve
all the mysteries of nature? A few years ago it was inconceivable that
electricity could ever be used for power, heat and light. May not many
of the inconceivable things of today be the commonplace realities of
tomorrow? We have earthquakes. Is it beyond imagination that the forces
which produce them can be controlled?”

“Still,” returned the Attorney General vigorously, “my answer is that
we have no adequate reason for attributing either the appearance or the
cessation of these earthquakes to any human power! And I am unalterably
opposed to making the government of the United States ridiculous by
fitting out a naval expedition to combat a phantom adversary.”

Dr. Gresham now had risen and was standing behind his chair, his face
flushed and his eyes shining. At this point he broke sharply into the
discussion, the cold, cutting force of his words leaving no doubt of his
decision.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I did not come here to _argue_; I came to
_help_! As surely as I am standing here, our world is upon the brink of
dissolution! And I alone may be able to save it! But, if I am to do so,
you must agree absolutely to the course of action I propose!”

He glanced at his watch. It was 10 o’clock.

“At noon,” he announced, in tones of finality, “I shall return for my
answer!”

And he turned and started for the door.

In the tenseness of those last few moments, almost no one had been
conscious of the soft buzzing of the President’s telephone signal, or of
the fact that the executive had removed the receiver and was listening
into the instrument.

Now, as Dr. Gresham reached the door, the President lifted a hand in a
commanding gesture and cried: “Wait!”

The astronomer turned back into the room.

For a minute, perhaps, the President listened at the telephone; and as
he did so the expression of his face underwent a grave change. Then,
telling the person at the other end of the wire to wait, he addressed the
gathering:

“The naval observatory at Georgetown is on the ’phone. There has just
been another communication from ‘KWO.’ It says—”

The executive again spoke into the telephone: “Read the message once
more, please!”

After a few seconds, speaking slowly, he repeated:

    “‘_To the President Officer of the International Scientific
    Congress:_

    “‘_I hereby set the hour of noon, on the twenty-fifth day
    of the next month, September, as the time when I shall
    require compliance with the first three demands of my last
    communication. The fulfillment of the fourth demand—the
    resignation of all the existing governments—therefore, will
    take place on the twenty-eighth day of September._

    “‘_In order to facilitate the execution of my plans, I shall
    require an answer by midnight next Saturday, one week from
    today, from the governments of the world as to whether they
    will comply with my terms of surrender. In the absence of a
    favorable reply by that time, I shall terminate, absolutely and
    forever, all negotiations with the human race, and shall cause
    the earthquakes to resume and continue with increasing violence
    until the earth is shattered._

                                                          “‘_KWO._’”

When the President finished reading and hung up the telephone, a
deathlike silence fell upon the gathering. Dr. Gresham, standing by the
door, made no further movement to depart.

The President glanced at the faces about him, as if seeking some solution
of the problem. But no aid was forthcoming from that source.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a chair being pushed back from the
table, and Sir William Belford rose to speak.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is no time for hesitation. If the United
States does not immediately grant Dr. Gresham’s request for a naval
expedition against the Seuen-H’sin, Great Britain _will_ do so!”

At once Monsieur Linne spoke up: “And that is the attitude of France!”

The Duke de Rizzio nodded, as if in acquiescence.

Without further hesitation, the President announced his decision.

“I will take the responsibility for acting first and explaining to
Congress afterward,” he said. And, turning to the Secretary of the Navy,
he added:

“Please see that Dr. Gresham gets whatever ships, men, money and supplies
he needs—without delay!”


_CHAPTER V._

BEGINNING A STRANGE VOYAGE

Immediately after obtaining the President’s permission to combat the
Seuen-H’sin, Dr. Ferdinand Gresham went into conference with the
Secretary of the Navy and his aides. Soon telegraphic orders flew thick
and fast from Washington, and before nightfall two high naval officers
left the capital for San Francisco personally to expedite arrangements
for the expedition.

Meanwhile, the doctor hurried me back to New York with instructions to
visit the electrical concern that had manufactured the dynamos and other
equipment that had been aboard the Steamship _Nippon_, and obtain all the
information possible about this machinery. This I did without difficulty.

The government arranged with a big electrical machinery firm to place
a section of its plant at Dr. Gresham’s disposal, and as soon as the
astronomer returned to New York he plunged into feverish activity at this
shop, personally superintending the construction of his paraphernalia.

As fast as this apparatus was completed it was rushed off by airplane to
the Mare Island Navy Yard at San Francisco.

It had already been settled that I was to accompany the doctor on his
expedition, so my friend availed himself of my services for many tasks.
Some of these struck me as most odd.

I had to purchase a large quantity of fine silks of brilliant hues,
mostly orange, blue and violet; also a supply of grease paints and other
materials for theatrical make-up. These articles were sent to Mare Island
with the scientific equipment.

Day by day, the week which “KWO” had granted the world to announce
its surrender slipped by. During this period the utmost secrecy was
maintained regarding the projected naval expedition. The public knew
nothing of the strange story of the sorcerers of China. Anxiety was
universal and acute.

Many persons favored surrender to the would-be “emperor of the earth,”
arguing that any person who proposed to abolish war, possessed a
greatness of spirit far beyond any known statesman; they were willing
to entrust the future of the world to such a dictator. Others contended
that the demand for destruction of all implements of war was merely a
precautionary measure against resistance to tyranny.

Dr. Gresham urged to the authorities at Washington that in dealing with
so unscrupulous and inhuman a foe as the sorcerers, equally unscrupulous
methods were justified. He proposed that the nations inform “KWO” they
would surrender, which would ward off the immediate resumption of the
earthquakes and give the naval expedition time to accomplish its work.

But the governments could not agree upon any course of action; and in
this state of indecision the last day of grace drew toward its close.

As midnight approached, vast crowds assembled about the newspaper
offices, eager to learn what was going to happen.

At last the fateful hour came—and passed in silence. The world had failed
to concede its surrender.

Five minutes more slipped into eternity.

Then there was a sudden stir as bulletins appeared. Their message was
brief. At three minutes past 12 o’clock the wireless at the United States
Naval Observatory had received this communication:

    “_To All Mankind:_

    “_I have given the world an opportunity to continue in peace
    and prosperity. My offer has been rejected. The responsibility
    is upon your own heads. This is my final message to the human
    race._

                                                            “_KWO._”

Within an hour the earthquakes resumed. And they were repeated, as
before, exactly eleven minutes and six seconds apart.

With their reappearance vanished the last vestige of doubt that the
terrestrial disturbances were due to human agency—to a being powerful
enough to do what he chose with the planet.

By the end of three days it was noticed that the shocks were increasing
in violence much swifter than previously, as if the earth’s crust had
been so weakened that it could no longer resist the hammering.

At this juncture Dr. Gresham announced that he was ready to leave for the
Pacific Coast. The government had one of its giant mail planes waiting
at an aviation field on Long Island, and in its comfortable enclosed
interior we were whisked across the continent.

In less than two days we alighted at the Mare Island Navy Yard, where the
_Albatross_, the destroyer that was to serve for our expedition, lay at
our disposal.

The _Albatross_ was the newest, largest and fastest destroyer of the
Pacific fleet—an oil-burning craft carrying a crew of 117 men.

Most of the boxes and crates of material that we had sent from New York
being already on deck, the astronomer immediately went to work with a
corps of the navy’s electricians to assemble his apparatus.

I was sent off to find six men tailors, all familiar with the making
of theatrical costumes, who were willing to undertake a mysterious and
dangerous sea voyage; also two actors skilled in make-up.

All during this time the earthquakes never varied from their interval of
eleven minutes and six seconds, and the seriousness of affairs throughout
the world continued to grow. In Europe and America deep fissures,
sometimes hundreds of miles long, now appeared in the ground. Gradually
it became apparent that these cracks in the earth’s crust were confined
within a definite area, which roughly formed a circle touching the
Mississippi River on the west and Serbia on the east.

Then, on the morning after our arrival in San Francisco, half a dozen
noted scientists—none of whom, however, belonged to the little group
that had been taken into Dr. Gresham’s confidence regarding the
Seuen-H’sin—issued a warning to the public.

They prophesied that the world soon would be rent by an explosion, and
that the portion within the circular area already outlined would be blown
away into space or would be pulverized.

Nearly one-fifth of the entire surface of the earth was included in this
doomed circle, embracing the most civilized countries of the globe—the
eastern half of the United States and Canada; all of the British Isles,
France, Spain, Italy, Portugal, Switzerland, Belgium, Holland and
Denmark; and most of Germany, Austria-Hungary and Brazil. Here, too, were
located the world’s greatest cities—New York, London, Paris, Berlin,
Vienna, Rome, Chicago, Boston, Washington and Philadelphia.

The scientists urged the people of the eastern United States and Canada
to flee immediately beyond the Rocky Mountains, while the inhabitants of
western Europe were advised to take refuge east of the Carpathians.

The first result of this warning was simply to daze the public. But
in a few hours the true character of the predicted happenings dawned
upon people in full force. Then terror—blind, sickening, unreasoning
terror—seized the masses, and there began the most gigantic and terrible
exodus in the history of the earth—a migration that in a few hours
developed into a mad race of half the planet’s inhabitants across
thousands of miles.

Transportation systems were seized by the frenzied throngs and rendered
useless in the jam. People started frantically in airplanes, automobiles,
horsedrawn vehicles—even on foot. All restraints of law and order
vanished in the hideous struggle of “every man for himself.”

At last, toward midnight of this day, Dr. Gresham finished his work.
Together we made a final tour of inspection through the ship—which gave
me my first opportunity to see most of the scientific paraphernalia the
doctor had constructed.

Electrical equipment was scattered everywhere—several big generators, a
whole battery of huge induction coils, submarine telephones, switchboards
with strange clocklike devices mounted upon them, and reels of heavy
copper wire.

One thing that particularly attracted my attention was an instrument at
the very bottom of the ship’s hold. It looked like the seismographs used
on land for recording earthquakes. I observed, too, that the wireless
telegraph equipment of the destroyer had been much enlarged, giving it an
exceedingly wide radius.

The crated parts of two hydroplanes lay on deck, besides half a dozen
light, portable mountain mortars, with a quantity of high-explosive
ammunition.

At the finish of our inspection, the doctor sought Commander Mitchell,
the vessel’s chief officer, and announced:

“You may start at once—on the course I have outlined.”

A few minutes later we were silently speeding toward the Golden Gate.

Dr. Gresham and myself then went to bed.

When we awoke the next morning we were out of sight of land and were
steaming at full speed north in the Pacific Ocean.


_CHAPTER VI._

THE COASTS OF MYSTERY

Hour after hour the destroyer kept up her furious pace almost due north
in the Pacific. We never came in sight of land, and it was impossible for
me to guess whence we were bound.

Throughout the first day Dr. Gresham remained in his stateroom—silent,
troubled, buried in a mass of arithmetical calculations.

In another part of the ship the six tailors I had brought on board
labored diligently upon a number of Chinese costumes, the designs for
which the doctor had sketched for them.

And on deck a detail of men was busy unpacking and assembling one of the
two hydroplanes.

By the middle of the second day Dr. Gresham laid aside his calculations
and began to display the keenest interest in the details of the voyage.
About midnight he had the ship stopped, although neither land nor any
other craft was in sight; whereupon he went to the hold and studied the
hydro-seismographs. To my surprise I saw that, although we were adrift
upon the restless ocean, the instrument was recording tremors similar
to earthquakes on land. These occurred precisely eleven minutes and six
seconds apart.

Seeing my astonishment, the doctor explained:

“It is possible to record earth shocks even at sea. The ocean bed imparts
the jar to the water, through which the tremor continues like the wave
caused by throwing a stone into a pond.”

But the thing which seemed to interest my friend most was that these
shocks now appeared to be originating at some point to the northeast of
us, instead of to the northwest, as we had noted them in Washington.

Soon he ordered the vessel started again, this time on a northeasterly
course, and the next morning we were close to land.

Dr. Gresham, who at last had begun to throw off his taciturn mood, told
me this was the coast of the almost unsettled province of Cassiar, in
British Columbia. Later, as we began to pass behind some rugged islands,
he said we were entering Fitz Hugh Sound, a part of the “inland passage”
to Alaska. We were now approximately 300 miles northwest of the city of
Vancouver.

“Somewhere, not far to the north of here,” added the doctor, “is ‘The
Country of the Great Han,’ where Chinese navigators, directed by
Huei-Sen, a Buddhist priest, landed and founded colonies in the year 499
A. D. You will find it all recorded in ‘The Book of Changes,’ which was
written in the reign of Tai-ming, in the dynasty of Yung: how, between
the years 499 and 556, Chinese adventurers made many trips across the
Pacific to these colonies, bringing to the wild inhabitants the laws of
Buddha, his sacred books and images; building stone temples; and causing
at last the rudeness of the natives’ customs to disappear.”

With this my friend left me, upon some summons from the ship’s commander,
and I could learn no more.

The region into which we were now penetrating was one of the wildest
and loneliest on the North American continent. The whole coastline was
fringed by a chain of islands—the tops of a submerged mountain range.
Between these islands and the continent extended a maze of deep, narrow
channels, some of which connected in a continuous inland waterway. The
mainland was a wilderness of lofty peaks, penetrated at intervals by
tortuous fiords, which, according to the charts, sometimes extended
erratically inland for a hundred miles or more. Back from the coast a few
miles, we could see the elevated gorges of the main range filled with
glaciers, and occasionally one of these gigantic rivers of ice pushed
out to the Sound, where its face broke away in an endless flotilla of
icebergs.

The only dwellers in this region were the few inhabitants of the tiny
Indian fishing villages, scattered many miles apart; and even of these we
saw not a sign throughout the day.

Toward nightfall the doctor had the _Albatross_ drop anchor in a quiet
lagoon, and the hydroplane that had been assembled on deck was lowered to
the water.

It now lacked two nights of the period of full moon, and the nearly
round satellite hung well overhead as darkness fell, furnishing, in that
clear atmosphere, a beautiful illumination in which every detail of the
surrounding mountains stood forth.

As soon as the last trace of daylight had vanished, Dr. Gresham, equipped
with a pair of powerful binoculars, appeared on deck, accompanied by an
aviator. He said nothing about where he was going; and, knowing his moods
so intimately, I realized it was useless to seek information until he
volunteered it. But he handed me a large sealed envelope, remarking:

“I am going for a trip that may take all night. In case I should not
return by sun-up you will know something has happened to me, and you
are to open this envelope and have Commander Mitchell act upon the
instructions it contains.”

With this, he gave me a firm hand-clasp that plainly was meant for a
possible farewell, and followed the aviator into the plane. In a few
moments they were off, their new type of noiseless motor making scarcely
a sound, and soon were climbing towards the summits of the snow-crowned
peaks to the eastward. Almost before we realized it, they were lost from
sight.

It was my intention to keep watch through the night for the return of my
friend; but after several hours I fell asleep and knew no more until dawn
was reddening the mountaintops. Then the throbbing of the destroyer’s
engines awakened me, and I hurried on deck to find Dr. Gresham himself
giving orders for the vessel’s movements.

The scientist never once referred to the events of the night as he
partook of a light breakfast and went to bed. However, I could tell by
his manner that he had not met with success.

Slowly the ship continued northward most of that day, through the awesome
fastnesses of Fitz Hugh Sound, until we reached the mouth of a grim fiord
set down on the charts as Dean Channel. Here we cast anchor.

Late in the afternoon Dr. Gresham put in his appearance, viewed the
mainland through his glasses, and then went into the ship’s hold to study
his earthquake recorder. What he observed apparently pleased him.

This night also was moonlit and crystal-clear; and, as before, when
daylight had departed, the doctor reminded me of the sealed orders I held
against his failure to return at sunrise, bade me farewell, and started
off in the airship, flying straight toward the range of peaks that walled
the eastern world.

On this occasion a series of remarkable happenings removed all difficulty
of my keeping awake.

About 10 o’clock, when I chanced to be visiting in the commander’s cabin,
an officer came and informed us of some strange lights that had been
observed above the mountains at a distance inland. We went on deck and,
sure enough, beheld a peculiar and inexplicable phenomenon.

To the northeast the heavens were illuminated at intervals by flashes
of white light extending, fan-shaped, far overhead. The display was as
brilliant and beautiful as it was mysterious. For a good while we watched
it—until I was suddenly struck with the regularity of the intervals
between the flashes. Timing the lights with my watch, I found they
occurred _precisely eleven minutes and six seconds apart_!

With a new idea in mind, I made a note of the exact instant when each
flash appeared; then I went down into the hold of the ship and looked at
Dr. Gresham’s hydro-seismograph. As I suspected, the aerial flashes had
occurred simultaneously with the earthquakes.

When I returned to the deck the phenomenon in the sky had ceased, and it
did not appear again all night.

But shortly after midnight another portentous event occurred to claim
undivided attention.

The powerful wireless of the _Albatross_, which could hear messages
coming and going throughout the United States and Canada, as well as
over a great part of the Pacific Ocean, began to pick up accounts of
terrible happenings all over the world. The fissures in the ground, which
had appeared shortly before we left San Francisco, had suddenly widened
and lengthened into a nearly-unbroken ring about the portion of the
globe from which the inhabitants had been warned to flee. Within this
danger-circle the ground had begun to vibrate heavily and continuously—as
the lid of a tea kettle “dances” when the pressure of steam beneath it is
seeking a vent.

The flight of the public from the doomed area had grown into an appalling
hegira—until a fresh disaster, a few hours ago, had suddenly cut it
short: the Rocky Mountains had begun to fall down throughout most of
their extent, obliterating all the railroads and other highways that
penetrated their chain. Now the way to safety beyond the mountains was
hopelessly blocked.

And with this catastrophe hell had broken loose among the people of
America!

It was near dawn before these stories ceased. The officers and myself
were still discussing them when day broke and we beheld Dr. Gresham’s
hydroplane circling high overhead, seeking a landing. In a few minutes
the doctor was with us.

The instant I set eyes on him I knew he had met with some degree of
success. But he said nothing until we were alone and I had poured out the
tale of the night’s happenings.

“So you saw the flashes?” remarked the doctor.

“We were greatly puzzled by them,” I admitted. “And you?”

“I was directly above them and saw them made,” he announced.

“Saw them _made_?” I repeated.

“Yes,” he assured me; “indeed, I have had a most interesting trip. I
would have taken you with me, only it would have increased the danger,
without serving any purpose. However, I am going on another jaunt
tonight, in which you might care to join me.”

I told him I was most eager to do so.

“Very well,” he approved; “then you had better go to bed and get all the
rest you can, for our adventure will not be child’s play.”

The doctor then sought the ship’s commander and asked him to proceed very
slowly up the deep and winding Dean Channel, keeping a sharp lookout
ahead. As soon as the vessel started we went to bed.

It was mid-afternoon when we awakened. Looking out our cabin portholes,
we saw we were moving slowly past lofty granite precipices that were so
close it seemed we might almost reach out and touch them. Quickly we got
on deck.

Upon being informed that we had gone about seventy-five miles up Dean
Channel, Dr. Gresham stationed himself on the bridge with a pair of
powerful glasses, and for several hours gave the closest scrutiny ahead,
as new vistas of the tortuous waterway unfolded.

We now seemed to be passing directly into the heart of the lofty Cascade
Mountain range that runs the length of Cassiar Province in British
Columbia. At times the cliffs bordering the fiord drew in so close that
it seemed we had reached the end of the channel, while again they rounded
out into graceful slopes thickly carpeted with pines. Still there was no
sign that the foot of man ever had trod this wilderness.

Late in the afternoon Dr. Gresham became very nervous, and toward
twilight he had the ship stopped and a launch lowered.

“We will start at once,” he told me, “and Commander Mitchell will go with
us.”

Taking from me the sealed letter of instructions he had left in my care
before starting on his airplane trips the previous nights, he handed it
to the commander, saying: “Give this to the officer you leave in charge
of the ship. It is his orders in case anything should happen to us and we
do not return by morning. Also, please triple the strength of the night
watch. Run your vessel close under the shadows of the bank, and keep her
pitch dark. We are now in the heart of the enemy’s country, and we can’t
tell what sort of a lookout he may be keeping.”

While Commander Mitchell was attending to these orders, the doctor sent
me below to get a pair of revolvers for each of us. When I returned the
three of us entered the launch and put off up the channel.

Slowly and noiselessly we moved ahead in the gathering shadows near
shore. The astronomer sat in the bow, silent and alert, gazing constantly
ahead through his glasses.

We had proceeded scarcely fifteen minutes when the doctor suddenly
ordered the launch stopped. Handing his binoculars to me and pointing
ahead beyond a sharp bend we were just rounding, he exclaimed excitedly:

“_Look!_”

I did so, and to my astonishment saw a great steamship lying at a wharf!

Commander Mitchell now had brought his glasses into use, and a moment
later he leaped to his feet, exclaiming:

“My God, men! _That’s the vanished Pacific liner Nippon!_”

An instant more and I also had discerned the name, standing out in white
letters against the black stern. Soon I made a second discovery that
thrilled me with amazement: faint columns of smoke were rising from the
vessel’s funnels, as if she were manned by a crew and ready to sail!

Dr. Gresham was the first to speak; his excitement now had left him, and
he was cool and commanding.

“Let us get back to the _Albatross_,” he said, “as quickly as we can!”

On board the destroyer, the doctor again cautioned Commander Mitchell
about keeping a sharp lookout and allowing no lights anywhere.

Then the scientist and I hastened to our cabin, where Chinese suits of
gorgeous silk had been laid out for us; they were part of the quantity of
such garments my six tailors had been making. There were two outfits for
each—one of flaming orange, which we put on first, and one of dark blue,
which we slipped on over the other. Then one of the actors was summoned,
and he made up our faces so skillfully that it would have been difficult
to distinguish us from Chinamen.

When the actor had left the room, the doctor handed me the revolvers I
had carried before, and also a long, villainous-looking knife. To these
he added a pair of field glasses. After similarly arming himself, he
announced:

“I feel I must warn you, Arthur, that this trip may be the most perilous
of your whole life. All the chances are against our living to see
tomorrow’s sun, and if we die it is likely to be by the most fiendish
torture ever devised by human beings! Think well before you start!”

I promptly assured him I was willing to go wherever he might lead.

“But where,” I asked, “is that to be?”

“We are going,” he answered, “into the hell-pits of the Seuen-H’sin!”

And with that we entered the launch and put off into the coming darkness.


_CHAPTER VII._

THE MOON GOD’S TEMPLE

It was not long before the launch again brought us within sight of the
mystery ship, the _Nippon_.

Here we landed and had the seaman take the launch back to the destroyer.
With a final inspection of our revolvers and knives, we started forward
through the rocks and timber toward the vessel.

It was the night of the full moon, but the satellite had not yet risen
above the mountains to the east, so we had only the soft gleam of the
stars to light us on our way. In spite of the northern latitude, it was
not uncomfortably cold, and soon we were spellbound by the gorgeous
panorama of the night. Above us, through the lattice-work of boughs, the
calm, cold stars moved majestically across the black immensity of space.
The dark was fragrant with the scent of pines. Strangely hushed and still
the universe appeared, as if in the silence world were whispering to
world.

We could now feel the periodic earthquakes very plainly—as if we were
directly over the seat of the disturbances.

In a few minutes we reached the edge of the clearing about the _Nippon’s_
wharf. There were no buildings, so we had an unobstructed view of the
vessel, lying tied to the dock. Two or three lights shone faintly from
her portholes, but no one was visible about her.

The wharf was at the entrance to a little side valley that ran off to
the southeast through a break in the precipitous wall of the fiord. From
this ravine poured a turbulent mountain stream which, I recalled from the
ship’s charts, was named Dean River.

After a brief look around we discovered a wide, smooth roadway leading
from the wharf into the valley, paralleling the stream. Keeping a
cautious lookout, we began to follow this road, slipping along through
the timber at its side.

In about five minutes we came to a coal mine on the slope beside
the highway. From the looks of its dump, it was being worked
constantly—probably furnishing the fuel to keep fire under the _Nippon’s_
boilers.

Fifteen more minutes passed in laborious climbing over rocks and fallen
timber, when all at once, after ascending a slight rise to another
level of the valley’s floor, we beheld the lights of a village a short
distance beyond! At once Dr. Gresham changed our course to take us up the
mountainside, whence we could look down upon the settlement.

To my amazement, we saw a neatly laid out town of more than a hundred
houses, with electric-lighted streets. Although the houses seemed
to be built entirely of corrugated sheet iron—probably because a
more substantial type of construction would not have withstood the
earthquakes—there was about the place an indefinable Chinese atmosphere.

My first shock of surprise at coming across this hidden city soon gave
way to wonder that the outside world knew nothing of such a place—that
it was not even indicated on the maps. But I recalled that on the land
side it was unapproachable because of lofty mountains, beyond which lay
an immense trackless wilderness; and on the water side it was a hundred
miles off even the navigation lanes to Alaska.

Suddenly, as we stood there in the timber, a deep-toned bell began to
toll on the summit of the low mountain above us.

“The Temple of the Moon God!” exclaimed Dr. Gresham.

With the sounding of the bell, the village awakened into life. From
nearly every house came figures clad in flaming orange costumes, exactly
like the ones Dr. Gresham and myself wore beneath our outer suits. At the
end of the town these figures mingled and turned into a roadway, and a
few moments later we saw they were coming up the hill directly toward us!

Not knowing which way they would pass, we crouched in the dark and waited.

Still the weird, mellow tocsin sounded above us—slowly, mystically,
flooding the valley with somber, thrilling sound.

All at once we heard the tramping of many feet, and then perceived with
alarm that the roadway up the mountainside passed not more than twenty
feet from where we lay! Along it the silent, strange procession was
mounting the slope!

“The Seuen-H’sin,” whispered my companion, “on their way to the hellish
temple rites!”

Scarcely breathing, we pressed flat upon the ground, fearful each instant
we might be discovered. For a period that seemed interminable the
brilliantly-clad figures continued to shuffle by—hundreds of them. But at
last there was an end of the marchers.

Immediately Dr. Gresham rose and, motioning me to follow his example,
quickly slipped off his blue outer costume and rolled it into a small
bundle, which he tucked under his arm. I was ready an instant later.

Creeping out to the road, we peered about to make certain no stragglers
were approaching; then we hurried after the ascending throng. It was only
a few moments until we overtook the rear ranks, whereupon we adopted
their gait and followed silently, apparently attracting no attention.

The mountain was not very high, and at last we came out upon a spacious
level area at the top. It was moderately well illuminated by electric
lamps, and at the eastern end, near the edge of the eminence, we beheld
a stone temple into which the multitude was passing. Depositing our rolls
of outer clothing in a spot where we could easily find them again, we
moved forward.

As we crossed the walled mountaintop, or temple courtyard it might be
called, I swiftly took in the strange surroundings. The temple was a
thing to marvel at. It was all of stone, with high, fantastically-carved
walls and an imposing facade of rounded columns. On either side of the
central structure were wings, or side halls, that ran off into the
darkness; and in front of these were walled courtyards with arched
gateways, roofed with golden-yellow tiles. The structure must have
required engineering skill of the highest order for its building, yet it
appeared old, incredibly old, as if the storms of centuries had beaten
upon it.

Everywhere about the walls were cracks—doubtless the result of the
earthquakes—so numerous and pronounced that one wondered how the building
held together.

Presently, as we advanced, I noticed an overturned and broken statue of
Buddha, the stone figure partly overgrown with moss and lichens. As I
studied this I recalled the bit of history Dr. Gresham had related to me
a couple of days before as we journeyed northward on the _Albatross_—of
the Chinese navigators, directed by Huei-Sen, a Buddhist monk, who had
come “somewhere to the north” in the year 499 A. D. And I wondered if
this was, indeed, the “Country of the Great Han” that was discovered by
these Orientals in the long ago—if this might be one of the temples which
Huei-Sen and his followers had built in the days a thousand years before
Columbus.

I whispered these questions to the doctor.

With an alarmed glance about us to make sure I had not been overheard, he
answered very low:

“You have guessed it! But keep silent, as you value your life! Stay close
to me and do whatever the others do!”

We were now at the entrance to the temple. Heavy yellow curtains covered
the portal, and within a gong droned slowly.

Summoning courage, we pushed aside the draperies and entered.

The place was large and dimly lighted. Low red seats ran crossways in
long rows. At the far end, against the east wall, was the altar, before
which were drawn deep yellow hangings. In front of these, under a hood
of golden gauze, burned a solitary light. There was a terror in this
mysterious dusk that gave me a strange thrill.

The audience was standing, silent, with bowed heads, by the rows of
seats. Quaking inwardly, we took places in the last row, where the light
was dimmest. So perfectly were our costumes and make-up a match for those
around us that we attracted no attention.

All at once the tempo of the gong’s droning changed, becoming slower and
more weird, and other gongs joined in at intervals. The illumination,
which appeared to come solely from the ceiling, brightened somewhat.

Then a door opened on the right, about midway of the building, and there
appeared a being such as I never beheld before. He was tall and lean and
wore a robe of golden silk. Behind him came another—a priest in superb
violet; and behind him a third in flaming orange. They wore high helmets
with feathery plumes.

In the hands of each priest were peculiar instruments—or images, if
so they might be called. Above a handle about two feet long, held
vertically, was a thin rod curved upward in a semi-circle, at each end of
which was a flat disk about a foot in diameter—one disk of silver, the
other of gold. As I scrutinized these emblems I wondered if they were
meant to symbolize the Seuen-H’sin’s belief in two moons.

Slowly the priests advanced to a central aisle, then forward to an open
space, or hall of prayer, before the altar.

Then a door opened on the left, opposite the first portal, and from it
issued a fourth priest in robes of richest purple, followed by another in
crimson, and still another in wondrous green. They, also, wore the high,
feathery helmets and carried the instruments with gold and silver disks.

When the last three had joined the first trio, other portals opened
along the sides of the temple and half a dozen more priests entered and
strode forward. The brilliant colors of their frocks seemed a part of the
devilish gong-droning. In the dim vastness of the temple they moved on,
silent as ghosts. There was something singularly depressing in the slow,
noiseless steps. It was as if they were walking to their death.

Still the procession grew in numbers. Hitherto unnoticed
portals gave entrance to more yellow, orange and violet-clad
priests—demoniacal-looking beings, with lean, cruel, thoughtful faces and
somber, dreaming eyes.

At last the procession ended. There was a pause, after which the
audience standing among the rows of red seats burst into low murmurs of
supplication. Sometimes the voices rose into a considerable humming
sound; again they sank into a whisper. Suddenly the murmur of voices
ceased and there was a blare of unseen trumpets—a crashing vastness of
sound; harsh, unearthly, infernal, so that I shivered in horror. Nothing
could be seen of the terrible orchestra; its notes seemed to come from a
dark adjoining hall.

Again there was a pause—a thrilling period in which even the droning
gongs were hushed; and then from an unseen portal came, slowly and alone,
a figure that all the rest seemed to have been waiting for.

Leaning close to my ear, Dr. Gresham whispered:

“_The high priest, Kwo-Sung-tao!_”

With leaping interest, I turned to view the personage—and was held
spellbound by the amazing personality of this man who proposed to make
himself emperor of all the world.

He was old, _old_; small, shrunken; a very mummy of a man; bald, and
with a long white mustache; enveloped in a shroud of cloth of gold,
embroidered with crimson dragons and dual gold and silver moons. But
never to my dying day can I forget that face, with its fearful eyes! All
the wisdom and power and wickedness of the world were blended there!

Straight toward the altar the old man walked, looking neither to the
right nor the left; and when he had mounted the steps he paused before
the curtains and turned. As his blazing eyes swept the hall the entire
multitude seemed to shrink and shrivel. An awful, sepulchral silence fell
upon the crowd. The stillness hovered like a living thing. A thrill more
intense than I had ever felt came over me; it swept me on cold waves into
an ocean of strange, pulsing emotion.

Then, abruptly, a hundred cymbals clashed, subdued drums rolled forth,
and the infernal trumpets that had heralded the entrance of the high
priest crashed out a demoniacal peal—a veritable anthem of damnation that
pierced me to the marrow.

The sound died out. The lights, too, began to sink. For a few moments
not a word was spoken; there was the stillness of death, of the end of
things. Presently all the illumination was gone save the solitary hooded
light in front of the altar.

From his place at the head of the steps the high priest, Kwo-Sung-tao,
made a gesture. Silently, and by unseen means, the deep yellow hangings
rolled away.

There, to my amazement, the whole end of the temple was open, and we
could look off from the mountaintop across innumerable valleys to the
great range of peaks that walled the east. Out there the stars were
shining, and near the horizon the blue-green heavens were tinged with a
swimming silver mist.

The altar itself, if such it might be called, was a single block of
undraped stone, about three feet high and four feet long, rising in the
center of the platform.

Hardly had I taken in the scene before two of the priests hurried
forward, dragging between them a nearly-naked and half-swooning Chinaman.
Carrying him up the steps, they flung him on his back upon the altar
block and swiftly fastened his hands and feet to manacles on the sides of
the stone, so that his naked chest was centered upon the pedestal. The
priests then descended from the altar, leaving Kwo-Sung-tao alone beside
the prisoner.

Still within the temple the profound silence reigned. There was not a
whisper, not a rustle of the silken vestments.

But all at once we noticed that the eastern sky was growing brighter.

Then from before the altar a single somber bass rolled forth in a wailing
prayer—a mystical, unearthly sound, coming in shattered sobs:

“_Na-mo O-mi-t’o-fo! Na-mo O-mi-t’o-fo!_”

Suddenly, from over the edge of the world, the moon began to rise!

This was the signal for another hellish blast from the trumpets, followed
by the beginning of a steady humming of countless gongs. Other voices
joined the quivering bass, together growing louder—seeming to complain
and sob and wail like the voices of tortured demons in the abyss.

The rhythmic sounds swelled louder and louder, higher and higher, until
the orb of night had climbed clear of the wall of mountains.

Directly against the silver disk I now saw silhouetted the stone altar
holding its shrinking prisoner, with the high priest standing close
beside him. The priest’s right arm was upraised, and in his hand there
gleamed a knife.

Still the music grew in volume—tremendous, stunning, a terrific battle of
sound.

All at once the high priest’s knife flashed downward—straight and deep
into the breast of the quivering wretch upon the stone—and in a moment
his other hand was raised in salutation to the moon, and in it was
clutched the dripping heart of the human sacrifice!

At the sight my limbs grew shaky and my senses swam.

But at this instant, like a blow upon the head, came a lightning-crash
of cymbals, a smiting of great gongs, and a climacteric roar from those
agonizing trumpets of hell. Then even the single altar light went out,
plunging the great hall in darkness.

Instantly I felt Dr. Gresham’s hand upon my arm, and, dazed and helpless,
I was dragged out of the temple.

Outside the air released me from my stupor, and I raced beside the
scientist to the spot where we had left our outer garments. In the shadow
of the wall we slipped these on, and then fled panic-stricken down the
mountainside.


_CHAPTER VIII._

THE JAWS OF DEATH

We did not pause in our flight from the temple until we reached the foot
of the mountain; then, still shaken by the horror of the scene we had
witnessed, we sat down to rest until the climbing moon should send its
light into the depths of the gorge.

We could discern little of our surroundings, but close at hand we could
hear the river rushing between its rocky walls.

Not a word was spoken until finally I inquired: “What next?”

In a low voice that indicated the need of caution even here, Dr. Gresham
announced:

“The real work of the night still is before us. I would not have taken
the risk of visiting the temple but for the hope that we would learn more
of the Seuen-H’sin’s layout than we did. Since nothing was gained there,
we must reconnoiter the country.”

“That sacrifice of human life,” I asked—“what was its purpose?”

“To propitiate their god,” the astronomer told me. “Every month, on the
night of the full moon—in every Seuen-H’sin temple in the world—that
hideous slaughter takes place. At certain times the ceremony is
elaborated into a thing infinitely more horrible.”

At this juncture the moon lifted itself clear of the valley’s eastern
rim, and the depression was bathed in silvery radiance. This was the
signal for our start.

Heading toward the sound of the river, we soon came to the road that led
to the _Nippon’s_ wharf. Beside this highway was an electric transmission
line, running on up into the canyon. Turning away from the wharf and the
village, we proceeded to follow this line toward its source.

Instead of traversing the road, however, we kept in the shadows of the
timber at its side; and it was well that we did so, for we had not gone
far before a group of Chinamen appeared around a bend in the highway,
walking rapidly toward the town. They wore dark clothes of the same
pattern as our own outer garments; and they passed without seeing us.

For fully two miles we followed the power line, until we began to pass
numerous groups of Chinamen in close succession—like crowds of men
getting off work.

To diminish the chance of our being discovered, Dr. Gresham and I turned
up the mountainside. We climbed until we had reached a considerable
height above the floor of the gorge, and then, keeping at this elevation,
we again pursued the course of the electric line.

Another half hour passed in this scramble along the steep slope, and my
companion began to betray uneasiness lest the road and its paralleling
copper wires which we could not see from here, had ended or had turned
off up some tributary ravine—when suddenly there came to our ears a
faint roaring, as of a distant waterfall. At once Dr. Gresham was all
alertness, and with quickened steps we pressed forward in the direction
of the sound.

Five minutes later, as we rounded a shoulder of the mountain, we were
stricken suddenly speechless by the sight, far below us, of a great
brilliantly-lighted building!

For a few moments we could only stand and gaze at the thing; but
presently, as the timber about us partially obstructed our view, we moved
forward to a barren rocky promontory jutting out from the mountainside.

The moon now was well up in the heavens, and from the brow of this
headland a vast expanse of country was visible—its every feature standing
out, almost as clearly as in the daylight. But, to take advantage of this
view, we were obliged to expose ourselves to discovery by any spies the
Seuen-H’sin might have posted in the region. The danger was considerable,
but our curiosity regarding the lighted building was sufficient to
outweight our caution.

The structure was too far distant to reveal much to the naked eye, so we
quickly brought our field glasses into use: then we saw that the building
was directly upon the bank of the river, and that from its lower wall
spouted a number of large, foaming streams of water, as if discharged
under terrific pressure. From these torrents, presumably, came the sound
of the waterfall. The angle at which we were looking down upon the place
prevented our seeing inside the building except at one corner, where,
through a window, we could catch a glimpse of machinery running.

But, little as we could see, it was enough to convince me that the place
was a hydro-electric plant of enormous proportions, producing energy to
the extent of probably hundreds of thousands of horsepower.

Even as I was reaching this conclusion, Dr. Gresham spoke:

“There,” he said, “is the source of the Seuen-H’sin’s power, which is
causing all these upheavals throughout the world! That is where the
yellow devils are at work upon their second moon!”

Just as he spoke another of the great ground shocks rocked the earth. Too
amazed for comment, I stood staring at the plant until my companion added:

“There is where those brilliant flashes in the heavens came from last
night. They were due to some accident in the machinery, causing a short
circuit. For two nights I had been circling over this entire range of
mountains in the hydroplane, in search of the sorcerers’ workshop. The
flashes were a fortunate circumstance that led me to the place.”

“At last I understand,” I remarked presently, “why you were so deeply
interested, back there in Washington, in the Steamship _Nippon_ and the
electric plant she was transporting to Hong-kong. I suppose that is where
the sorcerers obtained all this machinery!”

“Precisely!” agreed the astronomer. “That morning in Washington, when
I got you to look up the inventory of the _Nippon’s_ cargo, I had this
solution of the mystery in mind. I knew from my years in Wu-yang that
electricity was the force the sorcerers would employ, and I was certain I
had seen mention in the newspapers of some exceptionally large electrical
equipment aboard the _Nippon_. Those supposed pirates of the Yellow Sea
were in reality the murderous hordes of the Seuen-H’sin, who had come out
to the coast after this outfit.”

“But why,” I asked, “should these Chinamen, whose development of science
is so far in advance of our own, have to get machinery from an inferior
people? I should think their own appliances would have made anything from
the rest of the world seem antiquated.”

“You forget what I told you that first night we spoke of the Seuen-H’sin.
Their discoveries never were backed up by manufacturing; they possessed
no raw materials or factories or industrial instincts. They did not need
to make machinery themselves. In spite of their tremendous isolation,
they were watching everything in the outside world. They knew they could
get plenty of machinery ready made—once they had perfected their method
of operations.”

I was still staring at the monster power plant below us when Dr. Gresham
announced:

“I know now that my theory of the earthquakes’ origin was correct, and if
we get safely back to the _Albatross_ the defeat of the sorcerers’ plans
is assured.”

“Tell me one thing more,” I put in. “Why did the Chinamen come so far
from their own country to establish their plant?”

“Because,” the doctor replied, “this place was so hidden—yet so easy to
reach. And the further they came from their own country to apply their
electric impulses to the earth, the less danger their native land would
run.”

“Still, for my part, the main point of the whole problem remains
unsolved,” I asserted. “How do the sorcerers use this electricity to
shake the world?”

“That,” replied the scientist, “requires too long an explanation for
the present moment. On the way back to the ship I will tell you the
whole thing. But now I must get a closer view of Kwo-Sung-tao’s strange
workshop.”

As Dr. Gresham was speaking, some unexplained feeling of
uneasiness—perhaps some faint sound that had registered itself upon my
subconscious thoughts without my ears being aware of it—led my gaze to
wander over the mountainside in our vicinity. As my eyes rested for
a moment upon some rocks about a hundred yards away, I fancied I saw
something stir at the side of them.

At this moment Dr. Gresham made a move to leave the promontory. Laying a
detaining hand swiftly upon his arm, I whispered:

“_Wait! Stand still!_”

Unquestioningly the astronomer obeyed; and for a couple of minutes I
watched the neighboring clump of rocks out of the corner of my eye.
Presently I saw a darkly-clad figure crawl out of the shadow of the
pile, cross a patch of moonlight, and join two other figures at the edge
of the timber. The trio stood looking in our direction a moment, while
apparently holding a whispered conference. Then all three disappeared
into the shadow of the woods.

Immediately I announced to my companion:

“We have been discovered! There are three Chinamen watching us from the
timber, not a hundred yards away!”

The scientist was silent a moment. Then:

“Do they know you saw them?” he asked.

“I think not,” I replied.

Still without looking around, he asked:

“Where are they—directly behind us?”

“No; well to the side—the side nearest the power plant.”

“Good! Then we’ll move back toward the timber at once—go leisurely, as if
we suspected nothing. If we reach the cover of the woods all right, we’ll
make a dash for it. Head straight up for the top of the ridge—cross over
and descend into the gulch on the other side—then detour back toward the
_Albatross_. Stick to the shadows—travel as fast as we can—and try to
throw off pursuit!”

Moving off as unconsciously as if we were totally unaware that we had
been observed, we struck out for the timber—all the time keeping a sharp
lookout, for we half expected the spies to head us off and attempt a
surprise attack. But we reached the darkness of the woods without even a
glimpse of the Celestials; and instantly we broke into a run.

The ascent was too steep to permit much speed; moreover, the roughness
of the ground and the down-timber hampered us greatly—yet we had the
consolation of knowing that it equally hampered our pursuers.

For nearly an hour we pressed on. The mountaintop was crossed, and we
descended into a canyon on the other side. No sight or sound of the
Chinamen had greeted us. Could they have surmised the course we would
take, and calmly let us proceed, while they returned for reinforcements
to head us off? Or were they silently stalking us to find out who we were
and whence we came? We could not tell. And there was the other chance,
too, that we had shaken off pursuit.

Gradually this latter possibility became a definite hope, which grew as
our overtaxed strength began to fail. Nevertheless, we pushed on until we
were so spent and winded that we could scarcely drag one foot after the
other.

We had now reached a spot where the floor of the canyon widened out into
a tiny level park. Here the timber was so dense that we were swallowed up
in almost complete darkness; and in this protecting mantle of shadow we
decided to stop for a brief rest. Stretching out upon the ground, with
our arms extended at our sides, we lay silent, inhaling deep breaths of
the cool, refreshing mountain air.

We were now on the opposite side of a long and high mountain ridge from
the Chinese village, and, as nearly as we could estimate, not more than a
mile or two from the _Albatross_.

Lying there on the ground, we could feel the earthquakes with startling
violence. We noticed that they no longer occurred only at intervals of
eleven minutes and a fraction—although they were particularly severe at
those periods—but that they kept up an almost continuous quivering, as if
the globe’s internal forces were bubbling restlessly.

Suddenly, in the wake of one of the heavier shocks of the eleven-minute
period, the intense stillness was broken by a sharp report, followed by
a ripping sound from the bowels of the earth, that seemed to start close
at hand and rush off into the distance, quickly dying out. From the
mountainside above us came the crash of a falling tree and the clatter of
a few dislodged rocks bounding down the slope. The earth swayed as if a
giant gash had opened and closed within a few rods of us.

The occurrence made Dr. Gresham and myself sit up instantly. Nothing,
however, was visible through the forest gloom of any changes in the
landscape. Again silence settled about us.

Several minutes passed.

Then abruptly, from a short distance away, came the sound of something
stirring. Sitting motionless, alert, we listened. Almost immediately we
heard it again, and this time the sound did not die out. Something off
there in the timber was moving stealthily toward us!

Dropping back at full length upon the ground, with only our heads raised,
we kept a sharp watch.

Only a few more moments were we kept in suspense; then, across a slit
of moonlight, we saw five Chinamen swiftly moving. They were slinking
along almost noiselessly, as if following a scent—and, with a shock, we
realized that it was ourselves they were tracking! We had not shaken off
our pursuers, after all!

Even before we could decide, in a whispered debate, what our next move
should be, our nerves again were whipped taut by other sounds close at
hand—but now on the opposite side of the little valley from the first
ones. This time the sounds grew fainter—only to become louder again
almost immediately, as if the intruders were searching back and forth
across the flat. In a short while it became plain that they were drawing
closer to us.

“What fools we were to stop to rest!” the astronomer complained.

“I have a hunch we would have run into some of those spies if we had
kept on,” I rejoined. “They must have headed us off and found that we
didn’t pass on down this canyon, else they wouldn’t be searching here so
thoroughly.”

“Right!” my friend agreed. “And now they’ve got us in a tight place!”

“Suppose,” I suggested, “we slip across the valley and climb part way
up that other mountainside—then try to work along through the timber up
there until we’re near the ship?”

“Good!” he assented. “Come on!”

Lying at full length upon the ground and wriggling along like snakes, we
headed between two groups of the searchers. It was slow work, but we did
not dare even to rise to our knees to crawl. Twice we dimly made out, not
fifty feet away, some of the Chinamen slinking along, apparently hunting
over every foot of the region. We could not tell how many of them there
were now.

After a time that seemed nearly endless we reached the edge of the flat.
Here we rose to our feet to tackle the slope in front of us.

As we did so, two figures leaped out of the gloom close at hand and split
the night with cries of “_Fan kuei! Fan kuei!_” (“Foreign devils!”)

Then they sprang to seize us.

Further concealment being impossible, we darted back into the valley, no
longer avoiding the patches of moonlight, but rather seeking them, so we
could see where we were going. We were heading for the fiord.

In a few seconds other cries arose on all sides of us. It seemed we were
surrounded and that the whole region swarmed with Chinamen. Dark forms
began to plunge out of the woods ahead to intercept us; the leading ones
were not sixty feet away.

“We’ll have to fight for it!” called Dr. Gresham. And our hands flew to
our revolvers.

But before we could draw the weapons a great ripping and crashing sound
burst forth upon the mountainside above us—the terrifying noise of rocks
splitting and grinding—an appalling turmoil! Terrified, pursued and
pursuers alike paused to glance upward.

There, in the brilliant moonlight, we saw a monster avalanche sweeping
downward, engulfing everything in its way!

Abandoning the astronomer and myself, the Chinamen turned to flee further
from the path of the landslide—and we all began running together down the
valley.

Only a few steps had we gone, however, when above the roaring of the
avalanche a new sound rang out—short, sharp, booming, like the report of
a giant gun.

As I glanced about through the blotches of moonlight and shadow, I saw
several of the sorcerers just ahead suddenly halt, stagger and then drop
from sight.

Dr. Gresham and I stopped instantly, but not before we beheld other
Chinamen disappearing from view.

_The earth had opened and they were falling in!_

Even as we stood there, hesitating, the black maw yawned wider—to our
very feet—and with cries of horror we tried to stagger back. But we
were too late. The sides of the crack were crumbling in, and in another
instant the widening gash overtook us.

As his eyes met mine, I saw the astronomer topple backward and disappear.

A second later the ground gave way beneath my own feet and I was plunged
into the blackness of the pit.

_This extraordinary novel will be concluded in the June issue of WEIRD
TALES._

_Tell your newsdealer to reserve a copy for you._




THE SECRET FEAR

_A “Creepy” Detective Story_

By KENNETH DUANE WHIPPLE


The night was hot and breathless, as had been the day, and the humid
_tang_ of the salt air smote my nostrils as, envying Martin his vacation
respite from the grind of police reporting, I turned off the broad, paved
thoroughfare of Washington Avenue and started down Wharf Street, narrow
and dimly lighted, toward my lodgings beyond the bridge.

As I passed the second dirty-globed street light I halted suddenly, with
the staccato sound of hurrying footsteps in my ears. Homeward bound from
the Journal office, where Martin’s work had kept me until after midnight,
I had yielded to the temptation offered by the short cut. Now, with the
peculiar emphatic insistence of the footfalls behind me, I began to
wonder if I had chosen wisely.

Brass buttons, glinting dully under the corner arc, reassured me. The
next instant I was roughly ordered to halt. I recognized the hoarse,
panting voice of Patrolman Tom Kenton of the fourth precinct, whose beat,
as I knew, lay along the wharves.

“It’s me, Kenton—Jack Bowers, of the _Journal_,” I said. “What’s doing?”

Kenton peered at me keenly in the bad light. Then his face relaxed.

“Man killed in Kellogg’s warehouse, just around the corner there,” he
replied.

“Killed? How?”

“The sergeant didn’t say. I got it from him just now when I reported.
Someone ’phoned in a minute ago. Come along and see, if you want. It’s
right in your line, and you’re a good friend of the captain’s.”

I fell into step with him, finding some difficulty in keeping pace.

“Do you know who ’phoned?” I asked.

“No. May be a joke. May be a frame-up. May be anything.”

His deep voice rumbled through the gloom of the dingy street, deserted
save for our hurrying figures. We crossed to the opposite side, passing
beneath a blue arc which flamed and sputtered naked through a jagged gash
in its dirty, frosted globe.

Just around the corner loomed the ramshackle bulk of Kellogg’s warehouse,
a four-story, wooden structure squatting above the river piers. On the
ground floor a broad entrance gaped blackly. At the left of the doorway,
about three feet above street level, the end of a loading platform jutted
out of the darkness.

Beyond the warehouse a narrow pier ran out toward midstream. I caught a
glimpse of the riding lights of some small vessel, dimly outlined against
the gray-black of the oily water.

Kenton stopped at the corner of the warehouse to draw his revolver,
motioning me to remain where I was.

“Stay here,” he said under his breath. “I’ll take a look. If it’s a
frame-up there’s no need to get anyone else into it. Besides, you’d be
more help here.”

He squared his broad shoulders and was swallowed up by the oblong of
black. It did not require much urging to persuade me to stay outside.
Timidly I peeped through a crack in the warped boarding. The dim ray
of light which Kenton cast before him seemed only to accentuate the
obscurity.

The light became stationary. I could distinguish Kenton bending over
something on the dirt floor not fifteen feet inside the entrance. He
looked up and spoke softly.

“Come ahead, Mr. Bowers,” he said. “No joke about this.”

There was a grim edge to his tone. With a shiver, I stepped through the
doorway and crossed to where he crouched above a motionless shape huddled
against the side of the long loading platform.

The body was that of a man of large stature—more than six feet in height,
as nearly as I could judge from the cramped position in which he lay.
There were no visible marks of violence, except for a frayed linen collar
pulled awry, which dangled by a single buttonhole from the shirt about
the powerful, corded neck. But as I bent closer to look at the features,
I drew back with a gasp.

The face of the dead man was distorted by an expression of the utmost
horror and loathing. Around the dilated pupils of his large, bluish-gray
eyes, the ghastly whites showed in a pallid rim of fear. His irregular,
reddish features, even in death, seemed fairly to writhe with terror. One
long, sinewy arm was thrown up across the lower part of his face, as if
to ward off some unseen and terrible menace.

Shuddering, I stared across the body at Kenton’s homely, impassive face.

“In heaven’s name, what happened to him?” I asked.

Kenton’s hands had been moving swiftly over the body. Now he spread them
apart in a little puzzled gesture.

“There doesn’t seem to be any wound,” he said. “See if there isn’t a
switch around somewhere, Mr. Bowers. There ought to be a way of lighting
up here.”

I fumbled along the wall until my fingers encountered the round porcelain
knob. A single grimy bulb, pendant from a cobwebbed rafter, threw a dim
circle of grewsome yellow light upon the floor of the warehouse.

The body had lain on its left side, facing the doorway. Kenton
methodically turned the corpse upon its face, his searching fingers
exploring the back. To me, at least, it was a relief that the staring,
terrified eyes were hidden from view, rather than gazing fearfully
through the arch of the doorway into the narrow, empty street beyond.

“There’s something queer about this,” said Kenton. “No wound at all, Mr.
Bowers, that I can find. No blood—not even a bruise, only this mark at
the throat.”

I had not seen the mark before, and even now I had to look closely to
find it. It was scarcely more than a discoloration of the skin in a broad
band beneath the chin. But there was no abrasion, much less a wound
sufficient to cause the death of a powerful man like the one who lay
before us.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Kenton rolled the body back to its
original position. At once the ghastly eyes renewed their unwinking stare
at the empty street.

       *       *       *       *       *

A sound from the doorway caused us both to turn. Only Kenton himself can
say what his imagination pictured there. For my part, I owned a feeling
of distinct relief at sight of nothing more startling than a pair of
ragged-looking men peering in at the open door.

As we looked, a third derelict of the wharves joined them, pressing
inquisitively forward toward the body on the floor.

“Whassa trouble here?” asked one, curiously. “Somebody croak a guy?”

“Yes,” said Kenton tersely. “Know him, any of you?”

His companion, who had been staring at the body, suddenly spoke in a
startled tone:

“By gorry, it’s Terence McFadden! I’d never have known the boy with that
look on his face, except for the scar over his right eye. Look, Jim!
Sure, and he looks as if the divil was after him!”

A confirmatory murmur came from the others. The grind of a street car’s
wheels on the curve of Washington Avenue cut clearly across the low
lapping of the waves against the rotting piles outside the warehouse.
The humid air, impregnated with the foul odors of the waterfront, was
stifling.

The three men huddled closer, with fearful glances over their shoulders,
as if striving to glimpse that which the eyes of the dead man watched.
Kenton alone seemed unaffected by the tension.

“Know where he lives?”

“Over on Twenty-fourth Street,” volunteered the third man. “But he’d
been on the Tiger yonder this evening. I saw him go aboard. Why not call
Captain Dolan? Him and Terry was pals.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dolan—Captain Ira Dolan.”

“Go and get him,” ordered Kenton, removing his cap and mopping his
forehead.

The man, not unwillingly, passed out of the circle of light. We heard his
footsteps on the planking of the pier, and his hail to the ship anchored
there.

Kenton turned to me, a worried look on his face.

“Would you mind going down to Patton’s place on the corner and ’phoning
in, Mr. Bowers?” he asked. “I wouldn’t ask it, but the captain knows you
well. Tell him I’m staying with the body. And ask him to have Doctor
Potts come, if he’s there. I’d like to get to the bottom of this.”

I was only too glad to get out of the warehouse, for the eerie atmosphere
was beginning to get on my nerves. When I returned, two of the somnolent
loafers from Patton’s greasy lunch room, roused by my telephone message
to Captain Watters of the fourth precinct, followed in my wake, muttering
and rubbing their bleared eyes.

Less than ten minutes had passed since we had found the dead man in
Kellogg’s old warehouse. Yet now a dozen frowsy wharf-rats fringed the
doorway, brought thither by some mysterious telepathic message borne on
the murky night air.

“Be here in ten minutes,” I said, nodding to Kenton.

Suddenly a man made his way through the crowd and hastened toward us.
His rugged, weather-beaten face took deeper lines from the dim light
overhead, its high lights gleaming in the ghastly radiance like pieces
of yellowed parchment. Yet there was power in the piercing blue eye, and
strength in every line of the tall, gaunt figure, now stooping suddenly
over the body of the dead man.

“Terence!” he cried, his voice harsh with grief. “Terence, lad!”

Kenton bent over and touched him on the shoulder.

“Are you Captain Dolan?” he asked.

The old man looked up, one hand still resting upon the motionless body
beside which he knelt.

“I am,” he said simply.

“I understand this man—Terence McFadden, his name is?—”

Captain Dolan nodded.

“I understand he was on board your ship tonight?”

“Yes,” said Captain Dolan, rising to his feet.

“What time did he leave?”

“’Twas not more than half an hour ago, officer. Shortly after midnight,
I would say. He was just aboard for a little farewell banquet,
y’understand—just a friendly visit, eating and drinking and the like,
before I leave at daybreak for another trip. I’m going down the coast.”

Kenton shook his head.

“Never mind that. Have you any idea how he met his death? Had he any
enemies that you know?”

Captain Dolan ran his bony fingers through his grizzled locks, his eyes
still on the body of his friend.

“Enemies he had aplenty, officer, like any two-fisted man with the
disposition of Terence McFadden. ’Twas only last week he cleaned up two
of the Jerry Kramer gang that tried to hold him up with a pistol down
on this very street. But his worry tonight had nothing to do with them.
A man like Terence could take care of himself against any man. Truth to
tell, he was his own worst enemy.”

Kenton broke in sharply.

“What’s that? He was worried tonight, you say?”

There seemed to be a trace of evasion in Captain Dolan’s manner.

“It was a piece he read in the paper. It fair spoiled his supper for him.”

“What was it about?”

“It was an item from the Zoo,” replied Captain Dolan.

Kenton fingered a button puzzledly, casting a mystified glance at me. It
was evident that his inquiries were not getting him anywhere.

Before he could question Captain Dolan further, the group about the
doorway behind us was thrust roughly aside, and Patrolman Corcoran, the
new officer from the adjacent beat, shouldered his way in. His right
hand was twisted in the lapels of a short, squat foreigner with a
swarthy face half hidden by a coarse, reddish-brown beard. The neck of
his sweat-soaked undershirt was open, and his sleeves were rolled above
hairy, muscular forearms.

Corcoran stared at the group about the lifeless body of Terence McFadden.

“So it’s true, is it?” he curiously asked. “I thought ‘Big Jim’ here was
trying to give me a wrong steer.”

“Who?” asked Kenton.

“Dobrowski, or some such name—‘Big Jim,’ they call him. He’s one of the
Kramer gang, they say.”

“Where’d you get him?”

“Caught him coming out of a basement over on Efton Street. He took one
look at me and ran like hell. So I rounded him up and asked him what was
the big idea of running. He just looked dumb, but I knew he’d been up to
something. So I frisked him, and found—these!”

He pulled a watch and purse from the side pocket of his coat. Captain
Dolan leaned forward eagerly.

“Terence’s!” he cried. “See if his initials are not in the back!”

He fairly snatched the watch from Corcoran’s hand. The younger patrolman
turned to Kenton.

“Who’s the old bird, anyway?” he asked in an undertone.

Kenton established the captain’s connection with the affair in a few
words. In the meantime the old man had pried open the gold case with his
heavy thumbnail and was squinting inside.

“See!” he affirmed, pointing to the initials “_T. J. M._” engraved there.

Corcoran nodded carelessly.

“‘Big Jim,’ all right,” he said decisively. “He’s the man that killed
McFadden here.”

“Big Jim” stared at his captor, chewing vigorously.

“No kill!” he exclaimed. “No kill!”

Kenton had been frowning perplexedly. Now he turned to Corcoran.

“Say, Bill,” he demanded, “how did you get over here, anyhow? Who told
you there’d been a man killed?”

To our utter amazement, Corcoran jerked his thumb toward “Big Jim.”

“He did,” he said.

“_He_ did?” repeated Kenton incredulously. “Then you were the one that
’phoned in to the sergeant?”

Corcoran nodded, taking a tighter grip on the captive’s lapels.

“I was going to call the wagon and go straight in with ‘Big Jim’ here.
Then he told such a funny story that I thought maybe he was trying to
string me, so I marched him over here to make sure.”

Kenton shook his head.

“That was no way to go,” he muttered under his breath. “Well, no matter.
What does he say?”

“Says he took this stuff away from McFadden, but didn’t kill him,”
sneered Corcoran. “Doesn’t know who killed him, but he didn’t. Fishy?
Well, I’ll tell the world!”

Captain Dolan again bent over the body of Terence McFadden. Then he
looked up at “Big Jim.”

“Tell us what happened,” he commanded.

Words popped turbulently from “Big Jim.” Either he was actually telling
the truth, or he had committed his story to heart.

“No Kill!” he vociferated, gesticulating. “No kill! Take watch, but no
kill! Hide for man—pull him in—fight—he dead! Take money—run—hide—”

Fear shone in his shifting eyes and on his swarthy, perspiring face. As
he glanced nervously about the building, the fantastic idea occurred to
me that his fear was less of the police than of some unseen, intangible
force beyond his comprehension. I caught myself looking apprehensively
over my own shoulder.

Corcoran spat on the floor disgustedly.

“Part of that yarn’s all right,” he said. “That part about his stealing
the watch and all, I mean. The rest is all bull. How would he get the
stuff off a big guy like that without croaking him? How did he kill him,
anyway?”

Captain Dolan leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

“Yes, officer,” he repeated. “How did he kill him? Tell us that if you
can.”

Corcoran thrust his captive toward Kenton and knelt beside the body. When
he looked up, his face was blank. Rising he turned savagely on “Big Jim.”

“Come, now!” he ordered roughly, shaking the foreigner by the shoulder.
“How did you kill him? Speak up!”

“No kill!” repeated “Big Jim” stubbornly. “No kill!”

Corcoran raised his club menacingly. Whether he would have struck “Big
Jim,” or merely wished to intimidate him, I do not know; he had not been
long on the force, and he felt his authority keenly. But Captain Dolan
stepped forward, holding out an imperative hand.

“One moment, officer!” he said sternly.

       *       *       *       *       *

For a breathless instant the tableau held. Then Corcoran, closing his
amazed mouth, thrust his flushed face close to Captain Dolan’s.

“What business have you got butting in on this, anyway?” he shouted.
“Who told you to give orders? You seem to have been a friend of this
fellow’s, by what Tom here says. But how do we know you didn’t have a
grudge against him and doped him tonight aboard your boat? How do we know
you didn’t give him wood alcohol or something to drink that put him down
and out? You’d better just keep quiet and stick around here till the doc
takes a look at him.”

Captain Dolan’s wrinkled, parchment-like face turned an angry red, and
his bony hands clenched. Then, suddenly, he relaxed, uttering a short,
mirthless laugh.

“In remaining here, as you request,” he replied, “’tis my idea to see
justice done. Little love as Terence had for Jerry Kramer and his gang,
he would wish fair play, even for ‘Big Jim’ there. And for that reason
I’ll be asking your kind indulgence while I tell you a little of Terence
McFadden.”

Corcoran glared at the old man. Kenton shrugged his shoulders.

“Go ahead,” he said. “We’ve got to wait for the car.”

Captain Dolan stood erect beneath the grimy electric bulb, which cast
a brassy gleam upon his grizzled locks. At his left stood Corcoran,
scowling, one hand gripping his subdued prisoner. Beyond him Kenton
leaned against the loading platform. I watched them from the shadows.

“Every man of us has his secret fear,” began Captain Dolan abruptly, and
a trifle oratorically. “With one it’s the open sea. With another it’s a
horror of great heights. But we all have it. As for Terence McFadden, it
took no more than a little, long-tailed, hand-organ monkey to set him
a-shivering.

“And they seemed to know it, too, the grinning devils. No sooner would
he pass a Dago organ-grinder on the corner than the little red-capped
ape would let out a chatter and make a rush for Terence. And would you
believe me, the man would actually turn pale.

“‘Come away, Ira,’ he’d say, clutching at me, ‘come away, Ira. Sure, and
he’ll be looking for a bite from the leg of ye.’

“I mind me of a day when we went to the Zoo, Terence and I. ‘’Tis
understood,’ says he, when we reached the gates, ‘that we make no visit
to the monkey house.’

“But I give him the laugh, with hints about his courage, d’ye mind, till
at last he sets his teeth determined-like.

“‘No man shall say Terence McFadden is a coward,’ says he. ‘Let us go in.’

“The minute we enter the room, the place is in an uproar. The little
yellow-haired monkeys are hanging by their tails and chattering, and even
the big apes down in the corner are roaring like devils let loose. ’Tis
no use for me to point out to Terence that the hour for feeding is at
hand. He will have none of it.

“‘The beasts know me,’ he mutters between chattering teeth. ‘’Tis my
blood they would be having.’

“‘For why would they be having your blood?’ I asks.

“‘I know not the why of it,’ says he, shaking in every limb, ‘but ’tis
so.’

“‘Rubbish!’ says I, for I wished to rid him of this foolish fear of his.
‘Walk with me to this cage, and look the big chap in the eye. There’s no
harm he can be doing to you, and him safe behind the bars!’

“Terence was fair sweating with fear, but he grits his teeth, and arm in
arm we walk over to the cage. The big tawny fellow—the ugly-faced one by
the far door—sits there humped up in his corner, glowering at us with
eyes like coals.

“‘Look, man,’ says I, ‘and give over your foolishness. Why, even in the
open ye’d be a match for him.’

“No sooner are the words out of my mouth than the beast makes one jump
from his corner and lands half way up the bars at the front of the cage,
with a roar that would blast the very soul of ye. I own I was startled,
little as I fear monkeys and their likes.

“But poor Terence gives a sort of gasp and leans against me, actually
paralyzed with fear. His eyes are set in a glassy stare, like a dead
man’s. And I swear to you that after I got him outside, it was half an
hour before the color came back to his cheeks and his knees gave over
their quivering.

“‘Did ye see the horrible face of him?’ he gasps. ‘And the long arms
reachin’ for me throat?’

“And then he’d fall to trembling again.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Captain Dolan paused as abruptly as he had begun. So vividly had he told
his story that he had been for the moment transported bodily to the
monkey house at the Zoo. Now, in the sudden silence, we moved uneasily,
glancing at one another.

Corcoran scratched his head in a puzzled manner.

“What’s all this got to do with finding the murderer?” he burst out.

Captain Dolan shook his head.

“There is no murderer,” he said.

We all looked startled, I imagine. Kenton would have spoken, but Captain
Dolan motioned him to silence. Even Corcoran, for once, found himself
without words.

“I spoke of an item in the paper tonight,” continued Captain Dolan.
“Doubtless ’twas seen by all of you. Did you not read that one of the
gorillas at the Zoo had escaped from its cage and was at large in the
city?”

In the breathless silence which ensued I felt a peculiar thrill of terror
pass up my spine. Kenton was fingering the holster of his revolver
with nervous, clumsy motions. In some uncanny manner the gaunt old
sea-captain’s grim words of doubtful import had woven about us all a web
of superstitious fear in which we vainly struggled, unable to grasp the
saving clew.

“’Twas that item which spoiled his supper for Terence, when he read it
aboard the ship tonight. And no use I found it to reason with him. To his
mind the grinning face of the big ape was peeping in at every porthole!”

Suddenly Corcoran whirled, peering into the blackness at the far end
of the warehouse, where something stirred softly. Kenton drew his
pistol. I felt the goose-flesh rising along my arms. Only the dead man,
undisturbed, stared unwinkingly in the opposite direction.

The next moment a stray cat wandered leisurely into the circle of light
and sat herself down to wash her dusty fur, blinking complacently up at
our pallid faces. I wiped the cold drops from my forehead and breathed a
deep sigh.

Corcoran turned almost pleadingly to Captain Dolan.

“The gorilla—” he said. “Was it the gorilla from the Zoo that killed
Terence McFadden?”

Captain Dolan shook his head.

“I would not say that,” he answered.

I stared at the parchment-like face in amazement. Like Corcoran, I had
jumped to this conclusion. Kenton drew his hand across his forehead in
perplexity.

“But you said there was no murder!” cried Corcoran. “Was it ‘Big Jim’
that killed him, after all?”

“I would not say that,” repeated Captain Dolan.

Corcoran looked at the old man dazedly. Then he spoke very softly and
soothingly, as one might interrogate a backward child:

“Then tell me, Captain Dolan,” he said. “How did Terence McFadden die?”

“He was murdered,” replied Captain Dolan.

Corcoran stared.

“Murdered? But you said there was no murderer!”

“Nor was there,” said the captain.

Corcoran dropped his hands helplessly. Kenton took up the interrogation.

“Did he kill himself?” he demanded. “Was it suicide?”

“I would not say that,” repeated Captain Dolan for the third time.

But Kenton was not to be baffled.

“With what weapon was the man killed?” he asked doggedly.

Captain Dolan gazed at the contorted face of the man at his feet.

“With one of the oldest weapons in the world,” he answered. “A weapon
which has caused the death of many a brave man—aye, braver and more
powerful than Terence here.”

The waves lapped saltily against the rotting piles at the far end of the
warehouse. In the darkness a rat squeaked, and the cat, interrupting its
toilet, darted out of the circle of light and vanished. In the darkness
was heard the sound of a speeding motor.

Captain Dolan raised his eyes from the corpse of his friend, and his
voice was very soft and compassionate:

“Did I not say that Terence was his own worst enemy? Had it not been for
that foolish bewitchment of his—”

He turned and pointed suddenly toward “Big Jim,” standing stupidly there
in the shadows. It seemed almost that the eyes of the dead man, following
the direction of his extended arm, were staring at the bestial, repulsive
features of the prisoner with sentient terror.

“Look at the hairy arms of him!” he cried. “Look at the long, shaggy
beard! When he stood on the platform yonder by the door and crooked his
elbow about the throat of Terence, do you think the poor lad knew of
the pistol stuck in his back, or the words of warning jabbered in some
haythin lingo? To the mind of Terence ’twas nothing less than the coming
true of all his nightmares! Small wonder that his eyes are bursting from
their sockets as he lies there with the grip of terror stopping the
valves of his heart and curdling the very blood in his veins!”

“Then the name of the weapon—”

“It is called Fear,” said Captain Dolan.

The throbbing motor sounded at the end of the street. With a _squeal_ of
brakes, the police car halted outside. Doctor Potts pushed through the
crowd and bent briefly over the body.

“Heart failure,” he said.




_Whether or Not You Believe in Reincarnation, You Will Be Thrilled By
Reading_

JUNGLE BEASTS

_A Complete Novelette_

_By_ WILLIAM P. BARRON


“Look!” said the nurse to the young interne on the second floor of Dr.
Winslow’s sanatorium. “See what I found in the table drawers of 112—the
patient who was discharged last evening. Do you suppose this horrible
story can be true?”

The interne took the manuscript with a blase air. He had read so many of
these ravings on paper!

“This one is really unusual,” said the nurse, noticing his manner.
“Please read it.”

Mildly interested, the interne began to read:


THE STORY OF A VAMPIRE

Why am I here in this place of madness, this house of diseased minds?
Because of a cat!

And it is a cat that takes me away from this place—to go to my death! And
maybe this cat will follow on to haunt me in some other world, as it has
in this. Who knows?

This doom had its beginning, as far as this life is concerned, when I was
a boy, a lonely boy in my grandmother’s house. My grandmother had a great
yellow Tartar cat that she loved as only a lonely old woman can love a
cat.

[Illustration]

Perhaps it was because I was jealous of the love and attention my
grandmother lavished on Toi Wah—a boy’s natural antipathy for anything
that usurps the place he thinks is his by right. Or perhaps it was the
same inborn cruelty, the same impish impulse to inflict suffering on a
helpless dumb creature, which I have observed in other boys.

Anyway, with or without reason, I hated this self-complacent,
supercilious animal that looked at me out of topaz eyes, with a look that
seemed to see through and beyond me, as if I did not exist.

I hated her with a hatred that could be satisfied only with her death,
and I thought and brooded for hours, that should have been devoted to my
studies, of ways and means to bring this death about.

I must be fair to myself. Toi Wah hated me too. I could sense it as I sat
by my grandmother’s chair before the fire and looked across at Toi Wah,
who lay in a chair on the opposite side. At such times I would always
catch her watching me out of half-closed eyes, stealthily, furtively,
never off her guard.

If she lay in my grandmother’s lap and I leaned over to stroke her
beautiful yellow fur, I could feel her actually shrink from my hand, and
she would never purr, as she always did when my grandmother stroked her.

Sometimes I would hold her on my lap and pretend that I loved her. But as
I stroked her, my hands would itch and twitch with the desire to clinch
my hand in her satiny skin, and with the other hand choke her until she
died.

My desire to kill would become so over-powering that my breath would
become hurried, my heart would beat almost to suffocation and my face
would flush.

Usually my grandmother, noticing my reddened face would glance up over
her spectacles, from the book she was reading and say, “What ails you,
Robert? You look flushed and feverish. Perhaps the room is too warm for
you. Put Toi Wah down and run out in the air for a while.”

I would take Toi Wah then, and, holding her as tightly as I dared, and
with my teeth clenched to restrain myself, I would put her on her cushion
and go out.

My grandfather had brought Toi Wah, a little yellow, fluffy, amber-eyed
kitten, home with him in his ship from that mysterious land washed by the
Yellow Sea.

And with Toi Wah had come a strange tale of her taking, stolen from an
old Buddhist Monastery garden nestling among age-old pines beside the
Grand Canal of China.

About her neck was a beautifully-wrought collar of flexible gold, with a
dragon engraved along its length, together with many Chinese characters
and set with stones of Topaz and Jade. The collar was made so as to allow
for expansion as the need arose, so that Toi Wah was never without her
collar from her kittenhood to adult age. In fact, the collar could not be
loosened without injury to the metal.

One day I descended into the kitchen with the cat in my arms and showed
Charlie, our Chinese cook, who had sailed the Seven Seas with my
grandfather, the collar about her neck.

The old Chinaman stared until his eyes started from his head, all the
time making queer little noises in his throat. He rubbed his eyes and put
on his great horn spectacles and stared again, muttering to himself.

“What is it, Charlie?” I asked, surprised at the old man, who was usually
so stoically calm.

“These velly gleat words,” he said at last, shaking his head cryptically.
“Words no good flo you. Words good for velly gleat cat; Gland Lama cat.”

“But what do the words say?” I urged.

He mooned over the inscription for a long time, fingering the collar
lovingly, while Toi Wah lay passively in my arms and looked at him.

“He say what I no can say good in English,” he explained at last. “He
say, ‘Death no can do, no can die.’ See? When Gland Lama cat wear this
colla’, no can die. No can be kill him—just change flom cat to some other
thing; monkey—tiger—hoss—maybe man—next time,” he concluded vaguely.

“He say, ‘Love me, I love you, hate me, I hate you.’ No can say good in
English what Chinese say. See?”

And with this I had to be content for the time. Now I know the characters
engraved on Toi Wah’s collar referred to a quotation from the seventh
book of Buddha, which, freely translated, reads as follows:

    “_That which is alive hath known death, and that which lives
    can never die. Death is not; there is only a changing from
    shape to shape, from life to life._

    “_Mayhap the despised animal, walking in the dust of the road,
    was one time King of Ind, or the consort of Ghengis Khan._

    “_Do me no harm. Protect me, O Man, and I will protect thee.
    Feed me, O Man, and I will feed thee. Love me, O Man, and I
    will love thee. Hate me, and I will hate thee. Slay me, and I
    will slay thee._

    “_We be brothers, O Man, thou and I, from life to life, from
    death to death, until Nirvana be won._”

If I had only known then, and stayed my hand, I would not now be haunted
by this yellow terror that peers out at me from the dark; that follows
after me with softly padding feet; never nearer, never receding, until....

Toi Wah was mated with another Tartar cat of high degree, and became the
mother of a kitten.

And such a mother! Only the hard heart made cruel by fear would remain
unsoftened by the great cat’s untiring devotion to her kitten.

Everywhere she went she carried it in her mouth; never leaving it alone
for a moment, seeming to sense its danger from me; an abnormal, hated cat!

However, she seemed to relent even toward me if I happened to pass her
chair when she was nursing the little creature.

At such times she would lay stretching out her legs, opening and shutting
her great paws in a sort of ecstasy, purring her utter content. She would
look up at me, maternal pride and joy glowing in her yellow eyes, soft
and lustrous now, the hate and suspicion of me crowded out by mother love.

“Look!” she seemed to say. “Look at this wonderful thing I have created
out of my body! Do you not love it?”

I did not love it. No! On the contrary, it intensified my hate by adding
another object to it.

My grandmother added fuel to the fire by sending me out to the shops to
buy delicacies for Toi Wah and her kitten; liverwurst and catnip for the
mother, milk and cream for the kitten.

“Robert, my son,” she would say to me, all unaware of my hatred, “Do
you know we have quite a royal family with us? These wonderful cats are
descended in an unbroken line from the cats of the Royal Household of
Ghengis Khan. The records were kept in the Buddhist Monastery from which
Toi Wah came.”

“How did Grandfather get her?” I asked.

“Do not ask me, child,” the old lady smiled. “He told me only that he
stole her in a spirit of bravado from the garden of this ancient Buddhist
Monastery when egged on to do so by his friends. They were spending an
idle week exploring the ancient towns along the Grand Canal of China, and
were attracted by the beautiful Tartar cats in this garden. It seemed the
Buddhist Monks reared these cats as a sort of religious duty.

“Your grandfather always believed that a Buddhist curse of some sort
went with Toi Wah after a Chinese merchant translated the Chinese
characters on her collar for him. And he often said he wished that he had
not whisked her into the pocket of his big sou’wester jacket, when the
priests were not looking.

“Myself, I do not believe in these superstitious curses and omens, so I
would not let him take the collar off. In fact, he _could_ not do it; it
was so cunningly riveted.

“He always feared some evil would come from the cat, but I have found her
a great comfort and a thing to love.”

And she would hold out her hands to Toi Wah, and the great cat would leap
in her lap and rub her head lovingly against my grandmother’s neck.

After that I feared Toi Wah more than ever. This fear was an intangible,
elusive thing. I could not understand it or analyze it; but it was very
real. If I wandered about the dim old passageways of my grandmother’s
ancient house, or explored the dusty cobwebby rooms, there seemed always
to follow after me the soft padding sound of Toi Wah’s paws. Following,
always following after me, but never coming nearer; always just beyond
where I could see.

It was maddening! Always to have following after me the stealthy, soft,
almost inaudible sound of padded feet. I could never win free from it
within the house.

In my bedroom, sitting alone before the fire with the door locked and
bolted, every corner of the room previously explored, the bed looked
under, I would always feel that she was sitting there behind me, watching
me out of vigilant yellow eyes. Eyes that were full of suspicion and
hate. Waiting, watching—for what? I did not know. I only feared.

Out of this fear grew many unreal terrors. I came to believe that Toi Wah
was waiting a favorable chance to spring on me from behind, or when I was
asleep, and to dig her great curved claws into my throat, tearing and
rending it in her hate.

I became so possessed by this fear that I fashioned a leather collar for
myself that fitted well up under my ears and around my neck. I wore this
always when I was alone in my room and when I slept, gaining some sense
of security thereby. But in the night time! No one can know what I, a
lonely boy, suffered then!

My eyes would no sooner close in drowsy weariness when the stealthy
padding of Toi Wah’s footsteps would begin. I could hear them coming
softly up the stairs, stealing along the dark passageway to my room, at
the end. They stopped there because the door was locked and bolted, with
the heavy chiffonier jammed against it as an extra precaution. I would
listen intently, and I fancied I could hear a faint scratching sound at
the door.

Then there would rush over me all the terrors of the dark. Suppose I had
failed to close the transom securely? If the transom was open Toi-Wah
could, with one great leap, win through and on to my bed. And then—

The cold sweat of fear would exude from every pore, as my imagination
visualized Toi Wah leaping through, and, with a snarl, pouncing upon my
throat with tooth and claw. I would shudder and tremblingly feel about my
neck to make sure my leather collar was securely fastened.

At last, unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, I would leap out
of bed, turn on the light, rush to the door, frantically drag the heavy
chiffonier to one side, and throw open the door. Nothing!

Then I would creep along the passageway to the head of the stairs, and
peer down into the dimly-lighted hall. Nothing!

Looking fearfully over my shoulder as I went, I would go back to my room,
shut the door, lock and bolt it, push the chiffonier against it, assure
myself that the transom was closed, and jump into bed, burying my head
beneath the covers.

Then I could sleep. Sleep only to dream that Toi Wah had crept softly
into the room and was sucking the breath out of my body. This was a
popular superstition in the country years ago, and no doubt my dream was
aided by my being half suffocated beneath the bedclothes. But the dream
was none the less terrifying and real.

Night after night I lived this life of cowering terror; of listening
for the haunting sound of stealthy, softly-padding footsteps always
following, never advancing, never receding.

But the day of my revenge came at last. How sweet it was then! How
frightful it seems now!


_II._

Toi Wah’s kitten, now half grown, wandered away from his mother below
stairs and up to my room. Returning home from school, I found him there,
lying on the rug playing with one of my tennis balls.

Joy filled my heart at the sight of him. I had just seen his mother
sleeping placidly on my grandmother’s lap, who was also sleeping.

I softly closed and locked the door. At last I would be rid of one of the
pests that made my life a hell! I put on my leather collar and the heavy
gloves I used for working in the garden. I took these precautions because
even of this small kitten I was afraid!

Unaware of its danger, the kitten romped about the rug. I drew a long
breath, stooped and picked him up. He looked at me, sensed his danger,
spat, and tried to squirm out of my hands.

“Too late, you devil!” I exulted, holding him firmly.

A buzzing came to my ears, a fullness of the head, a dryness of the
mouth, as I choked him—choked him until his glazing yellow eyes started
from their sockets and his tongue hung out. Choked him joyously,
relentlessly, deriving more pleasure from the death agony of this little
creature, whose mother I hated and feared, than I had ever known.

After a long time I opened my hands and looked at him closely for any
signs of life. But he was quite dead. Of one of them at least, I was
forever rid, I thought jubilantly as I gazed at the lifeless body. And
then—

There came a scratching at the door; and a loving, agonized _meow_!

It did not seem possible that any animal was capable of putting into the
only sound with which it could express itself, the anxious, yearning love
that sound conveyed.

The old fear clutched at my heart. It seems incredible that I, almost
a full-grown man, a football champion and all-round athlete, could be
afraid of a cat in broad daylight.

But I was! Cold sweat poured down my back, and my hands trembled so that
the dead kitten fell with a soft _thump_ on the rug.

This sound aroused me from my semi-stupor of fear. Hastily, I threw up
the window-sash and tossed the inert little body out into the yard.

I closed the window, and, with a studied nonchalance, walked whistling to
the door and opened it.

“Come in, kittie,” I said innocently. “Poor kittie!”

Toi Wah ran in and frantically circled the room, _meowing_ piteously. She
paid no attention to me, but ran here and there, under the bed, under the
chiffonier, seeking in every corner of the large old-fashioned room.

She came at last to the rug before the fire, lowered her head and sniffed
at the spot where, but a moment before, her darling had lain.

She looked up at me, then, with great mournful eyes. Eyes with no hate in
them now, only unutterable sorrow. I have never seen in the eyes of any
creature the sorrow I saw there.

That look brought a queer lump in my throat. I was sorry now for what I
had done. If I could have recalled my act, I would have done so. But it
was too late. The dead kitten lay out in the yard.

For a moment Toi Wah looked at me, and then the sorrow in her eyes gave
way to the old look of suspicion and hate. And then, with a yowl like a
wolf, she sprang out of the room.

As night came on, my fear increased. I dared not go to bed. I was uneasy,
too, craven that I was, for fear my grandmother would suspect me. But,
fortunately for me, she thought the kitten had been stolen and never
dreamed I had killed it.

I lingered until the last moment before starting upstairs to bed. I
studiously avoided looking at Toi Wah as I passed her on my way to the
stairs.

I raced up the stairs and down the long passage to my bedroom. Hastily
undressing, throwing my clothes here and there, I plunged into the very
center of the bed and buried my head beneath the covers.

There I waited in shivering terror for the sound of padding footsteps.
They never came. And then, because I was tired out by the lateness of the
hour, and perhaps also stupefied by the lack of fresh air in my room, I
slept.

Far in the night I heard the chimes from the church across the street,
and opened my eyes. The moonlight was shining in from the window and I
saw two fiery eyes glaring at me from a corner.

Was I in the clutches of a nightmare, engendered by my fears? Or had I,
in my haste to get to bed, neglected to shut and lock my door? I do not
know, but suddenly there was a jar to the bed as something leaped upon it
from the floor.

I sat up, shivering with terror, and Toi Wah looked into my eyes and held
them. In her mouth she held the bedraggled body of her kitten. She laid
it softly down on the coverlet, never taking her eyes from mine.

Suddenly a soft glow, a sort of halo, shone around her, and then, as I am
a living and an honorable man, _Toi Wah spoke to me_!


_III._

She said—I could see her mouth move—“_He that hath slain shall slay
again. Then he that slayeth shall himself be slain._

“_Yea, seventy times seven shall thy days be after my cycle is broken.
Then, at this hour, shall I return that the thing may be accomplished
after Lord Buddha’s law._”

Then the voice ceased, the halo faded. I felt the bed rebound as she
jumped to the floor, and there I heard the soft padding of her feet down
the passageway.

I awoke with a shriek. My forehead was damp with sweat. My teeth were
chattering. I looked and saw that my door was wide open. I leaped out of
bed and turned on the light. Was it a hideous dream, a fearful nightmare?

I do not know. But, lying there on the coverlet, was the wet muddy body
of Toi Wah’s kitten.

A live and famished man-eating tiger in the room could not have inspired
me with greater terror. I dared not touch the cold dead thing. I dared
not remain in the room with it.

I fled down the stairs, stumbling over furniture in the lower hall, until
I reached the houseman’s room. Here I knocked and begged, with chattering
teeth, to be allowed to remain on a couch in his room until morning,
telling him I had been frightened by a dreadful dream.

Early the next morning I secretly took the dead kitten out in the garden
and buried it deep, putting a pile of stones over the grave; watching
carefully for any glimpse of Toi Wah.

As I returned to the house, I met the old housekeeper, who stood with an
anxious face at the kitchen door.

“Master Robert, no wonder that you could not sleep the morn! Your poor
grandmother passed away in the night. It must have been after midnight,
for I did not leave her until the stroke of eleven.”

My heart leaped. Not for surprise or grief at my grandmother’s death.
That was a thing to be expected, and the cold aristocratic old lady had
not loved me over much.

Nor was it for joy that she had left me rich, the last of an old race
whose forbears went down to the sea in ships, bringing home the wealth of
the world.

No! I thought only that Toi Wah and I were on equal ground at last! And
that as soon as possible I would rid myself of the dread of her by day
and my terror of her by night.

My inheritance would be a thing of little worth if I must spend anxious
days and fear-haunted nights. Toi Wah must die, in order that I might
know joyful days and sleep at night in peace.

The joyous blood throbbed in my head and hissed in my ears as I raced up
to my room, got my leather collar and gloves and seized the great iron
poker beside the fire-place.

I carried these up to the attic, a small, close room, dimly lighted by a
skylight. There were no openings here from which a cat could escape.

Then I descended to my grandmother’s room. Already the corpse candles had
been lighted. I gave only a glance at the quiet, gaunt, aristocratic old
face, dignified even in death.

I looked about in the flickering shadows thrown by the candles for Toi
Wah. I did not see her. Could it be that she, sensing her danger, had
fled?

My heart sank. I drew my breath sharply.

“The cat—Toi Wah?” I asked the housekeeper, who watched beside the dead.
“Where is she?”

“Under the bed,” she answered. “The poor creature is that distracted she
would not eat, and had to be driven from your grandmother’s side in order
that we might compose the body. She would not leave the room, but darted
under the bed there, snarling and spitting. It’s afraid of her I am.”

I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the bed. Crouched in
the farthest corner was Toi Wah, and her great yellow eyes glared at me
in terror and defiance.

“It’s afraid of her, I am, Master Robert,” the housekeeper repeated.
“Please take her away.”

I was afraid of Toi Wah, too. So afraid of her that I could know no
peace, nor happiness, if she lived. I was sure of that.

It is the coward who is dangerous. Fear kills always if it can. It never
temporizes, nor is it ever merciful. Beware of him who fears you.

I crawled under the bed and seized her. She made no resistance, much to
my surprise, but I could feel her body trembling through my gloves. As my
hand closed over her, she made a little sound like a gasp—that was all.

I crawled out, and in the presence of the housekeeper, and the dead, I
held her lovingly in my arms, calling her “poor kittie” and stroking her
long yellow fur, while she lay passive, tremblingly passive, in my arms.

I deceived the housekeeper, who thought I was venting my grief for my
grandmother’s death by loving and caressing the object of the old lady’s
affection. I did not deceive Toi Wah. She lay quietly in my arms, but it
was the paralysis of terror; the nonresistant stupor of great fear. Her
body never ceased trembling, and her eyes were lifeless and dull. She
seemed to know her fate and had accepted the inevitable.

I carried her upstairs, threw her upon the floor and locked the door.
I seized the poker beside the door and turned to slay her. Toi Wah lay
where I had thrown her, crouched as if to spring, but she did not move.
She only looked at me.

I did not fear her now. On my hands were heavy gauntlets, and about my
throat was the heavy leather guard I had made, bradded and studded with
steel and brass.

Toi Wah did not move. She only looked, but such a look! It appealed to
the merciless devil in my heart. It burned into my soul.

“Kill me!” her great amber eyes seemed to say. “Kill me quickly and
mercifully as you killed the darling of my heart. What sayeth the
Master: ‘Be merciful, and thy heart shall know peace.’ Today is yours,
tomorrow—Who can say?”

As if in a dream, I stood and looked into her eyes. Looked until those
amber eyes converged into a dirty yellow pool around the edge of which
grew giant ferns and reeds taller than our forest trees. And a misty haze
hung over the scene.

Into the pool floated a canoe, a hollowed-out tree trunk. In the canoe
was a man, a woman, and a child, all naked except for skins about their
shoulders.

The man pushed toward the shore with a pole, and as he made a landing he
leaped into the water and pulled the boat upon the bank.

As he pulled at the boat, the reeds quivered to the right of him, and a
great yellow-colored tiger leaped from the cover of the ferns and seized
the child.

For a moment it stood there, the man and woman paralyzed by fear and
horror. Then, blood dripping from its jaws, it leaped back among the
reeds and was gone.

The face of the man in the boat _was mine_! And it was Toi Wah who held
my child in her dripping jaws! A great Toi Wah, with sabre teeth and
dirty yellow hide, but still Toi Wah.

The pool faded and I stood there, looking into the eyes of my
grandmother’s Tartar cat.

But I knew! _At last I knew!_


_IV._

Explain it how you will, I knew that somewhere far back in that
prehistoric time, Toi Wah had snatched away my first-born before my
tortured eyes and that his tender flesh had filled a sabre-toothed
tiger’s maw.

Now had come the day of my revenge! I clutched the poker more firmly in
my hands. I stood and seized her by the collar that none of us had been
able to unfasten. It came off in my hand!

Wonderingly, I looked at it, then cast it aside, to think no more of the
curious antique until....

I was in haste to rid myself of this thing of hate and dread. My heart
leaped. I ground my teeth in an ecstasy of joy; my cheeks burned. A
feeling of well-being and power made my whole body glow....

I left her there, at last, on the blood-stained floor, a broken dead
thing, and went out and locked the door after me.

I was free at last! Free from the fear of claws and teeth in my quivering
throat. Free from the sound of softly-padding feet. I was a new man,
indeed, for there sloughed from me all the old timidity and lack of
aggressiveness that this fear of Toi Wah had engendered in me. I went
from my grandmother’s house to college, a man among men....

I did not return again to the house of my inheritance until I brought
my bride—a shy, soft, fluffy little thing a lovely contrast to the
aggressive type of modern woman.

She was an old-world Eastern type, the daughter of a returned Chinese
missionary, educated in the Orient, and she had the manners and had
absorbed the ideals of the soft-voiced, secluded, home-loving Chinese
women among whom she had been reared.

Her light brown eyes and yellow hair, her slow, undulating graceful
walk, and her quaint old-fashioned ways attracted me; and after a short,
impetuous wooing we were wed.

I was very happy. Only twenty-four, wealthy, and married to a loving and
beautiful girl whom I adored!

I looked forward to a long life of peace and happiness, but it was
not to be. From the very day of my return to the accursed house of my
grandmother there was a change. What was it? I do not know, but I could
feel it. I could sense it, the very first day. A subtle something, a pall
of gloom, intangible, elusive and baffling, began slowly to settle over
me, stifling and suffocating the happiness that was mine before the evil
day of my return home.

I had returned from the village with some trifle of household necessity.
The servants had not yet arrived, and the housekeeper, old and infirm
now, was busy putting the place in order.

Returning, I sought my wife, and found her in my grandmother’s room,
standing before the life-size portrait of Toi Wah, done in oil for my
grandmother by a great artist, who also loved cats as she had loved them.

Until that day Toi Wah had remained only a dim memory of a fear-driven
boy’s cruel revenge. Purposely, I had put all thought of her out of my
mind. But now it all returned, a horde of hateful memories, as I stood
there in the open door and saw my wife standing and gazing up at the
likeness of the great cat.

And as she turned, startled at my entrance, what did I see?

I saw, or thought I saw, a likeness, a great likeness, between the two!
Eyes, hair, the general expression—Why had I not noticed it before!

And what else? In my wife’s eyes was the old fear, the ancient hate, I
used to see in Toi Wah’s eyes when I came suddenly into my grandmother’s
room—this room! The look flashed out for an instant and was gone.

“How you frightened me, Robert!” she laughed. “And the look in your face!
What has happened?”

“Nothing,” I answered. “Nothing at all.”

“But why did you look at me so?” she insisted. “Surely something has gone
amiss. Aren’t the servants coming? If they are not, I am not entirely
useless; I can even cook,” and she laughed again, an embarrassed laugh I
thought.

She had the manner of having been surprised by my entrance, of being
detected in something, secret or hidden, which she was now trying to
cover up and conceal.

“Why,” I stammered confusedly, for this remarkable resemblance had thrown
me quite off my feet, “nothing is wrong. Only I was suddenly struck,
as you stood there by the portrait of my grandmother’s cat, by the
remarkable resemblance; your hair, your eyes—the same color. That was
all.”

“Why, Robert!” she laughed, holding up an admonishing finger.

This time I was sure of the note of confusion in her laugh, which seemed
forced. My wife was not given to laughter, being a quiet, self-contained
sort of person.

“Imagine! I, like a cat!”

“Well,” I said lightly, gathering her in my arms—for I, too, was
dissembling, now that I had regained my self-possession and saw that I
was betraying my secret fear—“Toi Wah was a very beautiful and high-bred
cat. Her ancestry dated back to Ghengis Khan. So to resemble her would
not be so bad, would it?” And I kissed her.

Did she shrink from the caress? Did her body tremble in my arms? Or was
it imagination, the stirring of old memories of Toi Wah, who shrank from
my lightest touch?

I did not know. I do know, however, that my strange experience on that
day was the beginning of the end; the end that is not yet, but is swiftly
on the way—for me!


_V._

As the day wore on, I grew restless and uneasy; ill at ease and
dissatisfied.

So after dinner I went for a long walk along the country roads. When I
returned my wife was asleep. I lay down softly beside her, and, tired out
by my long walk, was soon asleep myself.

Asleep, I dreamed. Dreamed of Toi Wah and Toi Wah’s kitten. And I heard
again, in my sleep, the plaintive cry of the cat mother as she called
anxiously and lovingly for her kitten that would never return.

So vivid and so real was the dream that I awoke with a cry of the cat in
my ears. And as I awoke, I seemed to hear it again—plaintive, subdued, a
half-cat, half-human cry, as if a woman had cried aloud and then quickly
suppressed the cry.

And my wife was gone!

I sprang up hastily. The moonlight was streaming through the window. It
was almost as light as day. She was nowhere in the room.

I went swiftly down the hall and descended the stairs, making no noise
with my bare feet. The door of my grandmother’s room was open. I looked
in. Two luminous eyes, with a greenish tinge, glowed out at me from the
semi-darkness of the far corner.

For an instant my heart stood still, and then raced palpitatingly on. I
took a deep breath and went toward the unknown thing with glowing eyes
that crouched in that corner.

As I reached the pool of moonlight in the center of the room, I heard a
gasp of fear, a sudden movement, and my wife fled past me, out of the
room and up the stairs.

I heard the bedroom door slam behind her, heard the key turn in the lock.

As she rushed past me and up the stairs, the patter of her feet fell on
my ears like the soft padding of Toi Wah’s footsteps that had filled
my youthful years with fear. My blood chilled at this old, until now,
forgotten sound.

What craven fear was this? I tried to pull myself together, to reason
rationally. Fear of a cat long dead, whose mouldering bones were upstairs
on the attic floor! What was there to fear? Was I going mad?

The slamming of the bedroom door, the turning of the key in the lock,
instantly changed my thought and roused in me an overwhelming fury. Was
I to be locked out of my own bedroom—_our_ bedroom?

I rushed up the stairs. I knocked on the door, I rattled the knob. I
pounded with my fists on the panels. I shouted, “Open! _Open the door!_”

In the midst of my furious onslaught, the door suddenly opened and a
sleepy-eyed little figure stood aside to allow me to enter.

“Why, Robert!” she exclaimed, as I stood there, bewildered and ashamed,
a furious conflict of doubt, fear and uncertainty raging in my mind.
“What’s the matter? Where have you been? I was sound asleep, and you
frightened me, shouting and pounding at the door.”

Was I deceived? Partly. But in her eyes! Ah! In her eyes was that sly,
inscrutable catlike look that I had never seen there until that day. And
now that look never leaves them, it is there always!

“What were you doing below stairs—alone—in my grandmother’s room?” I
stammered.

She arched her brows incredulously.

“I?—below stairs? Why, Robert, what is wrong with you? I just this moment
awoke from a sound sleep to let you in. How could I be below stairs?”

“But the bedroom door was locked!” I exclaimed.

“You must have gone below yourself,” she explained, “and shut the door
after you. It has a spring lock. You surely must have had some hideous
dream. Dear, come to bed now.” And she went back to bed.

Again I dissembled as I had that day when I found her standing before Toi
Wah’s portrait. I knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, that she was lying.
I knew I had been fully awake and in my right senses when I had gone
down stairs and found her there. Evidently she desired to deceive me,
and until I could fathom her motive I would pretend to believe her. So,
muttering something to the effect that she must be right, I got into bed
also.

But not to sleep. There came trooping into my harried mind all the old
youthful terrors of the dark, and I lived over all those terror-haunted
days when I dwelt in fear of Toi Wah or of a shadowy something, I knew
not what.

Lying there in the dark, I resolved that morning would find me leaving
that seemingly ghost-ridden place forever. My peace of mind, my
happiness, to be free from fear—these things were worth all the fine old
country places in the world. And with this resolution, I slept.

I slept far into the day, awaking at noon to find my wife had gone out
with some of our neighbors for a game of tennis and afternoon tea. So,
clearly, I could not arrange to leave until the next day. I must await
my wife’s return, and in the meantime formulate some sort of reasonable
excuse to explain to her my precipitate return to town, after planning a
year’s sojourn in the country.

And then, too, it was daylight now, sober matter-of-fact daylight, and,
as was always the case with me, the terrors of the night then seemed
unreal, half forgotten nightmares. So I dismissed the subject from my
mind for the time being, and set out for a long walk across the fields.

It was near dinner time when I returned. As I opened the door of the
dining-room, my wife turned from where she stood by the fire-place to
greet me, and I was again struck by her resemblance to Toi Wah. The
arrangement of her hair heightened this effect. And when she smiled!—I
cannot describe it! Such a sly, secret, feline smile!

“Robert,” she said, as she came to me and put up her lips to be kissed.
“Do you know what day this is?”

I shook my head.

“Why, it’s my birthday, you forgetful boy! My twenty-first birthday, and
I have a surprise for you.

“The old Buddhist priest, who taught me when I was a child gave me a
flagon of rare old Chinese Lotus wine, when he parted from me, which I
was to keep inviolate until my twenty-first birthday. I would be married
then, he said, and on that day I was to unseal the old flagon and drink
the wine with my husband in memory of my old teacher who would then be in
the bosom of Nirvana.

“Look!” and she turned to the serving-table on which sat a small, squat
wicker-covered flagon, and handed it to me.

I looked at it curiously. It was sealed with a small brass seal, which
was stamped all over with dim Chinese characters.

“What are these characters?” I asked, handing her the flagon.

She looked closely at the seal.

“Oh! One of those wise old Buddhist sayings, which the Chinese stick on
everything.” She smiled. “Shall I translate it? I can, you know.”

I nodded.

“_‘Wine maketh the heart glad or sad, good or evil. Drink Oh! Man to thy
choice!’_” she read.

Then she pulled off the seal and poured out the wine; a thick amber
liquid, so heavy that it poured like thick cream. Its bouquet filled the
room with a faint, far-off odor of lotus flowers.

“Shall we drink now, Robert, or shall we wait until dinner is served?”

“Let us drink now,” I said, curious to taste this Eastern wine, with
which I was not familiar.

“Amen!” said my wife, softly.

Then she spoke, rapidly and softly under her breath, a few Chinese words,
or so I judged them to be, and we drank the wine. There was not a great
deal in the flagon, and we drank it all before dinner was served.

As I sat at dinner a strange comfortable feeling gradually came over me.
Distrust, fear, and apprehension died out of my mind, and my heart was
light. My wife and I laughed and talked together as we had done in the
days of our courtship. I was a different man.

After dinner we went into the music-room and she sang for me. Sang in a
sweet low voice strange weird old songs of ancient China. Of the dragon
banner floating in the sun, and the watch fires on the hills. Of old
Tartar loves and hates. Of wrongs that never die, but pass on from age to
age, from life to life, from death to death—unhasting, unending until the
debt be paid.

I sat listening, dozing in a hazy mental languor, with the feeling
foreign to me of late, that all was well with the world. I was peacefully
happy, and my wife’s sweet voice crooned on. Bedtime, the going up to our
bedroom, and what followed after is only a blurred memory.

I awoke, or seemed to awake (now that I am in this madhouse I do not
really know) far into the night.

I awoke with a feeling of suffocation, a sensation of impending
dissolution. I could not move, I could not speak. I had a sense of
something indescribably evil, loathsome, blood-curdling, that was hanging
over me, threatening my very life.

I tried to open my eyes. The lids seemed to be weighted down. All the
force of my will could only slightly open them. Through this slight
opening, I saw my wife bending over me, and the eyes that looked at me
_were the inscrutable eyes of Toi Wah_!


_VI._

Slowly she bent down—I could sense the delicate fragrance of her
hair—and applied her sweet, soft lips to mine. Again I felt that I was
suffocating, that the very breath of my life was being drawn from me.

I concentrated all my will in the effort to struggle, and with tremendous
effort I was able feebly to move an arm. My wife hastily took her lips
from mine and looked at me closely, with the cruel amber eyes of the
great Tartar cat, whose bones lay in my garret.

Once more she leaned over and applied her lips to mine. I lay there in
helpless lethargy, unable to move, but with an active mind that leaped
back into the past, bringing to my memory all the old nursery tales
of childhood of cats sucking the breath of sleeping children, of the
folklore tales that I had heard of helpless invalids done to death by
cruel cats who stole their breath from them.

I began to be aroused at last. Was my breath to be sucked from me by this
half-human, half-cat that was bending over me? With a final despairing
effort of my wine-sodden will, I raised my arms and pushed this soft
sweet vampire from my breast and from the bed.

And then, as the cold sweat of fear poured from my trembling body, I
shouted for help. At last my servant came running up the stairs and
pounded on the door.

“What is it?” he called. “What is wrong, sir? Shall I go for the police?”

“Nothing is wrong,” answered my wife calmly. She had risen from where I
had thrown her and was arranging her disheveled hair. “Your master has
had a terrible dream, that is all.”

“It is a lie!” I shouted. “Do not leave me alone with this vampire!”

I sprang from bed, and, heedless of my wife’s semi-nude condition, I
flung open the door. She shrank back, but I seized her by the wrist,
beside myself with nervous terror.

And then—there on her wrist—I saw! I looked closely to be sure. Then
instantly all was clear to me. I was in doubt no longer. I _knew_!

“Look!” I shrieked. “Here on her wrist! Toi Wah’s collar!” I do not know
why I said it, or scarcely what I did say, but I knew it to be true!

“Toi Wah’s collar!” I repeated. “She can’t take it off! _She is changing
into a cat!_ Look at her eyes! Look at her hair! Soon she will be Toi Wah
again with the collar about her neck, and then—”

And then I saw my wife disconcerted for the first time. I felt the arm I
had seized, tremble in my frenzied grip.

“Why, Robert!” she stammered. “I—I found this on the attic floor
yesterday. And—and—thinking it a curious old Chinese relic, I put it on
my wrist. It’s a bracelet, not a collar!”

“Take it off then!” I shouted. “Take it off! You can’t! You can’t, until
you become Toi Wah again, and then it will be about your neck. Read what
it says! It is in your accursed tongue!

“But you shall never live to madden me again with fear, to make my life
a hell of peering eyes and padding feet, and then to suck my breath at
last! I killed you once, I can do it again! And again and yet again in
any shape the devils in hell may send you to prey upon honest men!”

And I seized her by her beautiful throat. I meant to choke her until
those cruel yellow eyes started from their sockets, and then laugh as I
saw her gasping in the last agony of death.

But I was cheated. The servants overpowered me, and I was brought here to
this mad-house.

I said I was perfectly sane then. I say it now. And learned alienists,
sitting in council, have agreed with me. Tomorrow I am to be discharged
into the custody of my sweet cooing-voiced wife, who comes daily to see
me. She kisses me with soft lying lips that long to suck my breath, or
perhaps even rend the flesh of my throat with the little white teeth back
of the cruel lips.

So tomorrow I will go forth—to die. To be murdered! I go to death just
as surely as if the hangman waited to haul me to the gallows, or if the
warden stood outside to escort me to the electric chair.

I _know_ it! I have told the learned psychologists and doctors that I
know it. But they laugh.

“All a delusion!” they exclaim. “Why, your little wife loves you with
all her loyal heart. Even with your finger-prints a bluish bruise about
her tender throat, she loved you. That night when you awoke, frightened,
to find her bending over you, she was only kissing you, in an effort to
soothe your troubled sleep.”

But I _know_! Therefore, I am setting all this down so that when I am
found dead the learned doctors may know that I was right and they were
wrong. And so that Justice may be done.

And yet—perhaps nothing can be done. I have ceased to struggle. I have
given up. Like the Oriental, I say, “_Who can escape his fate?_”

For I shall die by Chinese justice, a Buddhist revenge for killing the
Tartar cat, Toi Wah. Toi Wah that I hated and feared, and have hated and
feared through all the lives that the two of us have lived, far, far back
to that time when the yellow sabre-toothed tiger seized my first-born
and fled with him among the reeds and ferns of the Paleozoic marshes, a
dainty morsel for her kitten.

And so—farewell!

       *       *       *       *       *

“Such a weird tale!” the nurse shuddered, as the interne finished the
manuscript. “Let us drive over to Cheshire Manor and—”

“Do you believe this story?” interrupted the interne, tapping the
manuscript with his fingers, and skeptically lifting his eyebrows and
smiling.

“No, of course not!” exclaimed the nurse, “but—the drive won’t do us any
harm, and—I would like to make sure.”

As they stopped their car before the somber old mansion they were struck
by the strange silence of the place. Not a servant answered their ring.
And after a time, since the door stood open, they entered and began to
ascend the stairs.

A strange, weird, lonesome sound floated down to them—the yowl of a cat.

They stopped for an instant and looked at each other, and then, reassured
by the sunlight, and both being matter-of-fact professional people, they
pressed on. At the head of the stairs they faced a long passage at the
end of which was an open door.

“Look! That is the bedroom he wrote about,” whispered the nurse, grasping
the interne’s arm.

They walked softly down the passage to the door and looked in. On the
bed lay the man they sought, glassy-eyed, with fallen jaw and livid
face—_dead!_

On his breast stood a great yellow amber-eyed cat, who faced them with an
arched back and menacing snarl. Involuntarily, they drew back. The cat
sprang past them and down the passageway to the stairs, uttering the same
weird cry.

“My God!” gasped the nurse, with pallid lips. “Did you see? About that
cat’s neck—and it was a Tartar cat; I know the breed—about that cat’s
neck was—was the Topaz and Jade collar—that—that he wrote about!”




Neighbors See “Sacred Heart” in Girl’s Death Room


After the death of Lillian Daly, a very devout girl of Chicago, the
report spread that a “sacred heart” could be seen on the wall of the
room wherein she had died and that if any afflicted person should touch
this heart he or she would be instantly cured. At once the house at
6724 Justine Street was visited by numbers of ill persons, all eager to
experience the magic cure. Two priests from neighborhood parishes visited
the house, but said they could not see the apparition.




Hold “Petting Parties” in Morgue


A grisly spot for love-making was chosen by a wealthy undertaker of
Chicago, whose stories of “petting parties” in a morgue, wine parties in
a mortuary chapel and “shimmy” dances in an embalming room caused a woman
to file suit against him for $50,000. The woman claims he attacked her
reputation.




_Eerie Adventure and Mammoth Treasure Were Found in_

THE GOLDEN CAVERNS

_A Condensed Novel_

_By_ JULIAN KILMAN


When Ericson quietly toppled over and the paddle slipped from his grasp,
our canoe was instantly broadside in the rapids. But Zangaree immediately
brought the heavily-laden craft head on, his skill once more saving our
slender expedition from the disaster that had trailed us so persistently
since leaving the large steamer at Itacoatiara.

A faint shout from the second canoe sounded through the din of racing
water. Evidently Van Dusee and Hardy had observed our mishap. I waved
a hand in reply, and then I bent over Ericson who lay with his eyes
rolling. Instead of sunstroke, as I had assumed, he had been wounded; a
thin stream of blood ran from his temple. Zangaree whirled the canoe to
the small islet we were just passing. But we were too late. Ericson was
dead.

The shock of our fellow-voyageur’s death was still on me as, amid the
amazing splendor of that tropical scene, we made preparations to dispose
of the body. Much later in the night, when all were sleeping, I felt a
tug at my mosquito netting, and in the dim starlight I made out Hardy’s
pioneer head, with its square-jawed face, peering at me.

He motioned me to follow him quietly. Wonderingly, I made my way after
this soldier of fortune, who, by the sheerest good luck, we had picked up
in the Brazilian capital. Presently he stopped.

“Do you wish to continue your journey?” he asked.

Despite Ericson’s death, I could not think otherwise; already we had come
four thousand miles, of which the last fifteen hundred had brought us
into the very interior of the South American continent. Too much capital
and energy had been expended for us lightly to abandon our project. And I
said so.

“You misunderstand,” he returned quickly. “It is not Ericson’s finish
that made me ask, _but the manner of it_!”

The thin edge of doubt as to Hardy’s fortitude perhaps began to insert
itself into my mind. He observed it.

“Damn it, man!” he exclaimed. “I am game. But you are to know that from
now on we’ll have to buck not only the elements, but that toad-faced _de_
Silva as well.”

At mention of the Spaniard who had tricked and nearly outmaneuvered us at
Rio de Janiero with the officials, something like a chill came over me.

“What brings him into this?” I demanded.

Hardy’s answer was dramatic enough.

“Only this,” he said. “It is a little thing. But it killed Ericson.”

I gazed at the slender blow-pipe arrow in Hardy’s hand. It had done for
our archaeologist.

“That type of arrow is unknown hereabouts,” went on Hardy. “It is
poisoned and is used by the Amajuca Indians six hundred miles back on the
Amazon. It means that we are being followed.”

The camp fire was dying out when Hardy and I returned from our talk,
both of us determined to make the additional four hundred miles that we
estimated lay between us and the point we planned to reach—and to gain
it by land if the water route on the gradually diminishing stream was to
afford our enemies too easy an opportunity to decimate us.

I stood there, surveying the sleeping figures of my comrades: Van Dusee,
the true scientist, whose interest in his beloved hemiptera seemed to
render him impervious to the sting of insect pests and the pains and
dangers of our journey; young Anderson, son of the president of our
Institute; Zangaree, sleeping in his giant strength like a child.

And Ericson! A lump came into my throat at the thought of the gallant
fellow who had so suddenly come to an end. Had I known then what was in
store for the surviving members of our little band, surely I would have
cried aloud, for all told, counting the mighty Zangaree, the half-breeds
and Indians, we numbered only ten men.

By the time the morning sun was flooding the ravine with light, we were
all astir. Caching much of our supplies, we ferried to the right-hand
bank of the stream farther down. Here, with no sign of the enemy we
secreted our canoes in the bushes, and, distributing among ourselves
ammunition, food, a light silk tent, blankets and scientific impedimenta,
we shouldered our packs and started on the long hike inland.

For two days we made slow progress, because of the luxuriance of the
undergrowth; but in time this gave way to vast primeval woods. Never
shall I forget the solemn mystery of it! Trees rivaling in size the
gigantic redwoods of California raised themselves to enormous height,
where their tremendous columns spread out in Gothic curves, which
interlaced to form a great matted roof of green—architecture of the
Greatest of All Architects!

As we walked noiselessly but hurriedly under the lash of Hardy’s
impatience amid the thick carpet of decaying vegetation, we were hushed
in spite of ourselves. Vivid orchids and marvelously-colored lichens
smouldered upon the swarthy tree trunks. Climbing plants, monstrous and
riotous in verdure, fought their way upward, seeking futilely at once to
throttle tree-life and to reach the sunlight.

Of animal life there was little movement amid the majestic vaulted aisles
which stretched from us as we pursued our way; but the slight though
constant agitation far above us told of that multitudinous world of snake
and monkey, bird and sloth, which lived in the sunshine and regarded with
wonder our puny stumbling figures in the depths below. At dawn the howler
monkeys and parrakeets filled the air with shrill chatter; and in the hot
hours came the drone of insects.

As yet there had been no indication that any one was following us.
Indeed, we seemed to be untold miles from civilization and I was
commenting to young Anderson on the likelihood of our escape from the
pursuit of _de_ Silva when I caught a look in Hardy’s eyes.

“Oh, pshaw!” I exclaimed later, slightly nettled. “You are pessimistic,
Hardy. Had _de_ Silva been after us we should surely have heard from him
before this.”

“No. That isn’t so,” retorted Hardy. “Our leaving the river has deceived
him. I am satisfied that he planned an ambush farther along the stream.
In a short time he’ll discover we have given him the slip. Then he’ll be
after us.”

“And just why, Hardy,” I demanded, “is this insane Spaniard following us?”

Hardy’s expression was quizzical.

“I have a sort of hunch—that’s all,” he returned, non-committally.

The next day one of our Indians was missing. He had been sent back over
the trail a mile or so to recover a small rifle that had been lost. Hardy
himself and young Anderson made the tiresome hike to the rear to learn if
possible the whereabouts of the Indian. Later, when the two rejoined us
without the Indian, Hardy did not have anything to say.

Anderson told me afterwards that they had found the Indian curled up at
the foot of a tree. He was dead without a mark on him.

Depressing as was this development, our little party found scant time
to discuss it. The way had grown much more difficult, for our road
persistently ascended. Huge trees now gave place to palms, with thick
underbrush growing between. We traveled entirely by compass, but missed
Ericson, who had been a navigator and had from time to time “shot the
sun” to verify our position.

On the fifth day we encountered a tremendous wilderness of bamboo, which
grew so thickly that we could only penetrate it by cutting a pathway with
the machetes and bill-hooks of the Indians. It took us a long day, with
only two pauses of a half hour each to get clear of this yellow-walled
obstacle.

Once free of it, we were glad to throw ourselves down for the first real
rest which Hardy was willing that we should take. But it proved to be of
short duration, because Anderson, eternally on the move, discovered, less
than half a mile away, that another path recently had been cut through
the bamboo nearly paralleling ours.

That night we slept behind some slight attempt at a barricade. This
protection, consisting of a circle of thorn brush piled three feet high,
at least sufficed to keep out a few wailing animals that filled the air
with weird noises, and most of us rested the night through without fear.

Next morning I discovered the presence of a soil that was like sand. This
was consistent with the dryness of the air, but was disconcerting as I
knew that the terrain and climate of the spot whither we were bound was
of no such character as that which surrounded us.

It was about this time that young Anderson made a second startling
discovery, and one fraught with momentous consequences for our
expedition. Our compass was out of order. This defection was serious in
the extreme. It meant that we were lost, for there was no knowing how
long the instrument had been untrue.

The day went badly. The farther we progressed the more sandy it became.
We seemed about to enter upon a great desert, and to make matters worse
our Indians showed signs of discontent. Our supply of water was low;
still we knew that only a day’s march behind us we had passed a stream
of clear water. Study of the maps that night failed to account for any
considerable expanse of desert, and it was decided to push boldly across
on the chance of later picking up our route.

We waited two days while Zangaree and the half-breeds made the trip
back for additional water. Then we started. If our suffering in the
past had been great, it now increased a hundredfold. The heat, instead
of having that suffocating quality peculiar to humidity, was burning in
its intensity; and, to add to our discomfort, Hardy kept us going at top
speed.

In this the rest of us felt he was justified, as there could be no doubt
that _de_ Silva, with a larger party than ours, was in the general
neighborhood, and looking for us. Hour after hour, until four days
dragged by, we trudged on late into the night, with the aid of an erratic
compass, through that Sahara-like sea of rippling sand.

By the severest rationing of our supply it was estimated that we had less
than one day’s water. Our situation was serious. To go back was as deadly
as to go on.

And it was at this point that our spirits were sent to low ebb by
Zangaree’s astounding discovery that we had doubled in our tracks in the
night and for two days _had been traveling in a circle_!


_II._

I think even young Anderson, for the time being, lost heart at sight
of that bit of inanimate evidence—a trifle of card board that had been
tossed aside—which drove home the knowledge that we were hopelessly lost.

But not for long was that restless youth depressed, and while Hardy and
the rest of us sat in solemn council that evening, he wandered off by
himself. Perhaps he had been gone half an hour when we heard him shout:

“_Water!_”

We ran toward him, and presently came to what might be called a minute
oasis. Quickly a spade was brought and work was started at the damp spot
located in the center.

In the meantime I studied the environs. A few scrubby bushes grew about,
while at one side stood a low triangular column of stones. I discovered
that each stone had cut in it a series of cuneiform inscriptions which
even the untold years of contact with the eroding sand had failed to
eradicate.

Quite idly I had laid my arm on the top when a curious thing happened;
half of the upper stone, under the slight weight of my elbow, swung down
silently, as if on a ballasted hinge. Then I stared into the interior of
the column, which I had supposed solid, and saw, to my amazement, that a
narrow stairway led down.

It was the work of only a moment for me to crawl in, and presently, in
pitch darkness, I was following the steep stairway. My fingers told me
that the sides were firm and well-bricked.

I came shortly to what seemed to be a tunnel, and in this I spent some
fifteen minutes, finding the air good and congratulating myself on my
successful descent and discovery of the unique underground passage.

I was about to start up again to tell my companions of my strange
discovery when there was an explosion. It lifted the helmet from my head
and was followed by the rattle of stones and debris that deluged and
buffeted and pounded me until I sank under the weight of the impact.

When I regained consciousness I lay in the open air. Anderson was bending
over me solicitously.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Here you are—all sound except for a cracked arm.”

“What happened?” I asked.

He grinned at me. “Why, we were all helping at the water-hole when Van
Dusee missed you. He remembered that you had been standing by the stone
column one minute; the next you were gone, absolutely vanished, just as
if the earth had opened up and swallowed you.”

“Which in fact it had,” I said, grimly. “But wasn’t the top open?”

“Open!” shouted Anderson. “I should say not. Hardy and I hammered that
pile of stone and we couldn’t make a dent in it. We never thought of
trying the top. Finally Hardy slipped a little dynamite under the column
and we followed you down the stairway.”

By degrees I got my strength back.

“Ready for some big news?” Anderson said, presently.

I nodded.

“All right, then. Hang on now. We came to South America to get scientific
data, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, that’s all gone by the board now,” went on the young man. “We’re
going to explore the Caverns of the Ataruipe.”

The “Caverns of the Ataruipe” meant precisely nothing to me.

“Listen to me,” he explained. “The Ataruipe are a lost race of people.
Hardy picked up the dope during the time he hung around Rio; he says the
archives of the Brazilian government are full of old maps purporting
to give the location of treasure; some of these maps were made in the
fifteenth century and actually purport to show where the ElDorado may be
found.

“It is said that in earlier days expedition after expedition was fitted
out and despatched to find the ‘Gilded King,’ a chap whose people had
such quantities of gold that they built their houses of the solid metal.
But the best story of all is that of the Caverns of the Ataruipe, a race
that lived more than a thousand years ago, and came from Asia; they were
wonderful goldsmiths, possessing untold quantities of gems and all the
precious metals. The legend is that the Ataruipe used to come in large
numbers down the rivers to the coast to trade, scattering among the
natives quantities of gold pieces of exquisite design such as had never
before been seen; but that after a certain date no one ever saw them
again; nor has anyone ever been able to locate the particular part of the
country where they resided.”

As the young man ran on a light began to dawn in my mind.

“And _de_ Silva?” I interjected.

“Sure! You’ve struck it!” was Anderson’s swift response. “Hardy says
the officials long have felt that the Ataruipe came from hereabouts,
and Hardy claims the Spaniard, representing some of them, suspects our
expedition of searching for the treasure.”

“Were the cuneiform inscriptions on the stone column examined?”

“Certainly,” said Anderson. “Hardy got all that. I never saw him so
interested before. He swears we have struck it rich.”

Suddenly I realized that my throat was burning with thirst.

“How about some water?” I asked.

In a moment a brimming cup of the precious fluid was at my lips. I drank
greedily and, I fear, with little thought as to the source of supply.

While we were yet discussing the altered aspect of our situation a voice
hailed us, and we turned to discover Hardy just emerging from the hole
that gaped where the triangular stone column had stood. Following him
came Van Dusee and the rest of the party.

When all were safely out Hardy touched a match to the long fuse he had
laid from a mine placed under the obstruction in the tunnel, which had
prevented further progress. There came a dull _boom_, a whirl of air, and
then all was still.

“Now, sir,” announced Hardy. “In the morning we shall see what we shall
see.”

There was little sleep for any of us that night, and before dawn we were
ready for the descent. My crippled arm made the way arduous for me, but
it would have been doubly hard had not young Anderson lavished on me so
splendidly his surplus strength. Eagerly our party trailed along that
tunnel, led by Hardy and Van Dusee.

The dynamite had done its work well, as the passageway, which ever
continued to descend, was entirely cleared. After journeying, as near as
we could judge, about three-quarters of a mile, we came to a turn which
appeared to be carrying us slowly upward and almost back in the direction
from which we came.

I noted that our candles were burning brightly and that the air
remained surprisingly fresh. There was little conversation. Once Hardy
spoke abruptly to the halfbreed Gomez, who pressed forward a trifle
precipitately.

The way grew suddenly light and I had about decided that the other end of
the mysterious tunnel would terminate at the surface, when there came a
cry from ahead.

“At last!” shouted Van Dusee.

We hurried forward, breathless with interest, and found ourselves
confronted by a high but very narrow stile, consisting of six steps of
some twenty-four inches each, and glaring down, with jaws wide-open
and huge paws outstretched immediately over the apex, was a towering
sculptured monster with brilliant green eyes.

The sight of that crouching beast, obviously placed there as a guard,
was one to appall the stoutest heart. In turn, we passed under the
stupendous overhanging paws, all save Gomez, making way with a display of
confidence that we were far from feeling.

In a moment our blinking eyes beheld that for which we came: a gigantic
cavern, nearly light as day. I think the wonder of that moment, as I
became accustomed to the peculiar radiance of the light and my eyes took
in the many evidences of an extinct, yet highly cultivated, life, will
never leave me.

Row on row of seats in the form of a huge amphitheater lay in cathedral
silence before our fascinated gaze. At the sides there extended
beautifully-cut galleries, hewn out of the solid crystal rock and giving
mute testimony of a civilization at least as ancient as that of the
Greeks. Here and there the fresco-work was interrupted to give place to
heroic-sized figures in pure white marble as marvelously sculptured as
anything that ever left the mallet of Praxiteles. There were scores of
them!

High above, I was interested to note that the ceiling was of the same
rock-formation that had crystal clearness, which accounted for the
plentitude of light, as I was certain we were not more than a hundred
feet below the surface.

Slowly we began a circuit of that wonder-home of a lost people. To the
right lay a vaulted passage, and we came presently to that. It was darker
here, and young Anderson and I, detaching ourselves from the rest of the
party, made our way along it. We came soon to a circular series of highly
ornamented chambers. Anderson was slightly in advance of me, and as he
peered into the central and larger one of these I heard him draw in his
breath sharply.

“Look at that!” he exclaimed, awe-struck.

My eyes followed his into the beautifully tapestried room, and there,
seated in a high-backed, canopied, thronelike chair, extravagantly
adorned with glistening jewels, was the figure of a man!

He was apparently in the full vigor of existence. The cast of his face
was Mongolian. _And he was smiling!_

It was too lifelike! We drew back.

Then the certainty that he could not be living forced itself home; and
we entered that sacrosanct interior. Scores of highly-colored tapestries
were suspended from the walls, the exposed portions of which showed mural
decorations finer than any I had ever seen before and which, in tint and
conception, were essentially Oriental.

Closer view of the man who smiled at us showed a skin texture which even
the most wonderful embalming could not conceal as that of death.

Our sense of having profaned the regal place presently wore off, and
Anderson, as much, I fancied, from a nervous reaction as anything, moved
nearer to the figure and lightly tapped it with the bamboo stick he
carried.

“How are you, old top?” he asked.

An instant later the man, chair and canopy absolutely dissolved before
our eyes and lay on the raised dais in a small pile of dust through which
the numerous diamonds and opals gleamed at us like evil spirits.

“Let’s get out of here,” I muttered.


_III._

The extent of the underground system seemed endless, as long, high-arched
corridors opened up in vistas before our astonished gaze.

From another point I could hear the excitable Van Dusee, enraptured over
some new-found curio or work of art. Making careful note of our course,
Anderson and I pressed on, coming shortly to a rough, unfinished cavern
that glowed with sunlight as if exposed to the open sky. There came a
shout in my ear. It was from Anderson.

“See!” he exclaimed.

And well might he cry out, for in the center of the chamber lay piles
of delicately contrived golden goblets, mixed with hideous-jawed
dragons, flying-birds, pedestals of intricate pattern—all in gold! But
most astounding of all were the replicas of human figures in gleaming
yellow metal, some of them quite of life-size, others in miniature, that
tilted here and there among the shining mass—all of the most exquisite
workmanship, though many pieces were dented and broken; apparently the
mass had been allowed to accumulate by the addition, from time to time,
of defective pieces.

However, one piece, the reproduction of a slender female figure just
budding into womanhood, about eighteen inches in height, lay quite near
us, as if unwittingly it had been dropped. Young Anderson picked it
up. The figure was heavy but quite perfect. In silent amaze we studied
that exhibit of a handicraft that surely would have brought a shout of
appreciation from Benvenuto Cellini, the great Italian goldsmith.

I was about to stroll over to the pile of gold, when I heard the sound
of someone running. Then a man burst into the chamber. His entrance was
unseemly, and I turned to chide him.

With difficulty I recognized the half-breed Gomez. His eyes were
dilated, his features transformed, as, mouthing unintelligible noises,
he ran toward that heap of yellow gold.

If his appearance was terrifying, the shriek that now left his lips came
as a thing yet more awful. For before our gaze, while he was still a good
thirty feet from the gold, there was a spurt of smoke from the running
man, and he stumbled, curled up in a blaze of fire, and actually _burned
to death_!

In my weakened condition my senses reeled at the sight and I caught at
Anderson for support. Hardy and Van Dusee were soon with us, and again
our worthy leader demonstrated his quick perception and resourcefulness.

“Don’t move!” he commanded. “The place is full of death points!”

A glimmering of his reasoning came to me, and I raised my eyes to what
constituted the ceiling of that extraordinary cavern. The answer flashed
to me that the artificers of the Ataruipe must have fashioned portions of
that wondrously clear crystal formation overhead into gigantic burning
glasses which, in that land of eternal sunshine, daily projected down
into the cavern focal points of condensed sun’s rays that were terrific
in their heat units.

But Hardy was demonstrating, and we watched him. With a long bamboo the
ingenious chap _felt_ out the deadly heat points, each of which in turn
discovered itself by sending a spurt of flame from the end of the pole.

Altogether, there were nearly fifteen of the deadly contrivances in that
cavern, none of which, with the exception of the most powerful one that
had killed Gomez, _being visible to the human eye_!

The reason for this was that the focal point invariably centered about
five feet ten inches from the basaltic floor—the precise point where the
head of the ordinary man would be while walking.

But if the discoveries made by Anderson and me were remarkable, those
of the rest of the party were equally so. Zangaree had stumbled into
a chamber evidently reserved for the woman of that lost people. Here,
mounted gems of unrivaled quality and size abounded, most of them proving
that the Ataruipe as jewelers were equally at home in precious stones and
gold.

The apparel of the men in our party was filled to overflowing with the
scintillant fragments; Zangaree, in pure Afric joy, tossed a handful
into the air and in the unusual light of the cavern they sparkled like
fireworks as they fell. From the walls, lustrous opals flashed at us
their iridescent rays; there were gems underfoot, cleverly laid in
fantastic mosaics such as the mind of modern man never had conceived.

It was all too overwhelming, and we were a sobered party indeed when
again we assembled for the very necessary purpose of outlining our future
plans. Of course, each one of us was rich, rich beyond the dreams of
avarice, and it seemed the end, or beginning of everything.

I think that for the time being there was not a single one of us,
lounging there in the pit of that ghostly amphitheater, who gave a
thought to the long hard way we had come, or to the thousands of miles of
jungle and river that lay between us and the consummation of our desires.

Night came on apace, and soon we found ourselves enveloped in a darkness
that was only saved from completeness by the trifling fire Hardy had
built. Van Dusee presently sprawled down at my side, and pulled at his
pipe, talked calmly, as I had never heard him talk before. For once the
entomologist was gone. The thing, our experience, had swept him off his
feet; his pet subject was forgotten; he had gained new orientation.

“Such artists!” he breathed prayerfully. “Those sculptured women! That
exquisite miniature of Bobby’s! And all for what? To what end? Of what
avail? Ah! The futility of it!”

And again he murmured, half to himself:

“To think that a thousand, yea, two thousand years ago, these wonderful
people lived, breathed and had their being in this very place! What were
their thoughts, their pleasures—and what, in Heaven’s name, became of the
last of them?”

I told him of our experience with the figure which at Anderson’s touch
had disintegrated so swiftly that the incident seemed like black magic.
And for the first time it occurred to me that, aside from the man I had
just described, none of us had seen a single skeleton or other evidence
of the human occupants.

Van Dusee laughed shortly when I put my query.

“We found their burying place, all right,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Thousands of them,” his voice went on, and in the darkness it seemed
that I _must_ be dreaming; “rows on rows of them up in those interminable
galleries, each body—or what was left of it—in a handsomely woven basket,
with gold trimming. Hardy and I passed along touching an occasional one
for the striking effect of seeing it crumble into nothingness—as your
king did. Ah, the pity of it that poor Ericson did not live to see this!”

Van Dusee’s voice droned on, and I fell asleep. I suppose I must have
lain there for several hours, getting only such rest as is granted to a
man with a recently-broken arm, when I awoke with a start. It was just
dawn.

Hardy was on his knees, his rifle poised, and his keen eyes fixed on the
spot where the massive green-eyed dragon kept guard over the stile. He
signed to me not to disturb the others who still slept.

In a moment I detected some moving object as it came down our side of
that guardian monster. It was a man! I glanced swiftly at those of our
group. They were all accounted for. This meant either that our trail had
been discovered from above, or that there were surviving Ataruipe—which
last was incredible.

Even as my mind grappled with the problem, another figure followed
stealthily. Then Hardy’s gun spoke. The noise of the explosion seemed out
of all proportion. The first man ran a little, then suddenly bent over as
if hurt in the side. He was sliding to the ground when his follower ran
to his assistance.

Hardy and I by this time were nearing the two strangers. The second man
was struggling furiously to get his companion up the steep stairway
beneath the dragon. Just as we came up, he succeeded with a final heave
in landing the wounded man on the top step of the stile. Hardy raised his
gun. I shouted:

“Don’t shoot!”

Then a dreadful thing happened. The apex-stone of the stair seemed
suddenly to sink beneath the combined weight of the two men. An instant
later, with the swiftness of thought, the gigantic paws of that stone
monster descended. They struck and crushed to death the two puny men who
lay beneath; one of the bodies disappeared over the other side.

And as Hardy and I stared at this additional example of diabolical
ingenuity, the apex-stone reappeared and the paws, as if alive, slowly
began to elevate themselves to their original position, by some odd quirk
of fate, surely not contemplated by the builder, carrying with them the
body of the slain man that had remained.


_IV._

No more was necessary to advise us that _de_ Silva had stumbled onto our
blundering trail.

The dead man, caught in that ghastly embrace, was a white whom Hardy
readily recognized as an associate of the evil Spaniard in Rio de
Janiero.

Though we had been but twenty-four hours in the caverns of the Ataruipe,
we had observed no other sign of egress than the one that led to the
water hole. Nor, in fact, was there any reason to assume that the
original occupants found it necessary to go abroad very frequently. And
while it was likely there were other exits, yet in the vast system of
that underground world, with but a limited supply of food, it would be
folly for us to attempt to locate them.

So it was that all of us felt we should at once attempt to make our
escape the way we had entered, even allowing for the probable attack
planned by _de_ Silva.

First, therefore, we gave attention to that not unimportant matter as to
how much treasure we should take with us. It went without saying that
we planned a return with better transportation facilities, but that was
in the future and much beclouded by the uncertain course of the divers
persons in our band, once we were separated. Curious, indeed, was the
effect on the individual members of our party of this struggle between
cupidity and the instinct to survive the long journey home.

Like drunken men, the half breed Castro and the Indians wandered around,
hopelessly mulling over the golden treasure there in such quantities for
them to take, and which, oddly enough, seemed to attract the Indians so
much more than the gems.

Anderson and I stowed our pockets with diamonds and rubies and opals,
but the youth also clung to the miniature he had acquired on the first
day. The artist in Van Dusee, so long latent in this man of science, now
blazed forth with the fierce light of a falling star. Above all else,
he yearned for the party to carry to New York one of the surpassingly
beautiful heroic-sized female figures. For an hour he seriously
expostulated with Hardy, but received, I fear, slight sympathy from any
of us, as one of the statues alone must have weighed many hundreds of
pounds.

Our lack of interest in his project left Van Dusee in a pet, and he vowed
finally that he would not remove a single article from the caverns.
Hardy, always in character, asserted that he intended to have both eyes
of the dragon guarding the apex of the stile, and in fact, actually did
ascend to the top step from which, by a daring feat of climbing, he swung
himself to the lower jaw and coolly proceeded to chisel the magnificent
emerald-eyes from their ancient sockets. All this within five feet of the
ghastly trophy as yet in the paws of the stone animal!

About four o’clock in the afternoon we met for the last time in front of
the gigantic stone brute, his empty eye-sockets seeming to give him an
expression of increased ferocity as they bore down on us.

Van Dusee, in a condition bordering on nervous breakdown, was begging
for just a little more time that he might get with his camera some final
views of the godlike stone images. So far as I know, the entomologist
actually had made good his word, for when we left the caverns of the
Ataruipe he did not have with him a single gem or bit of precious metal;
merely the camera with its recorded impressions.

Presently Hardy took the lead over the fearsome stile. It had been
discovered that there was no danger from the massive paws so long as the
top stone did not receive more than what was equal to the weight of a
normal man. This Hardy had tested. Surely that contrivance was an example
of remarkable hydraulics!

With Zangaree, he cautiously moved along the five-foot golden statue that
it had been decided to take to the surface; and, by dint of much easing
and shifting of the heavy object, the two men succeeded in getting it
safely past the trap-stone.

As sick man of the expedition—and what expeditions do not have their sick
man?—I brought up the rear with Anderson. Busied with my own thoughts, I
failed to note that one of the Indians had dropped out.

Keeping my eyes on Anderson’s back, just a step below me, I slid my scant
hundred and fifty-odd pounds (and thanked God for my light weight!) on to
the apex-stone, which was about four feet square and too broad to avoid
entirely. As I worked my way along, for I was sitting, I was horrified to
note a sinking sensation—the block of stone was descending!

Then the air was filled with two shrieks: mine, as I flung myself from
that place of death, and the cry of a man _behind_ me.

The terrific paws, cutting the air like rapiers, literally beheaded the
Indian, who had stolen back in his greed for more gold, and then, in
following me too closely, had entrusted his weight to the trap with mine.

The gruesome tragedy depressed all of us, and I am certain we were
relieved when the immediate turn in the tunnel shut off from our view
the stone monster, then in the very act of elevating his two dreadful
paws and leering at us, I could swear, with living malignancy for the
desecration of his features.

We had not proceeded far along the passageway when it became evident that
our enemies were waiting for us.

The first indication was the different character of the air. It seemed
closer, and not to have any movement. The thought at once leapt into our
minds that very likely the entrance by the water-hole had been blocked.

As time passed and we worked our way up the rather steep incline, there
could be no doubt about the situation. The thought was a terrifying one,
and we pressed on, eager to know the worst.

When finally we stood at the end of the tunnel there was not a ray
of light from above. Wedged midway of the stair, reposed two of the
cuneiform stones that had first attracted my attention. Apparently
quantities of sand had been shoveled into the hole, for much of the fine
stuff had trickled on down the steps almost to our feet.

Use of dynamite in that narrow way was, of course, out of the question;
imprisoned in the tunnel, we could not possibly live through the blast.
Hardy, therefore, set to work promptly to dislodge the stone. This was
dangerous for the reason that it was literally suspended over him as he
labored and if suddenly released it meant an avalanche that would be
certain to destroy him who stood beneath.

The problem was cleverly solved by Hardy, who ascertained the location
of the “key” strain. He proceeded by inserting immediately above this
spot one foot of the golden statue we had lugged with us. Surely it was
sacrilege to use that triumph of the goldsmith’s art as a crowbar!

But the statue nevertheless was effective as an instrument, as Hardy
attached a rope around the bust which projected to within ten feet of the
tunnel; and from this point of comparative safety the men put their full
weight on the rope. There followed a moment of intense strain, the golden
figure, of none too stiff an alloy, appeared to bend—and then it came, a
perfect welter of flying sand and debris that left us gasping.

In a few minutes this cleared, and we could see Hardy grinning at us
through the blessed daylight that poured down that stairway once more.

“Who’ll be the first to greet _de_ Silva?” he demanded.

I recall heretofore setting forth a number of reasons why we decided to
attempt our escape via the water hole tunnel. It is my belief, on more
mature reflection, that with all my care I have failed to state the most
important one: that of the sheer desire of the majority of our party—a
desire that had been fed by the continued hounding _de_ Silva had given
us—to meet him and fight it out.

At any rate, the manner in which Hardy answered his own question by
leaping up the stairway, afforded every evidence of how _he_ felt about
it.

We followed closely. But nothing in the line ahead of me seemed to occur,
and to our astonishment, on gaining the surface, there was no one to meet
us. Soon we found the explanation, for not far distant lay the bodies of
a white man and an Indian. They were locked together in death, while a
rod farther on was the body of another Indian. He had been shot in the
back. Scattered about in the sand, evidently where the running man had
dropped them when hit, were numbers of brilliant gems. _They were gems of
the Ataruipe!_

In frank wonder, we gazed upon that indisputable proof that at least some
of the members of the _de_ Silva party, unbeknown to us, had got past the
fatal stile and explored a portion of the caverns. But where was _de_
Silva? And what had become of the rest of his crowd?

Our interest in this matter soon gave way to that far more important
problem as to the direction in which we were to move. In the apparel of
the dead Spaniard Zangaree discovered a compass, and while this seemed
almost heaven-sent, yet it did not tell us the way we had come.

A final effort was made to dislodge from the debris the beautiful statue
which we had used as a lever, but it was solidly buried and we soon gave
over the attempt. Then, with little further discussion, we shoved off,
following the trail of the many feet that led to the east from where we
had found the gems in the sand.

We had not gone far when it became evident that those ahead of us were
struggling with the transportation of heavy objects, which it was thought
might prove to be golden statues. The correctness of this surmise was
later borne out in a dreadful manner, for about four o’clock in the
afternoon we came upon one of the beautiful objects. It lay in the sand
and only a few yards away were three more dead men. Again two of them
were Indians and the third a white, the features of all three being
horribly slashed with the knives that had been used in the fighting.

Night overtook us still on the trail of the _de_ Silva party, which now,
judging from the foot-marks, consisted of about six men. We slept well,
and at dawn pressed on.

The unexpected happened—and it came as a glorious surprise—for by ten
in the morning we sighted signs of vegetation, and an hour later were
nearing the exact point of our departure into the desert the week before.

This quick return drove home forcibly that near-tragedy of our four days’
wandering in a desert which, after all, was comparatively small in extent.

Once enabled to shield ourselves beneath the trees from the sun’s
powerful rays, Hardy appeared willing to permit us to loaf a bit, and
so it was that we whites had an opportunity to take stock of ourselves.
Poor Van Dusee was thin to the point of emaciation, and I verily believe
the man was wasting away as much from disappointment as from hardship.
Anderson, brilliant-eyed and lean, was the same enthusiast, while the
imperturbable Hardy seemed not to have altered a whit: he was the
identical, brick-red, level-eyed, well-fleshed individual that we had
first encountered in a cafe in Rio de Janiero in January. As for myself,
I must have looked bad, as my arm had given me constant pain.

By this time we felt that _de_ Silva deemed our party to have been buried
alive in the Caverns of the Ataruipe, for he had not taken the slightest
pains to conceal his trail. Thus it was that the tables, in fact, had
turned. _We were now pursuing de Silva!_

No one of us voiced that thought, but that it was in the minds of each
there could be no doubt. Personally, I know that I did not care to
analyse my own attitude toward the cowardly Spaniard. I did not dare to!
But what remained unnecessary to phrase in words was that if _de_ Silva
did escape with his booty to Rio de Janiero, no one of our party would
have any opportunity to visit again the wonderland of the Ataruipe. And
this, especially to Hardy (for entirely mundane reasons) and to Van Dusee
(for the purely esthetic) was unthinkable.

We pushed on, encountering fresh signs of the expedition ahead of us
which evidently, owing to the heavy treasure its members carried, was
making slower progress than we were. Very shortly we came through our
hard-won channel in the bamboos, and from then on we kept sharp lookout
for _de_ Silva.

On our third morning in that interminable brushwood tract, while Anderson
was building a breakfast fire for which Zangaree and the Indians were
collecting dry wood, Van Dusee, who had strolled on a bit, called back to
us quietly:

“In that bush over there to the right,” he said, “is a white man. He is
spying on us.”

It was only a moment before Anderson and Hardy, guns in hand, were on
their way. I shouted a warning and followed more slowly. Suddenly Hardy
lowered his rifle, and when I came up both he and young Anderson were
silently regarding a bit of thick brushwood.

And well might they stare, for there, leering out at us, through the
foliage, was the face of _de_ Silva. It was livid and ghastly, and a
number of vicious-looking red ants were moving jerkily around the face.

Closer inspection was not needed to verify _de_ Silva’s decease; but as
the manner of it also concerned us we did.

Immediately back of the brush in which had been thrust this shocking
exhibit there was evidence of a furious struggle. The Spaniard’s body
also had been knifed, as were the others, and this within comparatively
recent hours, as the fresh appearance of the wounds testified.

There was no sign of his companions, and somehow the conviction took
form in our minds that _de_ Silva—a man who at one time, we learned
afterwards, had been a professor of mathematics—very likely the last
surviving white man in his party, had been set upon by the others and
murdered.

But we had little time or spirit to expend in comparison for this
villain, who, after all, had received his just deserts, and soon we were
again on our way. The Indians ahead of us may or may not have suspected
our presence; at any rate, they were now making as good speed as we were,
in spite of the fact that they still clung to the heavy golden statue.

We reached the vast primeval wood, without apparently gaining on them.
Our burning desire was to get to the river at least as soon as the
Indians so that that little matter of the possession of our canoes might
be definitely settled, for without the assistance of our light craft we
were, in the face of the rapidly approaching rainy season, doomed to
certain death amid the maze of that alluring yet deadly tropical fairy
land.

We had spent one day in pushing on through the big woods, when a most
untoward event overtook us. That was the sudden and complete breakdown
of poor Van Dusee. Day by day, I had observed his failing strength and
I knew that it was on his nerve alone he had kept up with the rest of
us. Poor chap! He lay now at full length amid the vaulted silences of
those stupendous trees, babbling first of his beloved _hemiptera_ and
again of the profound art in the sculpturing of the Ataruipe. It was not
permissible to carry him, for the man was actually dying before our eyes.

The pitiful sight was too much even for the hardened Hardy, whose eyes
once actually filled with tears as he regarded the form of the plucky,
devoted, defeated, over-idealistic man of science. At noon that day Van
Dusee closed his eyes for the last time, and we buried him as reverently,
but as quickly, as possible. No time was there now for sentiment. The
delay of six hours might ultimately prove to be our death warrant.

All that unending night we drove on until at times it seemed that I
myself must follow Van Dusee. However, dawn came at last, and with it
the definite knowledge that Hardy had led us correctly, for there in the
distance lay the fringe of verdure defining the course of the river that
meant for us home and safety.

In that moment we needed no spur, and very soon we came abreast of the
hiding place of our canoes. Zangaree, bounding ahead, disappeared into
the thicket. His black face reappeared almost immediately.

No necessity for him to speak. His expression told.

_Both canoes were gone!_


_V._

In my hypersensitive condition a pall of black despair settled over me.
Here we were, rich beyond belief in precious gems and holding the key
of knowledge of fabulous, undreamed-of wealth—and yet about to die like
defenseless stricken animals! The irony of it!

But it was not so with Hardy and Anderson. With great energy, they
searched the locality for traces of the miscreants (whom it had been
hoped we had passed in the night), and, finding traces of them still
fresh, set off in the manner of hounds in chase.

The two men had not far to go, for in less than an hour they reported
back to us, procured more ammunition and led the way. So it came about
that, nearing them silently, we had our first view of the men who had
killed _de_ Silva. There were four of them, all Indians, hunched together
in a circle on the bank of the river. One of them was talking. To one
side, tilting rakishly against a tree, stood a three-quarter size statue
of exquisite proportions done in solid gold.

There it was, prime art of the Ataruipe, pulled, hauled, carried and
dragged thither by an infinity of patience and endurance on the part
of those aborigines, who now gave no heed to the play of the sunlight
on that marvelous work of the goldsmiths; instead they were entirely
engrossed in their own affairs. Our canoes were not visible, but we
believed they were launched in the water, which at this point was placid
and deep.

Hardy had just left us to get close to the river, when something, or
someone of us, moved with too little caution, for the next instant the
Indians were up, and, catching their treasure, ran down the bank of the
stream. In full cry, we followed.

It has been said that the pen is mightier than the sword, and the
sentiment is as pretty as it is ancient; but of one thing I am certain
and that is, even in this enlightened age, the sword, allegorical and
actual, is a much swifter instrument than the pen.

Much happened in the next thirty seconds. Our two canoes rode the water
near at hand. Into one of them two of the Indians, with the help of
a third, cast the gold statue, the first two following it with their
bodies. In a moment they reached midstream. But the canoe began to sink.

Several shots split the air. I saw the two remaining Indians, now seated
in our other canoe, were shooting at Hardy and young Anderson. Their fire
was promptly returned. It proved deadly. Both Indians were hit, and the
canoe began to drift.

Meanwhile, the Indians in the sinking canoe were fighting to shift the
heavy weight of the statue, which must have punctured the bottom. They
up-ended the figure precariously near the bow. The canoe listed suddenly,
going nearly under water, and in that same instant there was a flash and
into the murky stream shot the figure of gold. But none of us had eyes
for that, because our ears were being filled with a succession of horrid
cries.

They came from the swimming Indians, who perished miserably. The river
was alive with crocodiles.

Hardy always has maintained that even had we not recovered our own canoes
as we finally did that day, in time we could have located those of
_de_ Silva’s. But I have questioned it. That the Spaniard secreted his
canoes, without permitting the Indians to know their whereabouts, I was
satisfied; and this, it seemed to me, was confirmed by the fact that the
Indians had made so surely for our canoes, the location of which they
must have found when de Silva retraced his course to the point where
Ericson had been killed. All of which meant to me that the other canoes
were well-hidden, indeed.

Of the long journey back to Itacoatiara, where we were to catch the
steamer, there is little to tell. Hardy attempted a rough valuation of
the gems and odd bits of gold that our expedition carried. On the most
conservative basis, it ran into the hundreds of thousands of dollars, and
there was really no telling what the wealthy collectors of unique stones
would be willing to pay for some of our gems, which were of a size and
clarity beyond description.

Plans were discussed for a return to the Caverns of the Ataruipe next
year, and at Itacoatiara our two loyal Indians left us after having been
bound to secrecy by oaths as formidable and impressive as the ingenuity
of Hardy could make them.

That the doughty Hardy himself considered this method of questionable
efficacy was evidenced by the droll expression of his eyes during the
mummery. He, in fact, was placing entire reliance on the inability of
the dull-minded fellows to find their way back even if they tried,
coupled with the knowledge that the faithful Zangaree, who was to leave
us but a short distance farther along, would be able to account for the
Indians until our plans for return were perfected. Castro, the remaining
half-breed, took the steamer with us for the long ride down the Amazon
River to Rio de Janiero, and presented a much more difficult problem.
There had never been a time when Hardy completely trusted the half-breed,
though it was true he had not once during the entire experience by word
or deed shown any sign of treachery.

At the Brazilian capital Anderson and I went to a hotel, leaving our
companion to look after the half-breed. Hardy’s plan was frankly to go to
the officials and attempt an arrangement whereby the three of us, under
proper guaranties, might be authorized to lead an expedition in behalf of
“The United States of Brazil” to the Caverns of the Ataruipe.

On the second day, and while no word yet had come from Hardy, our rooms
in the hotel were rifled in our absence and almost one-third of the gems
stolen. Anderson had deposited with the hotel proprietor for safe-keeping
his golden replica and a goodly share of our gems; the rest we had
secreted about our rooms or carried on our persons.

We were totally unable to decide whether or not the thief had been
inspired by a knowledge of our treasures. It was true we had been
regarded curiously by many of the loungers about the hotel lobby and in
the streets, but no mention had been made of our experience.

We were debating the advisability of reporting to the police, but were
rather hoping Hardy would come to us before we took this step. The
following day, a Tuesday, we were surprised to receive a visit from a
pompous-looking official. In hitchy English he informed us that as a
special favor he had come to advise _los Americanos_ that they were about
to be charged with the murder of one _de_ Silva, and that officers with
warrants were soon to be on hand.

Then the gentleman grinned with surprising amiability, and added:

“Ze next steamair for New York, she leave in three hour.”

He still stood, hat in hand, saying nothing further.

Suddenly it came over me what he wanted. _He was out for himself!_

Frequently since that incident, I have laughed at the quickness with
which Anderson and I leapt at his fat, smug person. In less time than it
takes to tell it, we had booted, hauled and dragged that chap out into
the hall, where Anderson finished him off with a neat black eye for good
measure. The flurry attracted attention, even on that tenth floor, and,
darting back into our rooms, young Anderson and I decided that it was
time for us to get out.

We packed our stuff, and a few minutes later called at the hotel
office for our valuables. These were handed over to us with gratifying
promptness. Then we hailed a taxi and sped for the address Hardy had left
with us.

Though we could not see that anyone was following us, still there was
much traffic in the streets, and we felt sure we were under constant
observation. At Hardy’s address we found a highly nervous old lady, who
was very deaf. With much difficulty, and repeated shouting of the name “H
A R D Y” we finally made her understand.

She led us to his rooms up the stairs. Hardy was not there, nor was there
much of his belongings in evidence. The old lady left us and returned
after a bit with a book. This she handed to me, making signs that it was
from Hardy.

Thumbing it quickly through, I found what we were looking for. The
message, folded and inserted between the pages of the book, was dated two
days previously. It ran as follows:

    “_My Dear Comrades: Castro, the half-breed, double-crossed us.
    His cut-throat crowd, I have just learned, are now waiting
    for me outside, and I am writing this note in the hope that
    you will follow me up and find it. You must at once leave
    Brazil. Castro has informed certain political hangers-on of
    the treasure. These fellows have trumped up a charge against
    the three of us of having murdered de Silva. In five minutes I
    shall leave this room by the window in an attempt to escape. I
    have never yet waited for a Spaniard to come and get me. I like
    to go to him first._

    “_If you don’t hear from me before Tuesday you may reasonably
    assume that I have been done in. The game is big and they’ll
    go the limit. DO NOT TRUST ANYBODY, not even the local
    American consul. He probably is all right, but in this land of
    ‘honest graft’ the trail leads to high places, believe me. Get
    that boat for New York that leaves Wednesday at four in the
    afternoon. Good-bye and good luck!_

                                                          “_HARDY._”

I heard a sob from Anderson as we finished reading the missive. That the
indomitable Hardy had come to his end seemed incredible, and yet not only
had Tuesday gone by with no word, but this was Wednesday, and less than
three hours remained before the boat sailed, with our passage and berth
arrangements still to be made.

Outside, our taxi, with its motor still running, waited for us, and if
ever mortal men were in a dilemma Anderson and I were those individuals.
Finally Anderson strode over to me, and, with a look in his eyes such as
I had never before seen, he said:

“I can’t go and leave Hardy without making some effort to help him.”

I gripped his hand. What a relief! It seemed almost as if already we had
rescued him—and yet there we were, two utter strangers in that great
South American city, with a band of conscienceless rascals after us,
backed by the power of the law!

We started down the stairs where we observed the old house-wife. She was
reading a newspaper, which she now hurried to show us. And there, in a
comparatively prominent place, was the news that Hardy had been killed
in what was designated as a street brawl. Even our slight knowledge of
Spanish made that short paragraph all too intelligible.

Into the taxi we hurried, with Anderson pinching my arm.

I regarded him in surprise.

“Different driver,” he said, nodding to the man on the front seat.

I glanced sharply at the fellow, but could not say.

“Let’s go on,” I murmured, “and trust to luck.”

“You bet you!” returned the young man. “But there won’t be any luck about
it. We’ll try this.”

When the chauffeur turned around for instructions he got them in forcible
and understandable proportions. Anderson’s revolver was within six inches
of his back. The man went white.

“_A vapor!_ The boat!” ordered Anderson.

The vigor of that driver’s assent was comical. His head rocked and bobbed
with eagerness.

“_Si! Si! Madre de Dios!_” he exclaimed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Several years have passed since the occurrence of the foregoing events,
and young Anderson since has married. In his nest of a home, to which I
am a frequent bachelor visitor in good standing, there is prominently
located a certain replica of a beautiful young female just budding
into womanhood. It represents the best in the art of the Ataruipe and
is regarded by the lady-of-the-house as perhaps just the least bit too
naturalistic.

Among artists and archaeologists, however, it has inspired more
controversy than anything else in the present century. The trend of
opinion is that the figure is an extravagant but exceedingly clever bit
of modern work which is being foisted on a gullible public, ever too
quick to give credence to cock-and-bull stories of lost treasure such as
Anderson and I relate.

They ask for the camera and photographs that Van Dusee had. We say that
we did not miss them until on the boat bound for New York; that they were
probably stolen from our rooms at the hotel in Rio de Janiero.

They ask us for sight of some of the marvelous jewels. We show them some
of the smaller ones, but they tell us these are ordinary and may have
been acquired any place; and at their insistence for a view of the big
gems we are compelled to advise them that the package handed us by the
clever hotel clerk was a duplicate of the one we gave him containing
the select stones brought by us from the Caverns of the Ataruipe; that
we learned that it contained common pebbles some time before the port
officials at Rio de Janiero went through our effects, confiscating
everything they could find and seeming particularly happy at discovering
the package described so minutely in their search-warrant—the one the
scoundrel hotel clerk made up in imitation of Bobby’s wrapping, which we
had been careful to restore to its original appearance after discovering
the cheat.

“Yes, but how did you save this beautiful statue if they got everything
else?” is the final thrust.

And here Anderson lapses into silence, for the matter is a delicate one.
It involved thrusting the small package into the arms of a handsome
young lady who stood in the throng that curiously watched us come
aboard the ship at the last moment under the guardianship of numbers of
Brazilian officials, who hovered over us with the eagerness of flies. As
she caught Anderson’s eye and got the idea that leaped from it, I am sure
she giggled with delight at the ruse, for she was pure American.

Once a year each of us receives a communication from Rio de Janiero that
purports to come from government officials. The letters are entirely
preposterous in their content—they read like the notorious Spanish
legacy letters so long the vogue of confidence men, and speak urgently,
earnestly—yea, almost beseechingly—of untold wealth that awaits us if
we will but come to Rio de Janiero and assist in the quest for the lost
Caverns of the Ataruipe.

But we feel, young Anderson and I, that constant and continuous
governmental search must be going forward for the immense treasure;
and we feel, further, that in all fairness to the world at large that
wonderful collection of art material should be restored to humanity; but
we find it difficult indeed to see just why two Americans—even conceding
that their help might be of value, which is doubtful—should assist a
greedy and unjust officialdom that is absolutely guilty of the death of
the best guide and friend it was ever the good fortune of either of us to
have encountered.

_Another story by JULIAN KILMAN will appear in the next issue of WEIRD
TALES. It is called “The Well,” and it’s a “creepy” yarn, warranted to
give you “goose-flesh” thrills._




Woman Receives Poems from Spirit World


Seated in an Evanston drawing-room with some twenty other guests, Mrs.
John H. Curran of St. Louis wrote quaint poetry by the yard, all of
which, she claims, came from “Patience Worth,” who dwells in the land of
spirits. Mrs. Curran declares that she first made the acquaintance of
“Patience Worth” in July, 1913, while seated with a friend at a ouija
board. Suddenly the ouija wrote:

“Many moons ago I lived. Again I come. Patience Worth is my name.”

Since then, says Mrs. Curran, Patience has dictated to her numerous
poems, dramas and stories. Most of these are in archaic Anglo-Saxon.

“It is as though you spoke through a wall to a person every day,” said
Mrs. Curran in explaining the apparent phenomenon—“a person who would
tell you his habits and customs. After several years of conversation,
you would know as much about that person as if he were in the same room
with you. So I feel about Patience Worth. I have never seen her, nor have
I tried to picture her, but since she often talks in Anglo-Saxon I have
concluded that she must have lived on the Scottish border about the time
of the Stuarts. She has given me stories in the language of the Bible, of
the Elizabethan age, the last century, and this.

“It is not Spiritualism, and I am not a medium. I am perfectly normal
when I receive messages from the personality who calls herself Patience
Worth. In fact, I can converse with others in the room while she dictates
to me.”

Then, to prove her point, Mrs. Curran rapidly recited a poem that she
claimed was sent from the spirit world.




Man Captures Lion, Barehanded


When Stanley Graham of Chicago goes lion hunting he needs no weapons save
his bare fists. Recently attacked by a mountain lion in a Mexican desert,
he jerked off his coat, flung it around the beast’s head and, after a
terrific struggle, choked it into insensibility.




_Here’s a Story So Unusual That You’ll Want to Read It Twice_

Vials of Insects

_By_ Paul Ellsworth Triem


Closeted with the Surveyor of Customs were his chief inspector,
a clean-cut young fellow named Greaves, and a bullet-headed,
thick-shouldered man who went by the name of Burke.

[Illustration]

Burke was speaking:

“There’s just two of ’em in on this job. One is Lee Hin, a Chink that
dresses like a white man and spends money like it was water. The other
is the man I got acquainted with and got the dope out of. His name is
Ward—Jerry Ward. He’s boatman and runner for Lee Hin. I’ve found out
that they’re intending to pull off a job in a day or two. We can make a
cleaning on them—get them with the goods on!”

Chief Jordan, a florid old fellow with iron-gray hair and kindly,
observant gray eyes, regarded Burke with disfavor, as if he were
examining a particularly noxious variety of insect or reptile. He pursed
his lips and looked deprecatingly at his assistant.

“What do you think, Charlie?” he asked.

“We haven’t much to go on,” Greaves replied, his voice also tinged with
dislike. “If Mr. Burke would tell us a little more—”

Burke shook his bulldog head and growled deep down in his throat.

“You gents know as well as me that I’m taking my life in my hands as it
is. This Lee Hin is bad medicine. He’s got the craft of a Chink and the
education of a white man. If you’ll leave it all to me, I’ll frame things
so’s you’ll get your birds. If you don’t—”

Mr. Burke clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth with an air of
finality. His furtive eyes were defiant, as if he perceived the disgust
his presence created. Moreover, there had been a dogged restraint and
circumspection in all that he said—carefully selecting his details,
presenting some which would serve his purpose, suppressing others which
might incriminate him.

“All right.” Jordan whirled his chair toward his flat-topped desk. “You
keep in touch with Mr. Greaves here, and we’ll work with you. Of course
you’re after the reward—”

Again Burke interrupted, doggedly, obstinately:

“Not altogether, Chief. I could have made more by setting in with Lee
Hin. I’m an honest man, and I don’t take to this kind of job. But of
course I’ll accept whatever money there is in it.”

Charlie Greaves escorted Burke to the outer office and, with a feeling of
relief, saw him depart.

“Well, Charlie, this is one end of the business that I call nasty,” Chief
Jordan said, as the inspector re-entered the inner office. “I’d give five
dollars for a chance to kick that scoundrel all the way out of here and
down into the street!”

“I’ll raise you five: I’d give ten!” Greaves replied. “Of course, he’s in
on this thing, but he’ll fix it so that we can’t do a thing to him!”

Jordan nodded.

“Sure! And we’ve got to take up with even a cur like this, when he has
anything definite to offer. All right—you keep tab on him and let me know
if anything develops.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In Lee Hin’s shack two lights were burning. One was in the front room,
furnished with a square pine table (on which stood the first light) and
two steel cots covered with drab army blankets.

The second light was in Lee Hin’s study, at the back of the shack. On
a high stool, before an enameled bench, which ran the entire length of
this second room, sat Lee Hin himself. He was clad in white, from head to
foot, and over his mouth and nose he wore a mask of padded cotton.

The part of his face that was visible outside of this mask was keen
and animated. His dark eyes glowed, and there was a double furrow of
concentration between them. He was stooping over a glass slide, on which
he had just dabbed a drop of a milky culture from a test tube. He worked
fast, adding a minute drop of stain, then dropped a cover glass into
place and slipped the slide upon the revolving stand of his microscope.

This done, Lee Hin looked up at the young man standing at the other side
of the room.

“Better not come too close, Jerry,” the Chinaman warned, with a
singularly tranquil and impersonal voice. “You know—there is death in the
air of this room sometimes. I’m willing to risk my own life, but not the
lives of my friends.”

In spite of the impersonality of his voice, there was a subtle magnetism
about the Oriental: a radiation of power, which marked him as a born
leader of men. His eyes warmed with the mellow light of friendship as he
raised them to Jerry Ward’s face.

Jerry shuffled nearer the door, glancing suspiciously at the rows of
culture tubes stacked in orderly ranks at the back of the enameled bench.

“I never can make out what the devil you want to tinker with them crazy
little bugs for, Hin,” he observed discontentedly. “If I had as much jack
as you got—”

“Money is not all there is in life, Jerry,” Lee Hin interrupted.
“There is friendship—and service! I am doing this for my country. Her
fisheries represent a tremendous source of wealth. The fungology and the
bacteriology of fishes—it is an inexhaustible subject!”

He paused, glanced keenly at his companion, then abruptly changed the
topic:

“I see you have not changed your clothing, my friend. I know only too
well what that means. The _Shanghai_ is due in this evening. Jerry, can’t
you see how this is going to end? Let me tell you something: that false
friend of yours, Burke, is even now scheming to get the best of you. Do
you know what is in his mind?”

Jerry shook his head, defiance and wonder in his eyes.

“I will tell you. He has fallen in love with Irene—with your girl. In his
malignant pig brain, he is thinking how he can get you out of the way. I
can feel it whenever he comes near—he radiates hatred like a pestilence!”

Jerry laughed uneasily.

“You’re buggy, Hin,” he replied. “Burke won’t try to put no Indian sign
on me—he daresn’t. He’d pull himself in, if he shoved me!”

Lee Hin turned to his microscope.

“What is willed to be, will be,” he observed sententiously. “No man can
overcome his destiny.”

Jerry tiptoed out of the room presently, much after the manner of an
embarrassed gentleman with a hiccough trying to get quietly out of
church. He felt ill at ease. There was something about Lee Hin——

He reflected, as he seated himself on the bench outside of the shack
and stared out toward the open sea, that this Chinaman was a novel sort
of employer. During the six months or better that Jerry had worked for
him, pulling the oars in the skiff while Lee Hin fished with variously
baited hooks at the end of his long, sea-green line, the Chinaman had
never given him a curt word or an uncivil order. He had treated Jerry
as an equal, discounting the white man’s early dislike of Orientals and
his later uneasy recognition of Lee Hin’s intellectual superiority. From
that first moment to the present, there had been an impersonal gentleness
about the Chinaman that had reduced Jerry to a position of almost
worshiping obedience.

Only on one matter had there been any disagreement between them: Lee Hin
felt strongly on the subject of opium smuggling. He would not positively
forbid the young fellow to mix in this illegal traffic, but he was
gradually bending him to his way of thinking, as much by his silent will
force as by his occasional incisive criticism.

       *       *       *       *       *

Night had fallen, and with it a fog shifted over the rocky shore and out
upon the broad channel. Yellow lights flashed here and there, and the
mournful voice of the fog signal kept up its doleful iteration.

Jerry shook himself and peered down toward the little cove. His skiff lay
there on its side, well above the reach of the rising tide.

Through the mists there came a low, resonant, deep-throated whistle.
Jerry stood up abruptly and entered the front room of the shack. From
one corner he took a lantern with a strip of red bunting tied over the
chimney. This he lighted and carried down to where the skiff lay. On the
end of a six foot stake, with a forked end, Jerry hung the lantern. Then
he took from his pocket an electric flashlight, snapped it a few times to
be sure bulb and battery were in good condition, and finally returned the
flashlight to his pocket and pulled the skiff down into the water.

Five minutes after he had pulled away from the shore, he would have been
invisible to anyone standing at his point of departure. The skiff was
painted a slate gray; and, save for the whitish blotch of the man’s face
in the darkness, there might have been nothing there but a partially
submerged log floating out to sea.

The whistle came again, much nearer. Between the skiff and the shore
the cough of a motor boat sounded. Jerry let his oars rest, with their
dripping blades an inch above the water. The launch passed on, and he
resumed his rowing.

The fog lifted. He could see it hanging over the distant city, a lurid,
angry glow where the illumination of the streets struck against it.

Now the lights of the steamer showed in the darkness, high above the
water, moving silently and majestically down upon the man floating there
like a chip——

Jerry threw his weight against the oars. The steamer was almost upon
him. He sent the boat back its own length, measured with one keen glance
the distance he had allowed for clearance, and took from his pocket
the flashlight. The _Shanghai_ was opposite the spark of red that
indicated the position of the lantern on the shore when Jerry flashed his
signal—three short flashes and a longer one.

Next moment he had caught up his oars. From a port hole high above
there shot a dark object which swooped down and struck the water with a
smashing impact; two other bundles followed it.

The ship continued on its way, but at three points on the dark water
a tiny glow showed where the cork-buoyed packages of smoking opium
were floating. To each had been attached a small glass tube containing
phosphorus, invisible at any great distance, but easily distinguished by
the man in the boat.

Jerry pushed the skiff forward with sturdy breast strokes. He reached
over the side for the first of the packages and hauled it in. Another
stroke carried him within reach of the second bundle.

He was just about to seize it when a warning sound reached him—the cough
of a gas engine. In a flash he remembered the launch which had passed
seaward close to shore. They had taken advantage of the same darkness
that had protected him.

A light blazed out—the search light of the revenue boat.

In that instant the young man thought of his mother, old, placid,
credulous, to whom he had told fairy stories to account for the money
he gave her so prodigally at times. And he saw the dark eyes and the
oval face of a girl—his girl, Irene—and the face of Lee Hin, serene
and impassive as if carved of ivory. It was Lee Hin who had warned him
this very evening; and warned him of the business itself, and of Burke,
Jerry’s associate in it.

As if it had been a spectre, summoned by this racing thought, a face
stood out of the darkness ahead: the red, threatening face of Burke,
standing at the shoulder of another man in the prow of the launch.

“That’s him!” Burke was saying, in his hoarse, growling voice. “Look out
for the dope—”

Jerry gripped an oar and swung himself to his feet. He cast a burning
look upon the informer.

“You dirty dog—”

The nose of the launch rose on the swell. As it came down it caught the
forward end of the skiff under its sharp keel.

In the same instant there was the _crack_ of a pistol, and Jerry pitched
from his skiff into the water. Burke, the gun still quivering in his
hand, stared over, searching the glistening surface of the tide.

“Take that gun away from him!” a voice from the rear of the launch
commanded. “He had no business to shoot—”

“I did it in self-defense!” Burke growled. “In another moment he would
have got me with that oar! Get a move on, you fellows! Grab that package!
We’ve got to get ashore before Lee Hin makes his getaway!”

But when they came to the shack of Lee Hin, ten minutes later, the lights
were out and the place was deserted.

The Chinaman was gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the money he had saved from his profits in opium running Burke was
able to travel north in first-class style. He sojourned for a time in
Canada, then went east and visited New York.

He told himself he was through with dope. Every man’s hand was against
the drug-runner, while the vender of good moonshine or smuggled liquor
was looked upon as a public benefactor. No more opium for him—he would
become a bootlegger.

He stayed in New York ten days, and discovered that the business he had
contemplated entering was organized like a trust or a shipping pool, and
that to enter it he must have “real money.” His little roll, which he had
looked upon with considerable complacency, was reduced to microscopic
size by comparison with the financial resources of these eastern
operators.

Burke cut his New York visit short. Memories were stirring uneasily
within him—the face of a dark-eyed girl, which flashed upon him sometimes
out of the dusk, and the smell of fog blowing gustily down Market Street.
There was nothing like that in the East. He went to Chicago.

In Chicago he stayed two days. He had purposed to remain at least a week,
but on that second day a feeling, which had come to him before, returned
with increased energy. It was what Burke called a “hunch.”

“That little dame is thinking about me,” he growled down in his burly
throat. “She’s forgetting that scut, and I’m going back! I got a hunch
she’ll treat me right, now that she’s forgotten him!”

Three nights later Burke was standing on the upper deck of the Oakland
ferry, looking with ferocious tenderness at the lights of his native
city. The clock in the tower of the Ferry Building showed that it was
still early; but a powdery fog was blowing down street, making it seem
late.

Burke secured a room at a waterfront hotel. He scrubbed and groomed
himself, anointed his hair with perfume, and presently sallied forth. He
was going to test that hunch of his.

He journeyed to an outlying residential district. Down a side street he
tramped stolidly. He turned a corner—and hesitated.

There, a few doors away, was the apartment house. He slipped along to the
tradesmen’s entrance and stepped into its sheltering gloom. He didn’t
feel exactly comfortable. He had pictured himself going boldly up to the
door and ringing the bell. Now he decided to wait a while—to reconnoiter.

People came and went—elderly people; children; occasionally a girl whose
half perceived figure brought him forward, tense and breathless. Then
as he was starting toward the entrance of the apartment, the girl he
was hoping yet fearing to see came down the street from the opposite
direction, passed within five feet of him, and went into the house. She
had not seen him, but he had seen her.

Burke realized that the impression of that pale, sorrowful face would be
with him till he died.

He left his retreat a few minutes later and walked slowly away. He could
feel the perspiration trickling down his forehead into his eyes. His
heart pounded steadily at his ribs.

Burke decided, without thinking much about the matter, to walk the
two miles back to his hotel. He struck off down a street lit with
old-fashioned gas lamps, whose straw-colored flames gleamed green and
witchlike in the eddying fog. He had steadied down to his habitual pace,
and had no premonition to look behind him. If he had only had one of his
hunches now....

But he didn’t. Perhaps it would have made little difference, in any case;
for the lithe figure, which had detached itself from the shadows of a
vacant lot across from the apartment house as Burke departed, blended
easily with the gloom of the late evening.

He returned to his hotel, somewhat reassured by his walk. His blood
tingled and he felt thoroughly alive. He even grinned to himself as he
took his key from the night clerk and went up to his room on the second
floor. He had had a case of “nerves,” that was all.

“Damned if I don’t think I’ve got kind of out of the habit of breathing
this fishy night air,” he told himself, with heavy jocularity. “Well,
something give me the creeps, for sure!”

He closed his window and latched it securely. He had already locked his
door, and now he braced a chair under the knob. There was no transom—no
other opening through which a breath of night air could come, except a
rather wide crack beneath the door.

He ignored this.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fifteen minutes after Burke had locked himself into his room, the figure
of a young Chinaman might have been seen journeying up Clay Street.

The face of this Chinaman was not an ordinary one. The lips were
thin and passionless. The eyes were inscrutable. There was something
imposing—something of impersonal power—in the serene and almost pitying
expression of that yellow, mask-like face.

The Chinaman wore a loose-fitting silk blouse and silk trousers, and
thick-soled felt slippers and a black silk cap. His arms were crossed
over his chest, and his hands were concealed in the wide sleeves. He
walked with his head bowed, evidently in deep thought.

Instinctively, he followed his rather devious way until it brought him to
a basement door, opening off from an obscure alley. Here he let himself
in with a great brass key.

Once inside the room, he paused to shut and lock and finally to bar the
door before turning on a light. It was a low-ceiled apartment of unusual
extent, so that its farther walls were lost in obscurity. It was warm,
almost steamy; and there was a pungent smell as of seaweed, and the salt
wind from the ocean.

A bench with a white-enameled top was built against one wall. This bench
was covered with racks for test tubes and culture bottles, and with
bell-jars, reagents, stains, a compound microscope with a revolving stand
and other apparatus of various sorts.

The newcomer crossed over to this bench and selected a wide-mouthed vial,
into whose neck he fitted loosely a pledget of absorbent cotton. He
placed the bottle on the bench, convenient to a high stool on which he
evidently intended to seat himself.

Next he selected a surgeon’s forceps with long, thin points, and, with
this in his hand he crossed over to a keg placed on a wooden bench in a
corner of the room. The light, though dim here, sufficed to enable him
to peer down through the netting that covered the keg and to perceive a
myriad of filmy creatures which clung to the under side of the netting.

Deftly he raised the netting at one side, thrust his hand, armed with the
forceps, underneath, and clipped one of the captives by its black-veined
wings. Replacing the netting, he crossed over to the bench and seated
himself on the stool.

With the precision of one accustomed to the handling of minute objects,
he selected from a rack in front of him a tube, plugged with cotton and
partly filled with a milky, clouded fluid. Still holding the little
creature he had taken from the keg by its captured wings, he removed the
cotton stopper from this culture tube, dipped a tiny glass rod into the
turbid fluid within, and applied the rod to the head of the captive. He
then placed the latter in the wide-mouthed vial, replaced the cotton
stopper, and returned to the miniature rain-barrel for a new specimen.

It was slow work, but the man at the bench performed every action with
a machinelike regularity and an unrelaxing attention that showed the
importance he attached to it. At the end of half an hour he had two dozen
prisoners in the vial. He held them up toward the light and crooned
gently to them:

“Little friends—little angels of justice! Justice? But how may I be sure—”

He laid the vial gently down and stood looking at it. His lips moved.
Then his eyes lighted, and hastily he turned and selected another vial,
the exact counterpart of the one he had filled with the “little friends.”

Equipped with this second vial and the forceps, he returned to the keg
and presently he had placed in it a score or so of untreated insects.
He placed the two vials side by side, arranged the cotton which filled
the necks so that it furnished no clew to the identity of the bottle
containing the original captives, and finally he closed his eyes and
shuffled the vials swiftly about.

When he had finished this queer juggling of the bottles, the Chinaman
betook himself to a distant part of the basement, and from behind a
piece of striped ticking, hanging against the wall he took a bundle of
clothing. Quickly divesting himself of the garb he wore, he changed into
this new costume. It was a dilapidated suit, such as might have been
worn by a Chinese laundryman in indigent circumstances.

Next he secured some newspapers, which he folded in such a way as to
approximate the size of laundered shirts. He placed six of these dummy
shirts on a sheet of wrapping paper, folded the latter neatly, and tied
it. Returning with this package to the bench, he wrote the name “Burke”
clumsily on it with a soft leaded pencil, and, after it, some Chinese
characters.

All this time he had resolutely refrained from glancing at the two
vials, but when the package was ready he moved backward along the bench,
fumbling behind him till his slim hand encountered one of the bottles.

Without glancing at it, he placed it carefully in an inner pocket of his
ragged blouse, tucked the bundle under his arm, crossed to the door, and
turned off the light and went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

The night clerk of the Great Eastern Hotel, many of whose patrons were
sea-faring men, was accustomed to seeing Chinese laundrymen delivering
special orders of shirts and underwear at all hours of the day and night.
He therefore glanced negligently over his shoulder when a meek voice
hailed him from the counter:

“I say, Bossy Man—you sabe Captain Buck? Him come all same today?”

“Captain Burke? All right, John—you’ll find him up in two-one-seven,
street side, back of the hall. He’s in his room now.”

The Chinaman shuffled away, went padding up the stairs and down the long
hall, and found the door of two-one-seven. Here he paused and considered.
He must make no mistake.

He tried the door softly. It was locked, of course. Then he knocked and
raised his voice, speaking English in a way that would have startled the
night clerk:

“Is this Mr. Peter Fitzgerald’s room?”

A rumbling growl ended in a curse.

“No, damn your silly eyes, it ain’t! Get away from that door!”

The Chinaman muttered an apology and retreated audibly. Half way down
the hall he stopped, took the vial from his pocket, and returned to
two-one-seven.

Noiselessly he approached the door and knelt down. He removed the pledget
of cotton from the neck of the bottle and by the light of the hall lamp
gently blew each tiny insect under the door as it was shaken clear of its
glass prison.

       *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour later, Lee Hin undressed and climbed into bed in the little
chamber adjoining the basement laboratory.

Just before he snapped off the light, he took a pledget of cotton out of
the neck of a wide-mouthed bottle and shook from the latter a score or so
of buzzing insects.

“Little friends!” he said gently. “May the spirit of justice which rules
all things—which holds the suns in their appointed orbits as they swing
through infinite space, and which guides the destinies of the tiniest
insect—may the God of all good men, of Moses and Confucius, decide—and
strike through you!”

Then he turned out the light and went placidly to bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Burke slept but poorly that first night after his return.

He was just dropping into a doze when some blundering fool knocked at
his door by mistake; and after Burke recovered from the rage which this
incident occasioned, a mosquito buzzed down out of the ceiling and bit
him on the neck. He killed the insect with the first slap; but a few
minutes later, just as he was again becoming drowsy, another bit him
under the eye.

After that it seemed to him that the room was full of mosquitoes. He made
up his mind that his nerves were playing him tricks. There couldn’t be so
many of the tormenting insects in one room! He had seen none during the
evening. He must be imagining half of it—but there were the bites!

It was nearly three o’clock before he finally fell asleep. And he slept
like a drugged man till late in the morning.

When he got up and looked at himself in the glass, he was furious to find
his face disfigured by three great purple bites. There were at least a
dozen others on his body, but those he didn’t mind. He was thinking of
the effect of these disfigurements on the girl, whom he had resolved to
see tonight.

He killed half a dozen blood filled mosquitoes, perched heavily in the
window, and tramped downstairs to berate the clerk.

The clerk listened to him with gathering wrath.

“Mosquitoes your grandmother!” he snarled. “We never have no mosquitoes
in this house! I shouldn’t wonder if you had the itch. You better find a
room somewhere else!”

Burke looked ferociously at him, but the clerk returned the glare with
interest. Not for nothing had he run a water-side hotel for ten years. He
knew how to meet threat with threat. Burke went out and ate breakfast,
for which he discovered he had little appetite.

He put in most of the day walking the streets, thinking of his
grievances, and treating his mosquito bites. He bought a bottle of lotion
from a druggist. The latter eyed the bites dubiously.

“Those mosquitoes must have been some snapping turtles, friend!” he
commented. “They look more like tick bites. You’d better take something
for your blood—some of this compound—”

Burke seized the lotion he had paid for and dashed from the store. His
head ached. Plainly, everyone was mad—everyone but himself.

For a time, during the middle of the day, the mosquito bites seemed to be
getting better; but Burke continued to apply the lotion, and to inspect
himself in the glass.

He would be fairly presentable by night, at this rate.

It was about four o’clock when he became aware of a shooting pain
radiating from the bite he had first received—the one on his neck. He
jumped up and ran to the looking-glass. The thing had puffed up like a
walnut, and had turned an angry purplish color.

Feverishly, Burke applied more lotion. He made a compress with a wet
towel and wrapped it around his neck. Hardly had he accomplished this
when he perceived that another of the bites was swelling and growing
painful. Within an hour and a half, he had a dozen of these inflamed
places.

Burke realized that he would have to put off his visit to the girl until
next day. Probably the druggist was right—his blood was too thick. He
must buy a bottle of that stuff—that compound. He had been drinking too
much bootleg whisky.

He went to bed early. The thought of food nauseated him. He sank into a
heavy slumber, from which he was aroused by a voice in the room.

It was a thick voice, repeating long, meaningless strings of words. Burke
tried to sit up to listen, and the voice ceased. He was not able to raise
himself, however. Something was wrong inside his head....

It was some time later that Burke discovered that the flat, babbling
voice was his own! It rose to a scream, then shifted into a screechy
laugh....

Strange faces were bending over him. There was a man with a pointed
beard, who looked at him with pursed lips. This man was speaking:

“I never encountered a case of the kind before. I would call it anthrax,
but for the number of the primary lesions. The interest is purely
academic, of course. He’ll be dead within twelve hours. Has he had any
visitors? Any way you can find out if he has any relatives or friends?”

With a strange detachment, as if he were already a spirit, Burke
listened. The night clerk was speaking:

“There has been no mail for him, and no visitors—except a Chinaman, who
brought him a package of laundry. I guess he’s a stranger—”

Burke’s face became purple, and his body drew itself into a great knot.
_A Chinaman to see him!_ Laundry—he had had no laundry!

Suddenly he understood. Perception shone through him like a searchlight.

_A Chinaman never forgets! Lee Hin_—

He tried to shout the name. He must get his accusation into writing—

In the act of sitting up to demand paper and pen, he was caught up into a
great darkness. He fell heavily back upon the bed.

“Syncope!” said the man with the pointed beard. “I must write up this
case for the National Medical Journal.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Lee Hin, looking upon the last scene in the drama, meditated deeply.

“No man can escape his destiny,” he mused.

The last shovel of dirt was thrown over the mound, and the man who threw
it deftly patted it into place with the rounded back of his spade.

Lee Hin walked gravely away. He passed along a graveled path and
approached a distant part of the cemetery. In the shade of a hawthorne he
paused and stood gently regarding the figure of a girl, kneeling beside a
grave.

“Poor little Irene!” he murmured.

And then he strode silently down the path and out at the cemetery gate.




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       *       *       *       *       *

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“THE MOON TERROR”

a fascinating novel, will be concluded in the June issue of WEIRD TALES.
Have your newsdealer reserve a copy for you.




AN EYE FOR AN EYE

_By_ G. W. Crane


[Illustration]

“But mother is too sick to be moved!” the girl said imploringly. She was
rather slim, and a trifle taller than average. Her face was beautiful
despite the paleness of her cheeks and the slightly dark circles beneath
her eyes. She taught the first grade pupils in the little community, and
they literally worshipped her.

“If you will give me only a little more time, I am sure that I can get
the money,” she continued, and then waited anxiously for the wizen-faced
man to reply.

“No, sir!” the latter answered roughly, as he rubbed his hands together
and frowned upon the girl. “Business is business! I’ve been wanting that
house of yours for several years, and now I’m going to have it, unless,”
he smiled grimly, “you bring in the money to pay off the mortgage by
tomorrow morning.”

“But please, Mr. Seaman, I have no money! Mother’s illness has taken
everything I had and more, too, but if you will wait just a little
longer....”

“That will do! That will do!” the old man spoke in a rasping voice. “I’ve
been too good to you already. And, then, there’s that little shack at the
other edge of the village. You can move into that. It won’t hurt ye.”

“But I tell you that mother is too ill to be moved!” the girl spoke
desperately.

The shriveled old man waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.

“Haven’t you any sympathy at all?” the young woman asked in one last
appeal.

“_Sympathy?_ Bosh! That’s all foolishness! It leads to bankruptcy. That’s
what I always used to tell your father before he died, but no, he could
not see it that way,” the old man spoke with infinite sarcasm. “Now don’t
disturb me any longer. There’s the door!” and he waved a claw-like hand
in its direction.

The girl stood irresolutely a moment, while her face alternately flushed
and then grew pale. She felt once as if she could murder the heartless
old skinflint as he sat at his desk. There was no way to get the money,
and she perceived that she was absolutely in the hands of this merciless
creature. With rage and despair consuming her spirit, she left the room.

The next day the girl and her invalid mother were forced to leave their
cozy little home, and move into the damp, decaying house at the other end
of the village. Neighbors insisted that the sick woman come into their
homes, but even in her illness the invalid was too proud to do so.

Two weeks later the suffering of the poor woman was at an end. Out in the
cemetery a haggard girl watched the lumpy, half-frozen clods of earth
fall down upon the casket and shut in forever the body of her loved
one. She did not leave with most of her neighbors who had attended the
funeral, but stood silent, watching the swiftly filling hole.

Her eyes were dry. There were no tears left to soothe her. She had wept
at the words of the minister, but now she had ceased. A fierce bitterness
filled her heart.

When the mound had been finished, the pastor gently touched her arm,
intending to lead her back to the carriage. But the girl fiercely shook
off the friendly hand.

“Leave me alone!” she said.

“But, it is damp and cold, and I want you to ride back home. All the
other vehicles have gone.”

“I can walk,” she answered shortly.

The minister regarded her a moment and decided that it might be best to
let her remain. He began to retrace his steps toward his conveyance.
Reaching a bend in the road, he looked back, but the solitary figure was
still standing motionless.

       *       *       *       *       *

By most of the villagers Mr. Seaman was considered to be the stingiest,
most tight-fisted old skinflint that ever lived. The older he became, the
more his mercilessness seemed to increase. Even the dogs—when they saw
him coming down the street—got out of his way.

The old man lived in a small ramshackle cottage at the edge of the
village, and no one ever visited him there. He had a little office above
the local bank, and it was in this that his callers found him when they
wished to adjust money matters.

For several weeks the old man had been feeling a peculiar numbness all
along his right side. At first he paid scarcely any heed to it, but it
did not go away. As a result, he began to pinch his right leg every
morning to see whether he was any better. He could notice no improvement,
and as time passed, he believed that he was getting worse.

“I suppose it’s just because I’m gettin’ older’n I used to be,” he
thought, but this did not comfort him at all.

As a consequence, he determined to consult the town’s physician, and
although he regretted wasting his money in this manner, he went up to see
Dr. Jackson.

The physician told him that it acted very much like paralysis, and that a
complete numbness of his whole body might result. Although this might be
gradual, he said, it could occur at a sudden stroke.

The doctor did not try especially to allay the old man’s fears, for he
shared the popular feeling toward the miser, and he saw that he was very
susceptible to suggestion.

Seaman came away very much frightened. He did not appear to fear death
itself, strange as this would seem. Perhaps it never occurred to him that
his paralysis might be fatal. What really terrified him, however, was
the idea that he might be rendered incapable of making either movement
or sound, and that then he would be buried alive. This thought of being
locked up in a coffin while he was not actually dead, haunted him day and
night.

In his sleep he would dream of being locked within a casket, unable to
utter a word, yet comprehending all that went on around him. He could
hear the dirt fall shovelful after shovelful upon the box in which he was
imprisoned. He could feel the air becoming oppressive.

Then he would swing his arms sideways, only to find himself shut in. He
would kick, and endeavor to lift the lid, but six feet of damp earth
would be crushing it down against his feeble efforts. He would beat
frantically upon the encircling boards, but the hard-packed earth would
muffle the sound. He could feel the pitch-blackness of his stifling tomb.

He could not see. He had used up almost all the air within his narrow
coffin. He could imagine the grave-diggers walking around complacently
several feet above him. If he could only make them hear! He was
smothering—buried alive!

With a scream of horror he would waken, and lay panting, as he tried to
recover from his nightmare. But he could not entirely push these dreams
away, for he knew that there might be some truth in them. He had already
seen an article in a magazine telling of just such a case. He decided
that he must find the article again.

Searching for several hours through the pile of magazines which he kept
stacked within one of his small rooms, he at length came upon the story
which he had been seeking. Although it frightened him, he could not help
reading it again.

He learned that for some reason the buried man had been dug up a few
weeks after his interment, and when the casket had been opened, the dead
man was found lying on his stomach with one hand clutching his scalp,
from which most of the hair had been torn off.

Fascinated by the horror of the tale, he found himself reading it again.
He could not help himself. For the remainder of the night he would lie
thinking of the possibility that he himself might be buried alive.

In the daytime he was obsessed with this same thought. Even while he
walked down the street to his office—and he found it more difficult to
do so each day—he could clearly imagine himself so paralyzed that the
neighbors might take him to be dead. Mentally he could see them gathering
around his bedside. He could feel them lift him into the casket. He could
feel himself driven to the cemetery, and lowered into the cold ground,
all the while powerless to cry out or show in any way that he still
lived. This idea almost smothered him, even while he was wide awake.

He grew haggard because of his fear, and would go about the town
muttering to himself, and occasionally flinging out his arms, as if to
push off something that seemed to be enveloping him. People thought
that he was going crazy, and, indeed, his actions tended further to
substantiate their judgment, for he grew more queer from day to day.

At last he went back to see Dr. Jackson, and confided his fears to him.
The latter only laughed, and told him not to worry for the townspeople
would not bury him before he was entirely dead.

“Anyway,” the Doctor added, “the embalming fluid will kill you if you
aren’t dead already.”

“No! _No! No!_” screamed the terrified old man. “I won’t be embalmed! I
won’t be embalmed!” and his voice rose more shrilly at each repetition.
“Promise me that you won’t let them embalm me!” he demanded, and his eyes
shone wildly.

The Doctor began to place credence in the reports of the town’s gossips
concerning the old man’s madness.

“But every one’s embalmed nowadays,” he explained.

“But I don’t want to be!” the miser said fiercely, as he began to
shudder. “I might not be dead for sure, and if I were not embalmed, then
I could come to life again.”

The Doctor finally promised that he would not permit the poisonous
chemicals to be placed within the old man’s veins, in case the latter
should die.

“Now there is something else I want you to promise me,” the miser went
on. “I have been dreaming that I shall be buried alive. Oh, but I have,”
he added, as the Doctor began to shake his head. “If I were buried in the
usual manner and should wake up ...,” here he trembled, and a look of
horror spread over his face. “But I won’t be buried that way!” he yelled
in a frenzy. “Promise me that you will do as I say,” he exclaimed in a
tone that expressed a mixture of both command and entreaty.

“Well, what is it?” the Doctor asked curiously.

“I’m going to have a bell placed near my grave with a rope leading down
into my coffin, and then, if I revive, I shall pull the cord, and ring
the bell.”

“But who would hear it?” Dr. Jackson asked, as he vainly strove to check
a smile.

“Oh, there is a farm house not far from the cemetery, and somebody there
could hear it, and come and dig me up.”

“You’d smother before they could ever get to you,” the Doctor objected.

“No! No! I have everything planned, and I have it written down so that
you can do it just as I wish. I’ll pay you now for your trouble,” and he
handed the Doctor a fifty-dollar bill. “Promise me that you will do it,”
he pleaded.

Dr. Jackson, thinking it all to be nonsense, nevertheless promised, and
the miser slowly hobbled off.

The Doctor thought it all a good joke, and the news soon spread about the
village.

“And to think,” the Doctor said to a group of men standing in front of
the little drug store, “the old tight-wad gave me this fifty to see that
his fool notions were carried out,” and he showed them the bill.

The old man was the object of a great many jokes during the ensuing
weeks, but he himself was feeling much more at ease to think that the
Doctor had pledged himself to carry out his wishes.

The miser’s right leg, however, was growing more and more numb. Each
morning he would pinch it to see if there were any feeling left. It
became very difficult for him to walk; so he decided to supervise,
personally, the erection of the bell.

It was a large iron one much like the ordinary farmhouse dinner bell
which the rural housewife uses to notify the men in the field that dinner
is ready. The old man had it fastened on a post, which was set in the
ground near the spot which he had chosen for his grave.

The time finally came when the shriveled figure of the miser did not
appear upon the street, and investigation revealed him lying upon his
bed, almost wholly paralyzed. Doctor Jackson obtained one of the
middle-aged women of the village to wait upon him, and give him his food,
for he could not even move his arms to feed himself. For a few weeks
more he lay in this helpless condition gradually becoming more and more
dependent upon his nurse. One morning he failed to open his eyes, and
lay motionless, giving no sign of life whatever. Dr. Jackson had a great
number of calls to make that day, and so it was not until late in the
evening that he could attend the old fellow. Tired out from his labors,
the doctor made a hasty examination, and said there was no doubt about
his being dead.

Next day the Doctor gave the miser’s written instructions to his
man-of-all-work, and told him to see that they were fulfilled. The latter
had a hole bored in the lid of the coffin, through which the rope was
to pass. One end of it was placed in the hand of the corpse, and the
remainder of the rope was pushed through a one-inch pipe, and fastened
to the bell. The pipe permitted the rope to be pulled easily; otherwise
the earth would have checked it. According to the miser’s orders, another
tube connected the cheap casket with the open air. This was to permit him
to breathe if he should not be entirely dead.

The earth was rapidly shoveled into the opening, and in a short time a
mound of yellow clay marked the old skinflint’s last abode. It was unlike
other newly-made graves, however, for a rope reached out of it to the
bell near by, and six inches of an air-pipe protruded.

The grave-diggers left the spot, and returned to their homes. The
cemetery was deserted unless one believes that the spirits of the dead
hover above the last resting place of their bodies.

About three o’clock next morning the sleepy telephone operator in the
little office above the drug store received a call.

“Hello! Hello!” a frightened woman’s voice exclaimed. “This is Harding’s.
Say, that bell over in the cemetery has been ringing for ten minutes!
It’s getting louder and louder! Call the constable or somebody quick!
There ain’t any men folks at our place now, and we’re scared to death!”

The operator was wide awake, for everybody knew the story of the burial
of the old miser. She called the Doctor, but could get no response. In
desperation she called the grave-diggers, and two others to go out to
the ghostly spot. As soon as she had sent them on their weird quest, she
called the Harding farmhouse.

“That bell quit ringin’ several minutes ago!” Mrs. Harding replied. “I
don’t know what to think!”

The four men reached the dark cemetery with its eery tombstones faintly
visible all about them. Hurriedly, and with conflicting emotions, they
ran to the new grave. What they saw startled them so that they almost
turned back!

The rope, which had been fastened to the bell, now was tied to the foot
of the post. Even as they looked, they could make out a slight movement
of the rope! It grew taut, and then they could see it slacken!

“Gosh! He’s come back to life!” one of the men whispered hoarsely.

“Look! Look!” his companion almost shouted, and pointed toward the
air-pipe.

How it got there, they did not know, but a bucket was forced down over
the end of the tube into the fresh earth, cutting off all the air supply
from the coffin.

One of the grave-diggers kicked the bucket off, and then they all set to
work digging. Frantically, yet fearfully, they threw out the fresh earth.
Their lanterns cast weird shadows about them, and dimly lighted up the
somber tombstones near by. They scarcely said a word, but when they did,
it was in a very low tone.

Thud! A shovel had at last struck the wooden box. It startled the
men. They were not any less courageous than the average, but their
surroundings and the peculiar situation in which they found themselves
would have affected the nerves of anybody.

Quickly they cleared off the top of the coffin.

“Hello! Are you alive?” one of them called in a low voice.

There was no answer.

“I think Hardings imagined they heard the bell ring,” one of the men
muttered.

“But didn’t we see the rope move?” another objected.

“Well, you can open the lid,” the first speaker added.

They held their two lanterns down inside the pit which they had just
made. The yellow flames flickered and spluttered. The bravest of the four
men used his shovel for a lever, and pried up the coffin top.

Slowly, hesitatingly, he peered inside. An unexpected movement from
within would have caused him instantly to drop the lid.

He still could not make out the dead man’s form. Carefully he jerked the
top clear back, and the four spectators were terrified. If they had been
out of the pit in which they stood it is doubtful whether they would have
remained for a second glance. As it was, they were standing on the edge
of the casket, and could not readily escape.

The old man’s form was turned over, and hunched up, as if he had vainly
striven to lift the tons of earth that held him a captive. His right arm
was stretched out along the side of his prison, and the nails of his
fingers were torn off. The sides of the casket were clawed and scratched,
and the scalp of the dead man was frightfully lacerated. All his hair had
been pulled out by the roots and a wad of it was still fiercely clasped
in the miser’s left hand.

Even while they looked on a greater fear consumed them.

“_Ha-ha, ha-ha_,” demoniacal laughter came to their ears.

This was too much. Clawing and scrambling, they clambered over each other
in trying to get out of the pit.

“_Ha-ha, ha-ha_,” the shrill laughter continued from far up the hillside.

It pursued the fleeing men. To their terrified minds the fiendish sounds
seemed to be taken up and re-echoed by each of the tombstones which they
passed in their flight.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha! Ha-ha, ha-ha! Ha-ha, ha-ha!” The ghostly shrieks rang in
their ears, as they raced toward the village.

Unexplained, the mystery continued to frighten the superstitious for two
days after the miser had been reburied. Then a tragedy partially turned
their attention from this weird affair.

The body of the girl whose mother had been turned out of her home, was
found floating in the river not far from the little village.

“Too bad!” the Doctor had said. “She must have lost her mind brooding
over her mother’s death,” and this was the consensus of opinion.

And no one ever thought to associate the gentle young school teacher with
the fiendish laughter which had floated over the cemetery.




_This Story Has a Horrifying Climax_

THE FLOOR ABOVE

_By_ M. HUMPHREYS


September 17, 1922.—I sat down to breakfast this morning with a good
appetite. The heat seemed over, and a cool wind blew in from my garden,
where chrysanthemums were already budding. The sunshine streamed into
the room and fell pleasantly on Mrs. O’Brien’s broad face as she brought
in the eggs and coffee. For a supposedly lonely old bachelor the world
seemed to me a pretty good place. I was buttering my third set of waffles
when the housekeeper again appeared, this time with the mail.

I glanced carelessly at the three or four letters beside my plate. One of
them bore a strangely familiar handwriting. I gazed at it a minute, then
seized it with a beating heart. Tears almost came into my eyes. There was
no doubt about it—it was Arthur Barker’s handwriting! Shaky and changed,
to be sure, but ten years have passed since I have seen Arthur, or,
rather, since his mysterious disappearance.

For ten years I have not had a word from him. His people know no more
than I what has become of him, and long ago we gave him up for dead. He
vanished without leaving a trace behind him. It seemed to me, too, that
with him vanished the last shreds of my youth. For Arthur was my dearest
friend in that happy time. We were boon companions, and many a mad prank
we played together.

And now, after ten years of silence, Arthur was writing to me!

The envelope was postmarked Baltimore. Almost reluctantly—for I feared
what it might contain—I passed my finger under the flap and opened it. It
held a single sheet of paper torn from a pad. But it was Arthur’s writing:

    “_Dear Tom: Old man, can you run down to see me for a few days?
    I’m afraid I’m in a bad way. ARTHUR._”

Scrawled across the bottom was the address, _536 N. Marathon street_.

I have often visited Baltimore, but I cannot recall a street of that name.

Of course I shall go.... But what a strange letter after ten years! There
is something almost uncanny about it.

I shall go tomorrow evening. I cannot possibly get off before then.

       *       *       *       *       *

September 18.—I am leaving tonight. Mrs. O’Brien has packed my two
suitcases, and everything is in readiness for my departure. Ten minutes
ago I handed her the keys and she went off tearfully. She has been
sniffling all day and I have been perplexed, for a curious thing occurred
this morning.

It was about Arthur’s letter. Yesterday, when I had finished reading it,
I took it to my desk and placed it in a small compartment together with
other personal papers. I remember distinctly that it was on top, with a
lavender card from my sister directly underneath. This morning I went to
get it. It was gone.

There was the lavender card exactly where I had seen it, but Arthur’s
letter had completely disappeared. I turned everything upside down, then
called Mrs. O’Brien and we both searched, but in vain. Mrs. O’Brien, in
spite of all I could say, took it upon herself to feel that I suspected
her.... But what could have become of it? Fortunately I remember the
address.

       *       *       *       *       *

September 19.—I have arrived. I have seen Arthur. Even now he is in the
next room and I am supposed to be preparing for bed. But something tells
me I shall not sleep a wink this night. I am strangely wrought up, though
there is not the shadow of an excuse for my excitement. I should be
rejoicing to have found my friend again. And yet....

I reached Baltimore this morning at eleven o’clock. The day was warm
and beautiful, and I loitered outside the station a few minutes before
calling a taxi. The driver seemed well acquainted with the street I gave
him, and we rolled off across the bridge.

As I drew near my destination, I began to feel anxious and afraid.
But the ride lasted longer than I expected—Marathon Street seemed to
be located in the suburbs of the city. At last we turned into a dusty
street, paved only in patches and lined with linden and aspen trees. The
fallen leaves crunched beneath the tires. The September sun beat down
with a white intensity. The taxi drew up before a house in the middle of
a block that boasted not more than six dwellings. On each side of the
house was a vacant lot, and it was set far back at the end of a long
narrow yard crowded with trees.

I paid the driver, opened the gate and went in. The trees were so thick
that not until I was half way up the path did I get a good view of the
house. It was three stories high, built of brick, in fairly good repair,
but lonely and deserted-looking. The blinds were closed in all of the
windows with the exception of two, one on the first, one on the second
floor. Not a sign of life anywhere, not a cat nor a milk bottle to break
the monotony of the leaves that carpeted the porch.

[Illustration]

But, overcoming my feeling of uneasiness, I resolutely set my suitcase on
the porch, caught at the old-fashioned bell, and gave an energetic jerk.
A startling peal jangled through the silence. I waited, but there was no
answer.

After a minute I rang again. Then from the interior I heard a queer
dragging sound, as if someone was coming slowly down the hall. The knob
was turned and the door opened. I saw before me an old woman, wrinkled,
withered, and filmy-eyed, who leaned on a crutch.

“Does Mr. Barker live here?” I asked.

She nodded, staring at me in a curious way, but made no move to invite me
in.

“Well, I’ve come to see him,” I said. “I’m a friend of his. He sent for
me.”

At that she drew slightly aside.

“He’s upstairs,” she said in a cracked voice that was little more than a
whisper. “I can’t show you up. Hain’t been up a stair now in ten year.”

“That’s all right,” I replied, and, seizing my suitcase, I strode down
the long hall.

“At the head of the steps,” came the whispering voice behind me. “The
door at the end of the hall.”

I climbed the cold dark stairway, passed along the short hall at the top,
and stood before a closed door. I knocked.

“Come in.” It was Arthur’s voice, and yet—not his.

I opened the door and saw Arthur sitting on a couch, his shoulders
hunched over, his eyes raised to mine.

After all, ten years had not changed him so much. As I remembered him,
he was of medium height, inclined to be stout, and ruddy-faced with keen
gray eyes. He was still stout, but had lost his color, and his eyes had
dulled.

“And where have you been all this time?” I demanded, when the first
greetings were over.

“Here,” he answered.

“In this house?”

“Yes.”

“But why didn’t you let us hear from you?”

He seemed to be making an effort to speak.

“What did it matter? I didn’t suppose any one cared.”

Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could not get rid of the thought
that Arthur’s pale eyes fixed tenaciously upon my face, were trying to
tell me something, something quite different from what his lips said.

I felt chilled. Although the blinds were open, the room was almost
darkened by the branches of the trees that pressed against the window.
Arthur had not given me his hand, had seemed troubled to know how to make
me welcome. Yet of one thing I was certain: He needed me and he wanted me
to know he needed me.

As I took a chair I glanced about the room. It was a typical
lodging-house room, medium sized, flowered wall paper, worn matting,
nondescript rugs, a wash-stand in one corner, a chiffonier in another, a
table in the center, two or three chairs, and the couch which evidently
served Arthur as a bed. But it was cold, strangely cold for such a warm
day.

Arthur’s eyes had wandered uneasily to my suitcase. He made an effort to
drag himself to his feet.

“Your room is back here,” he said, with a motion of his thumb.

“No, wait,” I protested. “Let’s talk about yourself first. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been sick.”

“Haven’t you a doctor? If not, I’ll get one.”

At this he started up with the first sign of animation he had shown.

“No, Tom, don’t do it. Doctors can’t help me now. Besides, I hate them.
I’m afraid of them.”

His voice trailed away, and I took pity on his agitation. I decided to
let the question of doctors drop for the moment.

“As you say,” I assented carelessly.

Without more ado, I followed him into my room, which adjoined his and
was furnished in much the same fashion. But there were two windows, one
on each side, looking out on the vacant lots. Consequently, there was
more light, for which I was thankful. In a far corner I noticed a door,
heavily bolted.

“There’s one more room,” said Arthur, as I deposited my belongings. “One
that you’ll like. But we’ll have to go through the bath-room.”

Groping our way through the musty bath-room, in which a tiny jet of gas
was flickering, we stepped into a large, almost luxurious chamber. It was
a library, well-furnished, carpeted, and surrounded by shelves fairly
bulging with books. But for the chillness and bad light, it was perfect.
As I moved about, Arthur followed me with his eyes.

“There are some rare works on botany—”

I had already discovered them, a set of books that I would have given
much to own. I could not contain my joy.

“You won’t be so bored browsing around in here—”

In spite of my preoccupation, I pricked up my ears. In that monotonous
voice there was no sympathy with my joy. It was cold and tired.

When I had satisfied my curiosity we returned to the front room, and
Arthur flung himself, or rather fell, upon the couch. It was nearly five
o’clock and quite dark. As I lighted the gas, I heard a sound below as of
somebody thumping on the wall.

“That’s the old woman,” Arthur explained. “She cooks my meals, but she’s
too lame to bring them up.”

He made a feeble attempt at rising, but I saw he was worn out.

“Don’t stir,” I warned him. “I’ll bring up your food tonight.”

To my surprise, I found the dinner appetizing and well-cooked, and, in
spite of the fact that I did not like the looks of the old woman, I ate
with relish. Arthur barely touched a few spoonfuls of soup to his lips
and absently crumbled some bread in his plate.

Directly I had carried off the dishes, he wrapped his reddish-brown
dressing-gown about him, stretched out at full length on the couch, and
asked me to turn out the gas. When I had complied with his request, I
again heard his weak voice asking if I had everything I needed.

“Everything,” I assured him, and then there was unbroken silence.

I went to my room, finally, closed the door, and here I am sitting
restlessly between the two back windows that look out on the vacant lots.

I have unpacked my clothes and turned down the bed, but I cannot make up
my mind to retire. If the truth be told, I hate to put out the light....
There is something disturbing in the way the dry leaves tap on the panes.
And my heart is sad when I think of Arthur.

I have found my old friend, but he is no longer my old friend. Why does
he fix his pale eyes so strangely on my face? What does he wish to tell
me?

But these are morbid thoughts. I will put them out of my head. I will go
to bed and get a good night’s rest. And tomorrow I will wake up finding
everything right and as it should be.

       *       *       *       *       *

September 26.—Have been here a week today, and I have settled down to
this queer existence as if I had never known another. The day after my
arrival I discovered that the third volume of the botanical series was
done in Latin, which I have set myself the task of translating. It is
absorbing work, and when I have buried myself in one of the deep chairs
by the library table, the hours fly fast.

For health’s sake I force myself to walk a few miles every day. I have
tried to prevail on Arthur to do likewise, but he, who used to be so
active, now refuses to budge from the house. No wonder he is literally
blue! For it is a fact that his complexion and the shadows about his eyes
and temples, are decidedly blue.

What does he do with himself all day? Whenever I enter his room, he is
lying on the couch, a book beside him, which he never reads. He does
not seem to suffer any pain, for he never complains. After several
ineffectual attempts to get medical aid for him, I have given up
mentioning the subject of a doctor. I feel that his trouble is more
mental than physical.

       *       *       *       *       *

September 28.—A rainy day. It has been coming down in floods since dawn.
And I got a queer turn this afternoon.

As I could not get out for my walk, I spent the morning staging a general
house-cleaning. It was time! Dust and dirt everywhere. The bath-room,
which has no window and is lighted by gas, was fairly overrun with
water-bugs and roaches. Of course I did not penetrate to Arthur’s room,
but I heard no sound from him as I swept and dusted.

I made a good dinner and settled down in the library, feeling quite cosy.
The rain came down steadily and it had grown so cold that I decided to
make a fire later on. But once I had gathered my tablets and notebooks
about me I forgot the cold.

I remember I was on the subject of the _Aster Tripolium_, a rare variety
seldom found in this country. Turning a page, I came upon a specimen of
this very variety, dried, pressed flat, and pasted to the margin. Above
it, in Arthur’s handwriting, I read:

_September 27, 1912._

I was bending close to examine it, when I felt a vague fear. It seemed to
me that someone was in the room and was watching me. Yet I had not heard
the door open, nor seen anyone enter. I turned sharply and saw Arthur,
wrapped in his reddish-brown dressing-gown, standing at my very elbow.

He was smiling—smiling for the first time since my arrival, and his dull
eyes were bright. But I did not like that smile. In spite of myself I
jerked away from him. He pointed at the aster.

“It grew in the front yard under a linden tree. I found it yesterday.”

“Yesterday!” I shouted, my nerves on edge. “Good Lord man! Look! It was
ten years ago!”

The smile faded from his face.

“Ten years ago,” he repeated thickly. “_Ten years ago?_”

And with his hand pressed against his forehead, he went out of the room
still muttering, “_Ten years ago!_”...

As for me, this foolish incident has preyed on my mind and kept me from
doing any satisfactory work.... _September 27th_.... It is true, that was
also yesterday—ten years ago.

       *       *       *       *       *

October 1.—One o’clock. A cheerful morning this has been, the sun shining
brightly, and a touch of frost in the air. I put in an excellent day’s
work in the library yesterday, and on the first mail this morning came a
letter from Mrs. O’Brien. She says the _Scarab_ chrysanthemums are in
full bloom. I must positively run up for a day before they are gone.

As I lighted a cigar after breakfast, I happened to glance over at Arthur
and was struck by a change in him. For he _has_ changed. I ask myself
if my presence has not done him good. On my arrival he seemed without
energy, almost torpid, but now he is becoming restless. He wanders about
the room continually and sometimes shows a disposition to talk.

Yes, I am sure he is better. I am going for my walk now, and I feel
convinced that in a week’s time I shall have him accompanying me.

       *       *       *       *       *

Five o’clock. Dusk is falling. O God! What has come over me? Am I the
same man that went out of this house three hours ago? And what has
happened!...

I had a splendid walk, and was striding homeward in a fine glow. But as I
turned the corner and came in sight of the house, it was as if I looked
at death itself. I could hardly drag myself up the stairs, and when I
peered into the shadowy chamber, and saw the man hunched up on the couch,
with his eyes fixed intently on my face, I could have screamed like a
woman. I wanted to fly, to rush out into the clear cold air and run—to
run and never come back! But I controlled myself, forced my feet to carry
me to my room.

There is a weight of hopelessness at my heart. The darkness is advancing,
swallowing up everything, but I have not the will to light the gas....

Now there is a flicker in the front room. I am a fool; I must pull myself
together. Arthur is lighting up, and downstairs I can hear the thumping
that announces dinner....

It is a queer thought that comes to me now, but it is odd I have not
noticed it before. We are about to sit down to our evening meal. Arthur
will eat practically nothing for he has no appetite. Yet he remains
stout. It cannot be healthy fat, but even at that it seems to me that a
man who eats as little as he does would become a living skeleton.

       *       *       *       *       *

October 5.—Positively, I must see a doctor about myself, or soon I shall
be a nervous wreck. I am acting like a child. Last night I lost all
control and played the coward.

I had gone to bed early, tired out with a hard day’s work. It was raining
again, and as I lay in bed I watched the little rivulets trickling down
the panes. Lulled by the sighing of the wind among the leaves, I fell
asleep.

I awoke (how long afterward I cannot say) to feel a cold hand laid on my
arm. For a moment I lay paralyzed with terror. I would have cried aloud,
but I had no voice. At last I managed to sit up, to shake the hand off. I
reached for the matches and lighted the gas.

It was Arthur who stood by my bed—Arthur wrapped in his eternal
reddish-brown dressing-gown. He was excited. His blue face had a yellow
tinge, and his eyes gleamed in the light.

“Listen!” he whispered.

I listened but I heard nothing.

“Don’t you hear it?” he gasped, and he pointed upward.

“Upstairs?” I stammered. “Is there somebody upstairs?”

I strained my ears, and at last I fancied I could hear a fugitive sound
like the light tapping of footsteps.

“It must be somebody walking about up there,” I suggested.

But at these words Arthur seemed to stiffen. The excitement died out of
his face.

“No!” he cried in a sharp rasping voice. “No! It is nobody walking about
up there!”

And he fled into his room.

For a long time I lay trembling, afraid to move. But at last, fearing for
Arthur, I got up and crept to his door. He was lying on the couch, with
his face in the moonlight, apparently asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

October 6.—I had a talk with Arthur today. Yesterday I could not bring
myself to speak of the previous night’s happening, but all of this
nonsense must be cleared away.

We were in the library. A fire was burning in the grate, and Arthur
had his feet on the fender. The slippers he wears, by the way, are as
objectionable to me as his dressing-gown. They are felt slippers, old and
worn, and frayed around the edges as if they had been gnawed by rats. I
cannot imagine why he does not get a new pair.

“Say, old man,” I began abruptly, “do you own this house?”

He nodded.

“Don’t you rent any of it?”

“Downstairs—to Mrs. Harlan.”

“But upstairs?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“No, it’s inconvenient. There’s only a peculiar way to get upstairs.”

I was struck by this.

“By jove! you’re right. Where’s the staircase?”

He looked me full in the eyes.

“Don’t you remember seeing a bolted door in a corner of your room? The
staircase runs from that door.”

I did remember it, and somehow the memory made me uncomfortable. I said
no more and decided not to refer to what had happened that night. It
occurred to me that Arthur might have been walking in his sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

October 8.—When I went for my walk on Tuesday I dropped in and saw Dr.
Lorraine, who is an old friend. He expressed some surprise at my run-down
condition and wrote me a prescription.

I am planning to go home next week. How pleasant it will be to walk in my
garden and listen to Mrs. O’Brien singing in the kitchen!

       *       *       *       *       *

October 9.—Perhaps I had better postpone my trip. I casually mentioned it
to Arthur this morning.

He was lying relaxed on the sofa, but when I spoke of leaving he sat up
as straight as a bolt. His eyes fairly blazed.

“No, Tom, don’t go!” There was terror in his voice, and such pleading
that it wrung my heart.

“You’ve stood it alone here ten years,” I protested. “And now—”

“It’s not that,” he said. “But if you go, you will never come back.”

“Is that all the faith you have in me?”

“I’ve got faith, Tom. But if you go, you’ll never come back.”

I decided that I must humor the vagaries of a sick man.

“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll not go. Anyway, not for some time.”

       *       *       *       *       *

October 12.—What is it that hangs over this house like a cloud? For I
can no longer deny that there _is_ something—something indescribably
oppressive. It seems to pervade the whole neighborhood.

Are all the houses on this block vacant? If not, why do I never see
children playing in the street? Why are passers-by so rare? And why, when
from the front window I do catch a glimpse of one, is he hastening away
as fast as possible?

I am feeling blue again. I know that I need a change, and this morning I
told Arthur definitely that I was going.

To my surprise he made no objection. In fact, he murmured a word of
assent and smiled. He smiled as he smiled in the library that morning
when he pointed at the _Aster Tripolium_. And I don’t like that smile.
Anyway, it is settled. I shall go next week, Thursday, the 19th.

       *       *       *       *       *

October 13.—I had a strange dream last night. Or was it a dream? It was
so vivid.... All day long I have been seeing it over and over again.

In my dream I thought that I was lying there in my bed. The moon was
shining brightly into the room, so that each piece of furniture stood
out distinctly. The bureau is so placed that when I am lying on my back,
with my head high on the pillow, I can see full into the mirror.

I thought I was lying in this manner and staring into the mirror. In this
way I saw the bolted door in the far corner of the room. I tried to keep
my mind off it, to think of something else, but it drew my eyes like a
magnet.

It seemed to me that someone was in the room, a vague figure that I could
not recognize. It approached the door and caught at the bolts. It dragged
at them and struggled, but in vain—they would not give way.

Then it turned and showed me its agonized face. It was Arthur! I
recognized his reddish-brown dressing-gown.

I sat up in bed and cried to him, but he was gone. I ran to his room, and
there he was, stretched out in the moonlight asleep. It must have been a
dream.

       *       *       *       *       *

October 15.—We are having Indian Summer weather now—almost oppressively
warm. I have been wandering about all day, unable to settle down to
anything. This morning I felt so lonesome that when I took the breakfast
dishes down, I tried to strike up a conversation with Mrs. Harlan.

Hitherto I have found her as solemn and uncommunicative as the Sphinx,
but as she took the tray from my hands, her wrinkles broke into the
semblance of a smile. Positively at that moment it seemed to me that she
resembled Arthur. Was it her smile, or the expression of her eyes? Has
she, also, something to tell me?

“Don’t you get lonesome here?” I asked her sympathetically.

She shook her head.

“No, sir, I’m used to it now. I couldn’t stand it anywheres else.”

“And do you expect to go on living here the rest of your life?”

“That may not be very long, sir,” she said, and smiled again.

Her words were simple enough, but the way she looked at me when she
uttered them seemed to give them a double meaning. She hobbled away, and
I went upstairs and wrote Mrs. O’Brien to expect me early on the morning
of the 19th.

       *       *       *       *       *

October 18, 10 a. m.—Am catching the twelve o’clock train tonight. Thank
God, I had the resolution to get away! I believe another week of this
life would drive me mad. And perhaps Arthur is right—perhaps I shall
never come back.

I ask myself if I have become such a weakling as that, to desert him when
he needs me most. I don’t know. I don’t recognize myself any longer....

But of course I will be back. There is the translation, for one thing,
which is coming along famously. I could never forgive myself for dropping
it at the most vital point.

As for Arthur, when I return, I intend to give in to him no longer. I
will make myself master here and cure him against his will. Fresh air,
change of scene, a good doctor, these are the things he needs.

But what is his malady? Is it the influence of this house that has fallen
on him like a blight? One might imagine so, since it is having the same
effect on me.

Yes, I have reached that point where I no longer sleep. At night I lie
awake and try to keep my eyes off the mirror across the room. But in
the end I always find myself staring into it—watching the door with the
heavy bolts. I long to rise from the bed and draw back the bolts, but I’m
afraid.

How slowly the day goes by! The night will never come!

       *       *       *       *       *

Nine p. m.—Have packed my suitcase and put the room in order. Arthur must
be asleep.... I’m afraid the parting from him will be painful. I shall
leave here at eleven o’clock in order to give myself plenty of time....
It is beginning to rain....

       *       *       *       *       *

October 19.—At last! It has come! I am mad! I knew it! I felt it creeping
on me all the time! Have I not lived in this house a month? Have I not
seen—. To have seen what I have seen, to have lived for a month as I have
lived, one _must_ be mad....

It was ten o’clock. I was waiting impatiently for the last hour to pass.
I had seated myself in a rocking-chair by the bed, my suitcase beside
me, my back to the mirror. The rain no longer fell. I must have dozed off.

But all at once I was wide awake, my heart beating furiously. Something
had touched me. I leapt to my feet, and, turning sharply, my eyes fell
upon the mirror. In it I saw the door just as I had seen it the other
night, and the figure fumbling with the bolt. I wheeled around, but there
was nothing there.

I told myself that I was dreaming again, that Arthur was asleep in his
bed. But I trembled as I opened the door of his room and peered in. The
room was empty, the bed not even crumpled. Lighting a match, I groped my
way through the bath-room into the library.

The moon had come from under a cloud and was pouring in a silvery flood
through the windows, but Arthur was not there. I stumbled back into my
room.

The moon was there, too.... And the door, the door in the corner was half
open. The bolt had been drawn. In the darkness I could just make out a
flight of steps that wound upward.

I could no longer hesitate. Striking another match, I climbed the black
stairway.

When I reached the top I found myself in total darkness, for the blinds
were tightly closed. Realizing that the room was probably a duplicate of
the one below, I felt along the wall until I came to the gas jet. For a
moment the flame flickered, then burned bright and clear.

O God! what was it I saw? A table, thick with dust, and something wrapped
in a reddish-brown dressing-gown, that sat with its elbows propped upon
it.

How long had it been sitting there that it had grown more dry than the
dust upon the table! For how many thousands of days and nights had the
flesh rotted from that grinning skull!

In its bony fingers it still clutched a pencil. In front of it lay a
sheet of scratch paper, yellow with age. With trembling fingers I brushed
away the dust. It was dated _October 19, 1912_. It read:

    “_Dear Tom: Old man, can you run down to see me for a few days?
    I’m afraid I’m in a bad way—_”




Reads Story of Mankind on Egyptian Coffins


Prof. James H. Breasted, Egyptologist and director of the Haskell
Oriental Museum at the University of Chicago, is solving some of the
mysteries of the beginning of the human race by inspecting sarcophagi of
Egyptian kings. From Cairo, he wrote to his associate, Dr. William S.
Edgerton:

“You will be interested to know that Gardener and I have settled
down at the museum and have already devoted a week to the task we
are undertaking. We have a very large amount of space placed at our
disposal, and our gallery, over 100 feet long, is already filled with
dismounted coffins. The photographer is busily at work, and Gardener and
I are copying industriously. The task proved to be far larger than we
had anticipated and also very much more difficult. It will be a matter
of years, but I have never been more convinced of its necessity and
usefulness than now.”




_Here’s a Grotesque, Fantastic Tale_

PENELOPE

_By_ Vincent Starrett


[Illustration]

My friend Raymond is a fascinating fellow—a compendium of useless and
entertaining lore.

I can not think of a better companion for an evening with what the
ancients felicitously called “pipe and bowl.” When the latter is empty
and the former going like a blast furnace, Raymond is the equal of any
raconteur under the sun, moon and stars. A great fellow, indeed!

And the sun, moon and stars, incidentally, are his familiars. They are
no more puzzling to him than a railway time-table; much less, in fact.
Occasionally, he lectures, and that is his only fault. I mean that his
conversation by degrees slips from its informal, negligée ease and takes
on the rhetoric of the classroom. How he can talk! I shall never forget
his exposition of his theory of the wireless composition of the Absolute.

No matter! As a rule he is sound—although invariably he is outside
the pale. Had he cared to do so, he might have strung a kite-tail
of alphabetic degrees after his name, years ago; but he scorns such
trappings. Orthodox science, of course, will have none of him; he knows
too much. Grayfield of Anaconda University once said of him: “Raymond
knows more things that aren’t so than any man I ever met.”

Again, no matter! The heresy of today is the orthodoxy of tomorrow, and
the radical of yesterday is the conservative of today. Thus does the
world progress—toward what? Perhaps insanity!

We sat at a table in my rooms and talked; that is, Raymond talked. I
listened. It made no difference what was said; it was all entertaining
and amusing, and I had not seen him for a fortnight. When, quite
suddenly, his voice ceased, it was as if a powerful, natural flow of
water had been interrupted in its course.

I looked at him across the table, and was in time to see him squeeze the
last golden drop from his glass and set down the tumbler with a sigh. His
hand trembled. Instinctively, we both looked at the bottle. It was empty.

“It is glorious!” said Raymond. “I have not felt so light-headed since
Penelope was in perihelion.”

I looked at him suspiciously. I had always claimed that Raymond’s
clearest view of the stars was through a colored bottle used as a
telescope.

He rose to his feet and unsteadily crossed the floor to collapse
upon a couch. In an instant he was asleep and snoring. It was the
promptest performance by the man that I had ever seen, and I was lost in
admiration. But as my wife was due at any moment, I withheld my wonder
and shook him into wakefulness. After a bit he sat up with a stare.

“Give us an arm, old chap,” he murmured; and after a moment: “The heat
here is awful.”

I assisted him to his feet, and we ricocheted to the balcony upon which
long doors opened at the front of the room. The light breeze impinged
pleasantly upon our senses. We were two floors up, and from somewhere
below ascended the strains of a banjo played pianissimo.

Raymond draped a long arm across my shoulders and, thus fortified, closed
one eye and looked into the heavens. The other arm described an arc and
developed a rigid finger, pointing upward.

“Look!” he said. “It is the star Penelope!”

I restrained an inclination to laugh. “Which?” I asked, although it was
quite clear that Raymond was drunk.

He indicated, and I allowed myself to be persuaded that I saw it.
Penelope, I learned later, is a small star of about the thirtieth
magnitude, which, on a clear night and with a powerful glass, may be
picked up midway between the constellations of the Pleiades and Ursa
Major. It is a comparatively insignificant star, and that Raymond
actually saw it I still greatly doubt.

But the sight, real or fancied, was tonic. It was as if that remote point
of fire had thrilled him with a life-ray. He straightened, sobered,
became grave. The pointing finger was withdrawn.

“Diccon,” he said, giving me a familiar and affectionate pseudonym, “I
have never told you of my connection with the star Penelope. There are
few that know. Those whom I have told have looked upon me as mad. If I
have concealed from you this, my strangest adventure, you must believe
that it was because I valued your opinion of my sanity. Tonight——”

Again he turned his gaze upward, and I pretended to see that distant
star. His voice became reminiscent, introspective.

“Penelope,” he whispered, “Penelope! Only yesterday it seems that you
were under my feet!”

He suddenly turned.

“Come,” he commanded. “Come into the house. I feel that I must tell you
tonight.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Haswell [began my friend Raymond], I shall not ask your belief; to you
the tale will seem incredible. I shall ask only your attention and—your
sympathy.

The star Penelope is my natal star. Born under its baleful influence, I
have been subjected to that influence ever since. You will recall that
my father before me was deeply interested in astronomy, so deeply that
his researches gained him the jealous enmity of the world’s greatest
scientists—“Mad Raymond,” they called him.

You will also recall that he died in an asylum; but, my dear Haswell,
he was no more mad than I. But there is no denying that his astounding
knowledge, and the equally astounding inferences and deductions he drew
therefrom, made him a marked man in his day. It is dangerous to be a
hundred years ahead of one’s fellows.

My father discovered the star Penelope, and—as if a strange pre-natal
influence thus had been brought to bear upon his parenthood—it was my
natal star. The circumstance was sufficient to enlist his whole interest,
after my birth, in the star Penelope. He had calculated that its orbit
was so vast that fifty years would be required to complete it. I was with
my father when he died, and his last words to me were:

“Beware of Penelope when in perihelion.”

He died shortly afterward, and it was little enough that I could learn of
his thought; but from his dying whispers I gathered that with Penelope
in perihelion a sinister influence would enter my life. The star would
then possess its greatest power over me for evil. The exact nature of its
effect I think he could not himself foretell or even guess, but he feared
a material change that would affect not only my mental but my physical
being.

My father’s warning was uttered ten years ago, and I have never forgotten
it. And through the long, silent nights—following his footsteps—I watched
the relentless approach of the star which was to have so fateful an
influence upon my destiny.

Three years ago I insensibly became aware of its proximity. As it came
nearer it seemed that little messengers were sent forth to herald its
coming. Like a shadow cast before, I recognized—I felt—the adumbrations
of its power. Little whispers of its influence crossed the distances and
reached me before its central intelligence was felt in all its terror.

I struggled against it, as a man frantically seeks to escape the coiling
tentacles of a monster irresistibly drawing him nearer. I feared that
I would commit some dreadful crime, or that I would go mad—knowing that
either would have been a relief. And there was no one to whom I could
tell my appalling apprehensions. The merest whisper of my situation would
have branded me a lunatic.

Two years ago I set myself the task of calculating the exact time when
the star Penelope would attain its perihelion with our sun, and a long
series of computations assured me that on the twenty-sixth day of the
following October Penelope would be in the zenith.

That was a year ago last October. Perhaps you will recall that for a week
I was absent from my usual haunts? When you saw me later you asked where
I had been, and remarked that I was looking peaked. I said I had been out
of town, but I lied. I had been in hiding in my rooms—not that I believed
four walls could avert the impending disaster, whatever it might be, but
to avert from my friends and from the public the possible consequences of
my deeds.

I shut myself in my study, locked the door, and threw the key out of the
window. Then, alone and unaided, I sat down to await the moment and the
catastrophe.

To divert my mind, I attacked a problem which always had bothered me and
which, indeed, still remains unsolved. In the midst of my calculations,
overcome with weariness and lack of sleep, I sank into a profound
slumber. My dreams were hideous. Then, suddenly, I awoke, with a dizzy
feeling of falling.

How shall I tell you what I saw? It seemed that while I slept the room
had been entered and cleared of its furniture. No vestige of impedimenta
remained. Even the carpet was gone, and I was lying at full length on the
floor, the boards of which had been replaced with plaster and whitewash.

The room seemed stifling, and, remembering that I had left the window
slightly down for ventilation, I stood up and walked across to it. It
stood close down, almost against the floor—an extraordinary removal—and
whoever had emptied the room also had closed the window at the top and
opened it at the bottom. I had to kneel down to lean out across the sill.

I am telling all this calmly. Perhaps you will imagine the state of my
mind, however. I was far indeed from calm. There are no words to tell you
my bewilderment. But if I had been amazed by the condition of the room,
I was confounded when I looked out into the night. I was literally so
frightened that I could not utter a sound.

I had looked down, expecting to look into the street; and there were the
stars shining below me, millions of miles away. And yet the noises of the
street fell distinctly on my ears. The earth seemed to have melted away
beneath my dwelling, which apparently hung upside down in the sky; but
the sounds of traffic and human voices were all about me.

A horror that made me dizzy had crept over me, but, gripping the narrow
sill with both hands, I twisted my face fearfully upward. Then for the
first time a scream left my lips.

Above me, not thirty feet away, was the street filled with its accustomed
hum and populated with people and with traffic—all upside down.

Men and women walked the pavement, head downward, as a fly walks the
ceiling. Automobiles rolled past in frantic procession, their tops toward
me, their wheels miraculously clinging to the overhanging roadway.

You, by this time, will have comprehended what had happened. I did not.
Frightened, bewildered, half-mad, I drew in my head and fell back upon
the whitewashed floor; and then, as I lay there upon my back, I saw what
I had not seen before. On the ceiling of the room, clinging to it, head
downward as the motors had clung to the street, was the missing furniture
of my study.

It was arranged precisely as I had left it, except that it was _upside
down_ and appeared to have changed sides. The heavy desk at which I had
sat hung directly over me, and with a gasp of terror I jumped aside; I
thought that it would fall and crush me. The missing carpet was spread
across the ceiling, and the tables and chairs reposed upon it; the books
on table and bookcase hung easily from the under-surface, and none fell.

I pulled out my watch, and it slipped from my hand and shot upward the
length of the chain. When I had recovered it, I looked at the hour, and
everything that I wished to know flashed over me.

_It was midnight, and Penelope was in perihelion!_

The influence of my natal star had overcome the pitiful attraction of the
earth, and I had been released from earth’s influence. I was now held by
the gravity of the star Penelope. The earth remained as it had been; the
house was not upside down; only I! And I had thought I had fallen from my
chair! Ye Gods, I had _risen_ from it—as _you_ would understand it—and
had crashed against the ceiling of my room!

I sat there, upside down from the earth point of view, upon the ceiling
of my study, and considered my position. Then I stood up and paced back
and forth across the ceiling, and as I moved coins and keys fell from my
pockets and dropped downward—upward—as you will—to the floor of the room.

One thing was clear. I had averted a very serious disaster by clinging
to the window-frame when I looked out. With that fearsome influence upon
me, a moment of overbalancing would have pulled me over the edge, and
I should have been precipitated into the awful depths of space which
gleamed like an ocean beneath my window.

Mad as was the thought, I wondered what time would be required for
my cometlike flight to the shores of the star Penelope. I saw myself
speeding like a meteor across those tremendous distances to plunge at
last into the heart of the Infinite mystery. Even while I shook with the
sick horror of the thought, it was not without its allure.

The heat of the room was great, for heat rises and I was on the ceiling.
A human desire to leave the study and go outside seized me, and, perilous
as I knew the action to be, I resolved to try it.

I walked across to the door of my study, but it was so high above my head
that I could not grasp the knob. I remembered, too, that I had locked
the door and thrown away the key. Fortunately, the transom was open, and
as this was nearer to me I made a spring and grasped its frame. Then,
painfully, I pulled myself up and managed to climb through, dropping to
the ceiling on the other side.

It was dark in the corridor, and as I crossed the ceiling I heard
footsteps ascending the stairs, which were above and to one side of me.
Then a candle flickered around the bend, and my landlord came into view,
walking head downward like the rest of the world.

In his hand he grasped what, as he came nearer, I made out to be a
revolver. Apparently he had heard the strange noises from my part of the
house and was intent on inquiring their meaning. I trembled, for I knew
that if he caught sight of me, upside down as he would think, against
the ceiling, he would instantly shoot me—supposing he did not faint from
fright.

But he did not see me, and after prowling about for twenty minutes he
went away satisfied, and I was left to make my way out of the house as
best I could.

I felt curiously light, as if I had lost many pounds of weight, which
indeed must have been the case; and I made very little sound as I trod
the ceilings toward the back of the house, where I knew there was a
fire-escape leading to the street. The door into the rear room was open,
and I clambered over the obstacle interposed by the top of its frame and
entered the chamber, crossing quietly to the window.

I dared not look down as I climbed through the aperture, but once I
had seized the ironwork of the fire-escape I felt more at ease; then
carefully I began my strange _upward_ climb toward the overhanging
street. To any one looking up I would have seemed to be a whimsical
acrobat coming down the ironwork on his hands, and I suppose I would have
created a sensation.

At the bottom my difficulties began, for I could not hope to remain
on the earth without support; walking on my hands would not solve the
puzzle. The pull of Penelope was exactly the pull of the earth when
one hangs by his hands from a height. With fear in my heart, I began
my extraordinary journey, toward the street, taking advantage of every
inequality in the foundation of the house, and often I was clinging
desperately to a single little shelf of brick, for while ostensibly I
was walking on my hands, actually I was hanging at a fearful height in
momentary danger of dropping into the immeasurable abyss of the sky
beneath me.

An iron fence ran around the house, and at one point it was close enough
for me to reach out a hand and seize it. Then, with a shudder, I drew
myself across onto its iron pickets, where, after a bit, I felt safer.

The fence offered a real support, for the iron frame about its top became
a narrow but strong rest for my feet. But the fence was not particularly
high, and as I progressed the earth, owing to the inequalities of the
ground, often was only a few inches above my head. Anyone stopping to
look would have seen a man—a madman, as he would have supposed—standing
on his head against the iron fence, and occasionally moving forward by
convulsive movements of his rigid arms.

The traffic had thinned, and there seemed to be few pedestrians on my
side of the thoroughfare. A wild idea seized me—to negotiate the distance
to your home, Haswell, clinging to the fences along the way. I thought it
could be done, and you were the only person to whom I felt I could tell
my strange story with a hope of belief.

Had I attempted the journey, I should have been lost without a doubt;
somewhere along the way my arm sockets would have rebelled, my grasp
would have torn away, and I would have been plunged into the depths of a
star-strewn space and become a wanderer in the void speeding toward an
unimagined destiny. As it happened, this was not to be.

I had reached the end of the side fence, and was just beginning to make
my way around to the front, when I was seen by a woman—a young woman,
who came along the street at that moment. I knew nothing of her presence
until her muffled scream reached my ears. Seeing me standing apparently
on my head, she thought me a maniac.

To me she seemed a woman upside down, and I looked into her face as one
looks into a reflection in the depths of a pool. A street lamp depended
from the pavement above me and not far from my position of the moment,
and in its light I saw that her face was young and sweet. I wonder,
Haswell, if there can be any situation, however incredible, in which the
face of a lovely woman will not command attention? I think not.

Well, it was a sweet face—and she did not scream again. I said to her:
“Please do not be frightened. I am not crazy, although I do not wonder
that you think so. Preposterous as it may seem, I am for the time being
in a normal position; were I to stand upon the earth as you do, I would—”

I was going to say that I would vanish from her side, but I realized that
this would be too much for her.

“I would be suffocated,” I finished. “The blood would rush to my head,
and I would die.”

Then she spoke, and her voice was filled with tenderness. It was easy to
understand that she believed me quite mad; but she did not fear me.

“You are ill,” she said. “You need assistance. May I not go for help? Is
there not someone you would like summoned?”

Again, Haswell, I thought of you. But would she carry a message? Would
she not, instead, go for the police? Was she not even now meditating a
ruse by which I might be captured before I did myself an injury? And I
knew now that I could not continue by myself. Sooner or later I would be
forced to drop, or I would certainly meet—not a handsome young woman but
a policeman. My mind was quickly made up. I said to her:

“Thank you, my dear, for your offer; but you are in error. There is
nobody who can help me now; perhaps there never will be. But this is my
home here, behind me, and rather than frighten people I shall go back as
I came and stay within doors. But I appreciate your kindness, and I am
glad that you do not believe me mad and that you are not afraid of me.
It may be that some day I shall be cured of this strange trouble, and if
that day comes I should like to meet you again and thank you. Will you
tell me your name?”

Then she told me her name, flutteringly, and—I almost screamed again.

Her name, Haswell, was _Penelope_! Penelope Pollard!

I all but let go of the railing that supported me, and as I wavered and
seemed about to fall she gave a low cry and, turning, ran away into the
darkness.

She had gone for help. I knew it, and shortly I knew that I would be the
center of an embarrassing and probably a jeering crowd. And so I turned
and went back. The return journey was worse than the forward journey had
been, but after an agony of tortured limbs and straining sinews I found
myself back in my study, and there, thoroughly worn out, I fell prone
upon the floor—or the ceiling—in a corner, and went instantly to sleep.

Hours later, when I awoke, I was lying on the carpeted floor of my study,
and the sun was pouring in at my window as it had done in past years.
Again I was subordinate to the laws of terrestrial gravity. I fancy that
as the influence passed I slid gradually down the wall until, without
shock, I reached the floor.

My landlord was beating upon my door, and after a dazed moment or two I
rose and tried to let him in. But as I had thrown away the key, I had to
pretend that I had lost it and had accidentally made myself a prisoner.
When he had freed me, I asked him if there had been any inquiry after me,
and he told me there had not. So it seemed that my fair friend of the
night before had not returned with a posse of bluecoats. I was grateful
and I determined at the first opportunity to look her up.

From that day forward I looked for her—Penelope Pollard. I traced
Pollards until I almost hated the name. There were Sylvias and Graces
and Sarahs and Janes and all the thousand and one other epithets bestowed
on feminine innocence, but never a Penelope—never, Haswell, until last
week.

_Penelope!_

Last week I found her. And where? Haswell, she lives within three doors
of my own home. She had lived there all the time. She had seen me many
times before my fateful night, and she had seen me often afterward—always
walking the earth normally like other human beings, save for that one
astounding evening. She was willing to talk, and glad to discuss my case;
she is a highly intelligent girl, I may say. She has since told me that
on that evening she believed me to be drunk. It amused her, but it did
not frighten her. That is why she did not go for help; she believed it to
be a drunken whim of mine to walk around on my hands, and that it would
pass in its own time.

That, Haswell, is the story of my amazing connection with the star
Penelope. You will understand that nearly fifty years must pass before it
will again be in perihelion, and by that time, probably, I shall be dead.

I am very glad of it; one such experience is enough. Perhaps also you
will understand that I would not have missed it that once for all the
worlds in all the solar systems.

       *       *       *       *       *

“I think your friend was right,” I remarked, after a long silence.
“You certainly were drunk, Raymond. Just as certainly as you are drunk
tonight. Or did the whole thing happen tonight, as you went along?”

“Drunk?” he echoed. “Yes, I am drunk, Haswell—drunk with a diviner nectar
than ever was brewed by man. Drunk with the wine of Penelope—the star
Penelope. I have kept the best part of the story until the end. Next week
Penelope and I are to be married. I am here tonight by her permission
for a last bout with my old friend Haswell. It is my final jamboree.
Congratulate me, Diccon!”

Of course, I congratulated him, and I did it sincerely; but the whole
story still vastly puzzles me. Mrs. Raymond is a charming woman, and her
name certainly is Penelope. But does that prove anything?




Almost Broke, Youth Falls Co-Heir to $12,000,000


Howard Girard, eighteen years old, had spent his last dime and was
wondering where he could raise a bit of change. Then he got a job in
a printing shop in Evanston, Illinois. And then, all at once, he got
word that he had fallen co-heir to a $12,000,000 fortune left by his
grand-uncle, Antoine Damange of Paris. Things like this have happened in
romantic novels. They don’t often happen in actual life. Howard, notified
of his remarkable good fortune, said, “Well, that’s pretty good,” and
then announced his intention of sticking to his job at the printing shop.
His share of the estate will amount to about $2,000,000.




THE PURPLE HEART

_The Story of a Haunted Cabin_

_By_ HERMAN SISK


I was weary of the fog that hung over me like a pall, fatigued to the
point of exhaustion. Since early afternoon the chill wind had forced it
through my clothing like rain. It depressed me.

The country through which I traveled alone was desolate and unpeopled,
save here and there where some bush assumed fantastic form. The very air
was oppressive. As far as I could see, were hills—nothing but hills and
those bushes. Occasionally I could hear the uncanny cry of some hidden
animal.

As I pushed on, a dread of impending disaster fastened itself upon me.
I thought of my home, of my mother and sister, and wondered if all was
well with them. I tried to rid myself of this morbid state of mind; but,
try as I would, I could not. It grew as I progressed, until at length it
became a part of me.

I had walked some fifteen miles, and was so weary I could scarcely stand,
when I came suddenly upon a log cabin. It was a crude affair, quite
small, and stood back some distance from the little-used road in a clump
of trees. A tiny window and a door faced the direction from which I
approached. No paint had ever covered the roughly-hewn logs from which it
was made, and the sun and the wind and the fog had turned the virgin wood
to a drab brown.

I felt it was useless to knock, for the cabin had every appearance of
being deserted. However, rap I did. No voice bade me enter, and with
an effort I pushed open the door and staggered into the house. Almost
immediately my weary legs crumpled under me, and I toppled and struck
heavily on my face.

When I regained consciousness, a rough room, scantily furnished, greeted
my eye. There was an ill-looking table, the top of which was warped and
rectangular in shape, standing in the center. To one side was a rustic
chair. Beyond the table was a bunk built into the wall; and on this lay
a man with shining eyes and a long, white beard. A heavy gray blanket
covered all of him but his head.

“You’re right on time,” he said in a high-pitched voice.

I looked at him closely.

“I don’t know you,” I said.

“Nor I you; but I knew you would come.”

“You are ill and need help?” I asked.

“No,” he replied in his strange monotone. “But on this day some one
always visits here. None has ever returned. But I have yet to be alone on
the night of this anniversary.”

There was something so weird in the way he looked at me out of those big,
watery eyes that I involuntarily shuddered.

“What anniversary?” I asked.

“The murder of my father,” he answered. “It happened many years ago. A
strange man came to this cabin just as you have done.”

He paused. I said nothing.

“You wish to stay all night?” he asked.

“Yes, if I may,” I replied. A moment later I regretted it.

“Quite so,” said he, with a slight nod of his white head. “Those were
the very words he addressed to us. We took him in. When morning came I
found my father dead in there,” rolling his eyes and raising his head to
indicate some point behind him, “with a dagger in his heart. You can see
the room if you open the door behind me.”

I looked at him a moment, hesitating. Then I went to the door and pushed
it open. Cautiously glancing into the other room, I saw there was nothing
there but a bunk similar to the one the old man occupied.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, evidently sensing my fear. “Nothing will hurt
you now. It’s after midnight when it happens.”

“What happens?” I asked.

“I don’t know. No two men have the same experience. It all depends on
one’s state of mind.”

“You mean—” I began.

“Yes,” he interrupted. “One man saw hands reaching toward him and ropes
in the air. He was escaping the gallows. Another saw faces of beautiful
girls. He was on his way to a large church wedding. A third saw pools
of blood and the white snow stained by human life. He was again living
through a massacre in Russia.”

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“No. No one does. The cabin is quite deserted. I come each year to
welcome the evening’s guest.”

“Is there no other place to stay?” I asked, a sudden fear seizing me.

“None. Besides, it is growing dark without, and you would lose your way
_even if you could leave_.”

There was something ominous in the way he uttered these last five words.

“Yes,” he went on, as if I had asked the unuttered question in my mind,
“you may think you can go, but you cannot. That is the curse my father
placed on this cabin. And I come each year to see that his word is
obeyed. Whoever enters that door yonder on this date must stay until
morning, and endure the agonies that only the rising sun can dispel.”

I looked about me to make sure that he and I were the only living things
in the room.

“What is to prevent my leaving?” I asked.

“Try to,” he replied, an eerie note of glee in his queer voice.

I walked to the door and gave it a mighty pull. To my utter amazement, it
was locked!

I tried again, this time with greater determination; but the door
remained unyielding. A sudden terror seized me. I turned to beseech the
old man to let me go, but _he was not there!_

I looked quickly about me. He was nowhere to be seen. I ran into the
other room. It was as empty as before. I rushed to the door there and
pulled vigorously, but my efforts were in vain.

Returning to his bunk, I examined it closely. To my great astonishment,
the heavy gray blanket was gone. In desperation I tried once more the
door through which I had entered the cabin. It was still as inflexible as
concrete.

Darkness fell fast and the room became very dim. I groped about and
discovered some matches and a candle on a shelf under the table. I struck
a match and lighted the candle. Letting some of the tallow drip onto
the table, I made a stick for it. I then sat down on the edge of the
bunk and anxiously awaited developments. But nothing occurred to mar the
somber silence of my prison.

Thus I remained until my watch pointed to the hour of nine. My journey
had greatly fatigued me, but my fears counterbalanced my weariness, so
that I kept awake in spite of it.

At length, however, my eyelids grew heavy; my eyes became bleary, so that
the candle multiplied, and my head drooped until my chin rested on my
chest.

Letting the candle burn, I lay back on the hard bunk. I was cold and
very nervous, and greatly felt the need of food and dry clothing. But my
fatigue soon overcame me and I fell asleep.

When I awakened, a sense of suffocation and bewilderment hung over me.
Whereas the room had been cold when I lay down, it now seemed close and
hot. I pulled myself to a sitting posture. The room was dark. The candle
was out.

I jumped to my feet and started toward the table. But in another moment I
stood frozen to the spot, my eyes arrested and my body palsied by what I
saw before me.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the far end of the room was a purple glow in the shape of a human
heart. It was stationary when I saw it, but almost immediately it began
to move about the room. Now it was at the window. Then beside the table.
Again it moved quickly but silently into the other room.

I pulled my frightened senses together and groped my way to the table. I
found a match. With trembling hands, I struck it and lit the candle. To
my surprise, it was almost as tall as when I had fallen asleep. I looked
at my watch. It was one o’clock.

A moment later the flame was snuffed out and I was again in total
darkness. I looked wildly about me. Horrors! The purple heart was beside
me! I shrank back in terror. It came closer.

Suddenly I acquired superhuman courage. I grasped for the spectre. I
touched nothing. I placed my left hand before me at arm’s length. _Lo!_
it was between me and my hand!

Presently it moved away. A great calm settled over me and I began to
sense a presence in the room. Now, without any fear and with steady
hand, I again struck a match and lighted the candle. It was promptly
extinguished. I struck another with similar results.

And now something brushed my lips and an arm was passed lightly about my
shoulders, but I was no longer afraid. The room continued cozily warm,
and a greater sense of peace came over me.

Presently I lay down again and watched the purple heart as it came toward
me and took its place at the edge of the bunk, like some loved one
sitting beside me.

I must have fallen asleep again, for I knew no more until broad daylight
awakened me, and I found myself lying in the middle of the room. There
was no fog. The sun was shining brightly, and a broad beam was streaming
through the dusty window pane. The candle and the matches were no longer
visible.

Suddenly I thought of the locked door. Springing to it, I gave a mighty
pull. It opened easily!

I snatched my cap from the rough floor and hurried into the warm sunlight.

A short distance from me a man came trudging along. He was a
powerful-looking fellow of middle age and was dressed in coarse working
clothes.

“Do you know anything about that cabin?” I shouted, as we drew closer.

“Sure. It’s haunted,” he replied. He looked hard at me. “Were _you_ in
there last night?”

I related my experience.

“That’s queer!” he muttered. “But I ain’t surprised. Last night was the
night.”

“What night?” I demanded.

“Ten years ago an old man was murdered in that cabin, and his son swore
on his deathbed he’d come back every anniversary and lure somebody into
the cabin for the night and torture him.”

He shuddered, his white face staring at the cabin.

“Come away!” he whispered. “Come away! It’s haunted! It’s haunted!”




FELINE

_A Whimsical Storiette_

_By_ Bruce Grant


Myra looked up from her writing.

“David,” she said, “I am positive I heard a cat outside.”

The man only growled, settled himself deeper in his comfortable chair,
and continued to read.

The giant breath of the blizzard rattled the windows. The snow flung
itself wrathfully against the panes. Outside it was bitter cold.

“I can’t bear to think of a cat outside on a night like this,” continued
Myra.

“Forget it!” exclaimed David, arousing himself. “You are continually
thinking of cats. All that I hear from you is cats. You dream of cats,
you occupy your mind with cats. I heard no cat crying outside. It is
only your imagination.”

“No; I heard a cat—I am sure,” insisted Myra.

It was warm inside. David sat beneath a green-shaded reading lamp. The
pyramid of light fell on his tall figure, attired in a dressing-gown and
slippers, slouched comfortably in the chair.

Myra sat at a desk, scribbling in a book, now and then tapping her lips
with her penholder. She wore a clinging, yellow negligée, and her hair
was done back tightly on her head. In her sleek, brown coil of hair at
the back there was a large Spanish comb.

“David; I _know_ I heard a cat then!” she cried, throwing down her pen.
“You surely must have heard it, too.”

David laid down his book.

“When you are through dreaming of cats,” he said, “I’ll be able to read.”

Myra rose.

“I cannot bear to think of a cat out on a night like this—a little
homeless cat.”

Then she walked from the room.

David mused. _Cats!_ Nothing but cats! She had gone insane on the subject
of cats. He had never known her to be so unreasonable about cats. She
seemed worse since their cat, Rodolpho, had died. Her mind seemed now
occupied with nothing but cats. He was sure she had been writing
something about cats in her book.

To prove his contention he walked to the desk. He picked up the small,
leather-bound book. He read:

              _“THE SNOWSTORM._

    _“Against the pane the snow flakes press_
      _Like dainty kitten paws._
    _Outside the chill wind stings and cuts,_
      _Like angry kitten claws.”_

David laid the note-book down. There! He had been right. He strode back
to his chair. Myra returned to the room.

“I looked out of the dining-room window,” she said. “I could not see the
cat. It is awful outside.”

She paused.

“Cats are such unfortunate creatures. In fact, all animals are
unfortunate—animals domesticated by man. They never know when their
masters are going to turn against them, or at least ignore them.”

“People treat cats that way because cats are good for nothing,” David put
in. “Cats enter your home, eat your food, roll up on your bed, and do
nothing. Rat traps are better for catching rats and mice. You don’t need
cats in the scheme of things. They are worthless.”

“Yes,” added Myra softly, in a passionless voice. “A woman comes into
your home, and eats your food, and spends your money, and curls up on
your bed. A cook and a housekeeper can do better work than she.”

“There is no comparison,” cried David. “A woman at least shows you some
affection—a cat never.”

“A woman shows affection when she knows that it is wanted,” Myra said in
a distant voice.

There was an awkward silence. These arguments never came to anything.
Why did they indulge in them? They always led to disagreeable subjects,
or touched on the fatuity of marriage. No, such arguments never did any
good. Far better if both remained silent. David picked up his book.

“Cats are very intelligent animals,” Myra continued, half aloud. “They
know instantly when they are not wanted. If anyone in a household hates
a cat, there is no need of that person speaking gruffly or striking the
cat. The cat will know. Cats have powers of divination which are denied
most humans. They are such sensitive creatures. They respond to the least
touch, the least kind thought. They slink away at the least unkind word,
at the least unkind thought.”

She hesitated, trifling with her pen.

“They know when they are not wanted. I should not be surprised if a cat
would go out into the cold—on a night like this—if it knew it was not
wanted.”

“Stop such darn foolishness!” growled David.

Myra looked at him, raising her eyebrows quizzically.

“Please don’t talk that way,” she said.

For an instant there came over him a surge of hatred. Would she ever
leave him alone! Alone for a few minutes of peaceful reading. Wasn’t she
contented to live quietly and peacefully without continually worrying
herself about cats, and whether or not her husband still loved her.

She was talking:

“It is true I love cats. I have loved them all my life. They are the most
beautiful and graceful of animals. But please forgive me if I hurt you by
talking about them. They show me affection. They seem to know that I love
them.”

But David was not listening. He was thinking. She was like a cat. Her
movements were catlike. Truly, she was every inch a cat. Come into your
home, absorb your warmth, eat your food, taunt you, insist on being
stroked and petted at every turn—truly a remarkable woman, as remarkable
as those small animals she adored, David scowled.

Events tumbled over themselves in his mind. She was susceptible to men.
When one caressed her with his voice she almost purred with pleasure. She
loved those who flattered her. He had flattered her most and had won her.
She now still expected all the flattery and little attentions which he
had given her before. She could not “settle down.” He felt that he exuded
hate at that moment. He felt that at last his eyes were opened.

Myra got up from her desk again.

“I’m going out into the back yard and see if I can find that kitty,” she
announced.

David could not read now. He sat silently in his chair, repressing the
wrathful things that tried to force themselves from his lips. He heard
Myra putting on her shoes.

She peeped in finally and smiled wistfully. He sat in the same spot. The
back door closed softly.

David gradually began to grow calmer. He sat and waited. In the silent
house, the quiet broken only by the rattling of the windows and the
thudding of the snow against the glass, he began to look back over his
married life.

They had been more or less happy during the three years. It would be hard
to find another woman who would put up with his idiosyncrasies. What a
fool he was! Myra was a wonderful woman, after all, the most wonderful in
the world!

He walked to the back door and called out into the night. He rushed
through the snow and the cutting wind. He returned and waited. The clock
told off the long hours.

Then it came to him—Myra’s words, “I should not be surprised if a cat
would go out on a night like this—into the cold—if it knew it was not
wanted....”




Chicagoans to Live in the Air Fifty Years Hence


Fifty years from now Chicago’s citizens will no longer be rooted to the
ground, but will fly in the air like birds, according to Mrs. William J.
Chalmers, who has been closely identified with the city’s progress.

“As we overstepped the bounds between earth and water, so we will
overstep that between earth and air,” she declares. “Whether it will be
through some simple device which we will attach to our shoulders or feet,
or whether we will learn breath control so that we can literally swim
through the air, I cannot say. Certainly in fifty years this will come to
pass—that we will all own small aeroplanes, so perfected that it will be
possible for us to alight on the window ledges of our apartments, whether
they be ten or twenty stories high. Chicago will, fifty years hence, have
become a seaport. Steam-ships will be run electricity and will attain
tremendous speed. But steamers will be used for heavy loads and passenger
travel will be by aeroplane.”




TWO HOURS OF DEATH

_A Ghost Story_

_By_ E. THAYLES EMMONS


_A few weeks ago, while looking over some old papers which I found in
the desk of my deceased father, I chanced upon the following manuscript.
Whether it is a true record of some adventure in my father’s life, or
a bit of fiction which he had at some time prepared for publication,
I do not know; but I am inclined to believe that it is indeed a true
narrative. I have ascertained that such a man as Felix Sayres actually
did exist; that he was an intimate friend of my father, and that he died
in the strange manner described in the manuscript; but further than that
I know nothing. However, I submit the whole thing as I found it, without
change._

       *       *       *       *       *

As I picked up my morning paper, the first item to catch my eye was the
following:

                         DIES IN MADHOUSE

             INMATE FOR THIRTY-FIVE YEARS DIES SUDDENLY.

    Felix Sayres, aged 69 years, who has been an inmate of the
    Eastwood Asylum for the Insane for the past thirty-five years,
    was found dead in his cell yesterday morning. At one time
    he was a well-known scientist of this city, but at the age
    of thirty-four became hopelessly insane, and has since been
    confined in the asylum, of which he was, at the time of his
    death, the oldest inmate.

Felix Sayres was my college chum, and in later years my closest friend,
and now that he is dead I am at liberty to reveal the remarkable story
concerning him, a part of which not even he has ever known, though a
principal actor in the awful scene which has been indelibly stamped on
my memory, haunting my waking hours and recurring to me in oft-repeated
dreams.

My friend was a man of genius and ability, and had it not been for the
terrible misfortune which came upon him, he would have become famous in
the scientific world. Nearly all of his time, day and night, was given
over to scientific research, in finding and working upon new hypotheses
and bringing to light discoveries in that strange world into which he had
evidently been born.

I was at that time his most intimate friend, and to me a great many of
his hopes and secrets were confided. Many nights have I passed in his
laboratory, listening to his explanation of some new theory, or aiding
him in his experiments.

It was always a source of great pleasure to me thus to pass a portion of
my time, although my mind was not of the same scientific trend as that of
my friend. His theories were always so lucidly elaborated and so strong
fundamentally that the most abstract of them seemed, even in the embryo,
capable of actual demonstration, and so great was my confidence in him
that I always stood ready to assist in any experiment or test.

At one point, however, I drew the line. Sayres, while none the less
engaged with material subjects, was constantly dabbling in various
psychical experiments with which I refused absolutely to have anything
to do. The occult, I argued, should remain occult. Had it been intended
that we should see beyond the things of this world the power would have
been given us ages ago, I maintained, and the less one dealt with such
unsolvable problems as vexed my friend the happier would be his life.
Having no desire for knowledge of the supernatural, I studiously avoided
all dealing with it, and it was tacitly understood, between Sayres and
myself, that beyond the line of ordinary conversation the subject was
forbidden. I knew, however, that for him the thing had great fascination
and that my opinion did nothing to banish it from his mind.

At the time of which I write I had not seen Sayres for several weeks, as
was often the case when he was deepest in his books and experiments. I
had called at his laboratory, but his servant had said that no one was
to be admitted, and I knew that it was useless to attempt to see him.
At length I received a letter from him, saying that he had something of
interest to disclose and urging me to “come tonight!”

When I arrived at my friend’s laboratory I found him in a high state of
nervous excitement, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. He greeted
me effusively, and with his usual directness, plunged at once into the
matter at hand, which was evidently uppermost in his mind. Seating
himself at the opposite side of the table and directly facing me, he
began:

“Thornton, I want you to prepare yourself to hear of something that is
to be entirely different from anything I have heretofore shown you.
It is something that to mankind has always been vague, uncertain,
unfathomable—something, in fact, that has existed only in imagination and
in theory, but never in demonstration. I will show it to you tonight, and
to the world tomorrow, in such a manner as entirely to revolutionize life
and living, death and dying.

“As you very well know, my religious beliefs have always been skeptical;
but my skepticism has arisen rather from insufficiency of faith with
which to overcome the lack of direct evidence which mortals have
concerning spiritual things than from stubborn unbelief. That there is a
Supreme Being I have never doubted. His many works are too manifest, and
it is impossible to conceive of such a creation as this earth and all its
delicate mechanisms, and of the rest of the universe with all its unknown
wonders, without some vast Supernatural oversight.

“Although I have never discussed the subject to any great extent, I
have nursed it as a pet and secret hobby, and have spent many hours in
work along certain lines in connection with it. In the beginning, I put
finiteness aside from the question. The human mind, or soul, with its
unlimited powers, has always been regarded by me as the most wonderful
of all creations. I have been able to find no entirely satisfactory
definition of this ‘mind’ from a purely physical standpoint, and
therefore sought to obtain one. Nobody will say that the soul is
material; it belongs to the body and develops with it, but is no part of
it.

“Life is but a taper, which a slight breath may easily puff out, but
this indeterminable thing called ‘mind,’ I reasoned, must be governed by
different laws. Is it possible that the Creator ruled that the greatest
of all His works should be blotted out with the cessation of life in that
sordid mass of clay, the body? Or did He arrange to reclaim it, together
with its spiritual complement, to a world of its own, as men have for
ages believed?

“Skeptic as I have been, I have always been willing to concede that the
idea of a spiritual existence, while vague, seems no more wonderful than
thousands of other things which we see about us daily, and for the reason
that they are manifest, give them no thought whatever.

“As a basis for the theory which I set myself to formulate, I took what
I shall term ‘mind atoms.’ As I have before said, we cannot regard the
mind force as a material thing; but, as a contradictory fact, we know
that it is _something_, and further than that generality we are ignorant.
Then, as the mind force governs alike every portion of the body, this
indeterminable something of which it is composed, I reasoned, must be in
one portion as in another.

“I then placed these mind atoms as being diffused in the space occupied
by the body and lying even between the atoms of its material composition.
If, at death, this mind is merely withdrawn from the body—all of which I
worked upon as already determined—would it not occupy in the spirit world
the same space and retain the same shape of the human form from which it
had fled?

“Then the idea suggested itself that if some powerful and undiscovered
action could be produced (by the use of drugs, probably), causing an
instantaneous and simultaneous separation of every mind atom from the
physical atoms, the effect would be a spiritual death, while at the same
time physical vitality would not be in the least impaired. I then went
one step further and added the supposition that as the effects of the
action wore away it would be possible for the soul to re-enter the body,
even as it had been driven out, and creation would again be complete.

“I have worked untiringly, and wrought experiment after experiment, until
at last I have succeeded in producing a drug that will accomplish all
that I have explained to you. I have used it on various animals and have
seen them recover from the effects of it, and thus have ascertained that
it is harmless. I ventured to try it on myself, and I know that _I have
certainly solved the mystery of the future_, although during the brief
period in which my soul was in the spirit world I could make but few
observations, and those of minor importance.

“I saw no other spiritual beings, but remained, for the most, close by
my soulless body, waiting for the proper moment to return to my physical
life, if it were indeed to be possible; but I am confident that what I
have accomplished renders the unrevealed capable of being revealed and
robs the hereafter of all its secrets.”

       *       *       *       *       *

He paused, and for a moment, so bewildered was I by the strangeness of it
all, that I sat speechless, my brain in a whirl.

Thinking to overcome my amazement, I reached for the wine decanter, which
was on the table before me, and into the glass nearest me I poured some
of the strong wine which Sayres always kept at hand. After draining it, I
looked up to see a gleam of satisfaction flit across his countenance.

“Thornton,” said he, “in that glass of wine there was enough of the drug
to render you temporarily dead for two hours, as I can best calculate.
In five minutes you will be unconscious. I want you to undergo the same
experience which I have safely passed through, so that we may later
exchange ideas on the subject.”

In spite of his assurance, a deadly fear took possession of me, and I
swore and expostulated at his unfair treatment. With undisturbed calm, he
again spoke to me, endeavoring to dispel my fears, and assuring me that
he would be conversing with me again at the end of the two hours.

Even as he was speaking his words became indistinct, and an overpowering
dizziness seized me. Then came a moment of which I have no recollection,
after which, by the fact that I stood, or _seemed_ to stand, within a few
feet of the chair in which I had been seated, _gazing at myself_, even
now in the same position, I knew that my body was without a soul, even as
Sayres had said, and that I was the soul standing there!

I looked about me, and in place of the invisible atmosphere which I was
accustomed to, the room seemed filled with a constantly moving, pulsating
vapor, dense, gray and foglike, but through which I could discern objects
with as much ease as ordinarily.

I saw my friend lift my body from the chair, lay it on a bench and place
a cushion under the head. Then he began pacing to and fro, up and down,
back and forth, and I found that I could move about at will and follow
him.

I attempted to speak to him, but now there was no sound; I reached forth
my hand to grasp a chair, but it offered no resistance, and I realized
that I indeed occupied no space, but was nevertheless in space and a
part of space. I saw my friend’s lips move as though he were speaking. I
heard no sound, but was able to understand his words, although he did not
address me.

The glare of the lamps gave me a sensation which, had I been in my
physical form, I should have termed pain, and I much preferred to keep in
a dark corner. By a direct mental communication, of which I was not at
the time aware, I was able to signify this fact to Sayres, and he at once
turned out all the lights, leaving the laboratory lighted only by a low
fire in the grate at the end of the room. I was then astonished to find
that the absence of light had no effect upon my visual powers, and that I
could see in the dark as well as before.

From this I drew the conclusion that in reality I possessed no visuality,
as it seemed. My senses I had left behind with my physical self, and
here they were replaced by a strange comprehension of everything about
me. I still had the abilities which the senses convey, but their actual
presence was lacking.

I could flit through the air with as much ease as I could walk on the
floor, and could even have sunk through that same floor had I desired,
for the most solid substance offered no resistance to my form. I was able
to pass directly through anything.

The success of the experiment, up to this point, served to restore my
confidence in Sayres and I entertained no doubt but that at the end of
the stated time I could return to my body again. I therefore determined
to lose no time in making all the observations possible.

Sayres was still pacing the room, and it was evident from his actions
that in a large degree fear was the cause of his restlessness. He knew
that in all probability I was constantly near him, and he would have
avoided coming in contact with me had he been able to do so. Felix Sayres
possessed courage beyond that of many men, but few mortals can be brought
face to face with the supernatural without experiencing fear.

All of us have at various times—sometimes by day, but more often at
night—undergone the feeling of the proximity of some ghostly presence,
giving rise to a sensation of coldness and choking horror. This was
clearly demonstrated to me now, for whenever myself and Sayres came
within a few feet of each other I could easily see that he felt my
presence. He made no attempt to communicate with me and paid no heed to
the various things I did to attract his attention.

After a little, he seemed to recover himself and calmly walked across
the room to where my soulless body lay, and stood looking down at it.
By the gleam in his eyes, and by my wonderful supernatural power of
comprehension, I knew in an instant that overwork and nervous strain had
at last done their work, that the cord of reason had snapped and that my
friend was a madman!

His lips moved and I heard him, or rather _felt_ him, address my body:

“At last I have you in my power! I have waited long for this moment, and
at last my waiting is to be rewarded. I have driven the soul from the
body, and the body lives; but now I will take away life itself, and you
will be dead!”

The word seemed to please him, and he murmured slowly:

“Dead, _dead_!”

       *       *       *       *       *

I heard him continue in his madness:

“It is you who have stolen the honors due me; it is you who would prevent
me from becoming famous; it is you, curse you, who will marry the only
woman I can ever love—and then you ask me to let you live! No, damn you!”

He then took from a drawer nearby a large and peculiarly-shaped
dissecting knife which I had often seen him use, and, with the
deliberation of the insane, he proceeded to sharpen it on a steel,
testing it from time to time with his thumb.

In my overpowering fear for the safety of my physical self, I know not
all that I did, but I do know that it was all in vain. How I longed for
the power of speech! And what would I not have given for the use of my
own strong body with which to cope with him!

But I was utterly in his power and at his mercy, and the sickening
thought came to me that I, the spirit, must stand passive by his side and
see my body, still living, hacked and mutilated by the knife he held. I
called for help, but knew there was no sound, and in despair I waited.

I heard the madman that was once my friend mutter: “That will do,” and,
with the gleaming blade in his hand, he started across the room, and I
knew that the awful moment was at hand.

I attempted to grapple with him, but my hands felt nothing. Another step
and he would be at the bench and it would all be over. Instinctively,
I threw myself between the madman and my body, with my arms stretched
forth as if to keep him away. How it was accomplished I cannot tell, but
by the look of mortal terror that came in the face before me, such as I
have never since seen drawn in any countenance, I knew that I had _become
visible_ and that he saw me!

I can imagine the picture at this moment—the spirit guarding the
helpless counterpart of itself—and indeed it must have been a tableau
to have struck fear to the stoutest heart. My friend’s eyes dilated with
horror; the knife dropped from his hand.

One moment thus he stood. Then his lips parted, and I knew that he had
uttered a shriek. He then fell at my feet, blood flowing from his mouth
and nostrils, his eyes rolling in terror.

I remained chained to the spot by the fear that he would recover from his
fit and carry out his fiendish intention.

At length the same feeling of dizziness, which I had before experienced,
returned to me, and almost before I could realize what was taking place
I found myself sitting upright on the bench, body and soul again united,
and the form of Sayres at my feet, to convince me that all was not a
hideous dream.

I placed my poor friend on the bench, and finally I succeeded in bringing
him back to consciousness, but in a very weak condition.

He passed through a very severe illness, but never regained his sanity.
He remained hopelessly insane.

Of this awful story I have related he never recollected any part. I was
unable to find any of the wonderful drug in his laboratory, and am as
ignorant of its composition now as I was on that terrible night. I have
been silent on the matter, hoping that some day Sayres would again regain
his reason, but now that he is dead I have been impelled to write this
narrative.




Neurotic Women Have Queer Mania


The astonishing fraud perpetrated by Evelyn Lyons of Escanaba, Michigan,
who, with the aid of a hot water bottle, fooled the doctors into
believing that she had a fever of 118 degrees, is not without precedent.
She was the victim of an odd mania that often seizes abnormal women who
crave wide notoriety. Doctors and psychologists have long been acquainted
with this strange caprice of neurotic women, but it is rarely that one
maintains the fake illness for as long a time as did Miss Lyons, who set
the nation’s medical fraternity in a tempest of learned discussion before
her sham was discovered.

This erratic desire to be an object of curiosity often takes other forms,
as in the case of Mary Ellen MacDonald of Antigonish, Nova Scotia,
who, in order to attract attention, turned herself into a “spook.” By
starting mysterious fires around her home, walking stealthily through
the farmhouse at night and slapping the faces of sleeping persons,
rapping on the walls and so forth, she contrived to spread a feeling of
dread throughout the countryside. The superstitious country folk were
sure that the house was haunted, and as Miss MacDonald carried her hoax
still further—sending weird radio messages, tying knots in the tails of
cows, attiring herself in ghostly gowns and fleeing across the moonlit
fields—the fear of disembodied spirits spread rapidly, and the uncanny
“manifestations” became a matter of nation-wide discussion.

Spiritualists, mediums, and others journeyed to Antigonish, and, after
watching the unearthly “phenomena,” were unanimously agreed that a
spirit, or spirits, had returned to haunt the community.

Then Dr. Walter Prince of the Psychical Research Society went there,
investigated the “ghost” more thoroughly, and traced all the terrifying
happenings to Mary Ellen MacDonald.

Meanwhile, however, Miss MacDonald—like Miss Lyons, the “fever girl”—had
gratified her craving for notoriety.




_HAMILTON CRAIGIE Spins Another Yarn in His Inimitable Style_

MIDNIGHT BLACK


[Illustration]

Rita Daventry sat bolt upright in her bed, her ears strained against the
singing silence, breath indrawn sharply through her parted lips.

There had been no sound, save as a sound heard in dreams, but as she sat
there, rigid, tense, in the thick darkness, leaning forward a little in
the great bed, she was certain that she was not alone.

Someone or _something_ was in the room.

The blackness was like an invisible wall; it pressed upon her eyelids now
like a gigantic and smothering hand. And then, all at once, she heard it:
the brief _clink_ of metal upon metal; a rustle, like the flicker of a
wind-blown leaf.

Simply by reaching forth her hand she could have pressed the wall switch,
flooded that midnight blackness with the blazing effulgence of the
electrolier, but she could not. Eyes strained against that velvet black,
she crouched now, in the immensity of the great bed, the silken case of
the sheets turned suddenly to ice, her pulses hammering to the tension of
her hard-held breathing, there in the stifling dark.

There came a clanking, a whirring as of wings invisible; then, from the
wall clock, there boomed twelve heavy strokes—midnight.

She heard the slow _tick-tock_ of that steady beat, and then, of a sudden
she heard something else: the muffled ticking of a watch.

The sound was not loud—it came to her as through walls of silence—but it
was nearer now. She was certain of it.

The door was closed; it was a heavy, sound-proof affair; the intruder,
whoever he might be, had entered by the window. Rita Daventry knew that
he was armed, and desperate—desperate with the cold courage of a cornered
grizzly; a housebreaker, who, if attacked, would shoot his way out,
reckless of consequences. To such a man, murder, as the price of his
liberty, would be a little thing.

And with the thought she stiffened; her mouth opened, to release the
scream, at the first sound of which she knew that aid would come,
unthinking, swift, reckless, too, in its first fury of intrepid action.

But she would not summon that scream.

On the floor above, her husband was working now in his laboratory. But
the man below would have the advantage of that midnight black; with the
opening of the door, he would shoot him down with the ruthless, cold
cruelty of a wolf.

But that was not all the reason. To Rita Daventry, alone now with this
invisible menace of the dark, there had come, on a sudden, a thought to
freeze her blood, the thought of Ronald Armitage.

It had been only the night before, at a studio tea, that Armitage had
made the threat, or the promise, that came to her now with a sudden,
cold prevision of tragedy. Armitage was young, reckless, debonair, of
an engaging manner with women; and Rita had encouraged him—well, just a
little, she told herself.

It was a fascinating game—in the playing. The paying—that would be
another matter. And as if the words had been spoken in her ear, she was
hearing now the smooth voice, thickened a trifle with his potations, with
that faintly roughened, passionate undertone:

“... Daventry doesn’t care, does he? Why should _you_? I tell you, Rita,
you’ve gotten into my blood. Some night _between you and me_—the witching
hour, ha? I _promise_ you I’ll be there; and you won’t have to _look_ to
find me!”

The handsome, dissipated face had come close to hers; there had been a
menace in the tone, as well as a caress. And the fact that the man had
been—well—not himself could not condone. The noise, the lights, the music
upon which, dancing together, they had floated as on a languorous, steep
wave of sound and motion, could not condone.

Rita had had no excuse save the oft-repeated, sophisticated sophistry
of “The last time; this will be the very last!” And she had gone on,
protesting, if at all, with a half-mutinous, wholly unconsidered
coquetry, which, at the last, had led to this!

       *       *       *       *       *

Ronald Armitage had the reputation of being something of a “blood;” the
Armitages had sowed and reaped, and of young Ronald it was said that he
would stop at nothing for the accomplishment of his desires.

And now, alone in that vast bed, hearing again that stealthy movement by
the window, the girl checked again sharply in the act of reaching forth
her hand. With her finger upon the button, she froze, rigid, as that
smooth, stealthy advance moved closer.

There came a fumbling at the footboard; she heard the sound, like a
faint, rubbing whisper, of naked fingers sliding upon polished wood. But
the night was a moonless, black emptiness; the bed-chamber was like a
tomb for blackness, dark as a wolf’s throat, and yet alive with movement,
with a tension drawn like a fine wire and singing at a pitch too low for
sound.

At any moment, too, Daventry might come down; he was a careful man who
guarded his house and the treasure therein with a meticulous observance.
And sitting there, waiting, nerves at pitch, Rita Daventry tasted to the
full the fruits of her single indiscretion. As between Armitage and her
husband, she knew now beyond peradventure whom it was she loved, and with
a love, as she knew now, fierce and protective, desirous above all things
of the safety—the life, indeed, of the toiler on the second floor.

Armitage had never been in her bedchamber, of course, although he knew
its location, had seen it, from the outside, walking with Daventry
through the corridor without. But in the darkness strange tricks are
played with one’s sense of direction. The room was a large one, lofty,
high-ceilinged, its rear windows opening upon a service alley, and it had
been by means of this alley that the midnight intruder had made entrance.

She could hear him now a little better—his breathing, hard-held and
yet rising to that peculiar, stertorous quality that was almost like a
snuffling, a quick, eager panting as of a hound questing his quarry in
the dark. If Armitage had been drinking—but then, he must have been, or
he would scarcely have made good his threat.

Daventry, though a studious, careful man, was a lion when aroused; he
could shoot and shoot straight. And if the two should meet, there in that
midnight black, it would be grim tragedy for one, or both—tragedy with
none for witness save that pale girl new-risen from her couch of dreams,
wide-eyed, her gaze fixed now in a sightless staring upon the black well
of the night.

And then, as she shrank backward against the pillows, there came a
thumping clatter, a thick, whispered oath, and a following silence that
was more terrible than any sound.

He was coming now, around the foot-board, along the side of the bed.
She felt rather than heard that fumbling, stealthy advance; the fingers
feeling along the counterpane; the noiseless _pad-pad_ of the feet
deadened by the thick pile of the Kermanshah rug; in imagination she
could almost see the face, flushed now, bemused with drink, the leering,
parted mouth....

The scream, lodged in her throat now, seemed like a bird beating against
bars; in a moment the silence would be ripped from end to end, as a
sheet is ripped from point to point, with the tearing impact of that
scream, rising heavenward with the first defiling touch of those groping
fingers. Armitage’s face on that evening had been the face of a satyr,
high-colored, the nose sharpened to a point of greed, the eyes in a wide,
avid staring upon the perfect curve of her shoulders, her neck.

And she had encouraged him with by-play of hand and eye, speech in a low
rich contralto dealing in double meanings that yet had no meaning; glance
provocative plumbing the depths of his—for this.

And in that moment Rita Daventry knew fear; the primal fear of the woman
whose very protection has become her peril—the peril of the abyss.

And it was then that she heard it, like a summons of doom; the sound of
heavy footsteps from the room above.

       *       *       *       *       *

The footsteps were coming down now; they beat hollowly against the iron
treads of the staircase with rapid thunder.

Robert Daventry was coming, leaping downward, now to meet—the death that
waited for him behind that closed door, or to deal it to the man who,
somewhere in that smothering dark, crouched, automatic ready, waiting for
the man who was coming—on the wings of death.

After all, her husband might not have heard that thumping clatter; all
unknowing, he might be rushing downward to meet an ambush unsuspected and
unknown. And that Armitage would shoot, the woman was convinced. For he
would put but one construction upon that headlong descent. Daventry had
heard him, knew that he was there, like a thief in the night, a marauder,
an outlaw meriting the swift justice of the ballet.

And then, all at once, the steps ceased; a silence grew and held that
was like the silence before storm, so that to the woman upon the bed it
seemed that she abode in a vacuum of sound and silence, brooding upon the
night in a volcanic, breathless calm.

It must be a nightmare that would pass, a waking dream that would
presently dissolve in the sanity of peaceful slumber. She strove, as a
drowning swimmer fathoms deep in dreams, to scream a warning, a command
to the man—_her_ man—silent now upon the threshold of life, or of death.
But she could not.

And presently, how she could not have told, she knew that, where before
there had been but _one_ dim Presence in that bed-chamber, now there were
_two_.

She had heard nothing, seen nothing, felt nothing; neither the opening
nor the closing of the heavy door; no faintest sound of breathing; the
silence held, borrowing a tension from the electric air. Remote, as
through many thicknesses of walls, there came to her now, as from a world
removed, the night noises of the City, muted by distance to a vague
shadow of clamor, faint and far.

But that velvet black before her was, as she knew, most terribly endowed
with motion, sinister, alive, awaiting merely the spark, the pressure of
rigid finger upon trigger, the touch of hand against hand, the faintest
whisper of a sound, to dissolve in a chaos of red ruin—and with it the
ruin of her world.

Abruptly, again she heard that muffled ticking, this time close at
hand, and with it, as she fancied, the faint breathing of a man. But
even as she heard it, it receded, died; there came the faint _snick_
of metal upon metal, like the _snick_ and slither of a steel blade; it
was followed by a sort of chugging impact, like the sound made by a
knife sheathed home, say, at the base of a man’s brain, or between the
shoulders—a sound to freeze the blood.

That Armitage could have been capable of this she could not believe,
but upon the instant her flesh crawled abruptly at the thought; of the
invisible duelists but one remained now, and he was coming toward her;
she fancied she could hear the faint, scarce-audible footfall on the
thick pile of the rug.

And then—the silence was abruptly broken by a shattering crash. The
intruder, unfamiliar with the room’s interior, had swept a great vase
from the mantel.

And then, distinct and clear, she heard the sodden impact of fist on
flesh, a heaving grunt, the lift and strain of heavy bodies, close-locked.

And following this, in a sudden fury, all round the room the pictures
rattled in their frames; the flooring shook; a heavy desk went over in a
smashing ruin; grunts followed it, the straining shock of big men in a
death-grapple. But mostly it was a fight in silence and darkness, with
the quick, hard breathing of men at the last desperate urge of their
spent strength.

With her finger again upon the light-switch, again she hesitated, and
in that flash of time she heard all at once a quick, sobbing breath—a
groan—then silence.

Somewhere out there in that midnight blackness her husband might be
lying wounded—dead—above him the beast whom she had known as Ronald
the Debonair, turning his face now toward the girl who, shivering and
defenseless, crouched forlorn upon the bed.

But even as this fresh terror out of the dark assailed her, there came a
heavy crash—another—the barking rattle of an automatic, the quick flashes
stabbing into the murk to right and left.

The roaring crashes beat upon her ears like a tocsin of doom, and then,
in answer, three answering shots, deliberate, slow. With them there came
the slumping fall of a heavy body, and the labored breathing of a man.

The duel was over.

For a moment the silence held. Dreading what the coming of the light
might reveal, her finger, hovering upon the push-button, came away;
then, with an agony of effort, made a darting thrust.

And as the light sprang to full flower she looked with white face and
staring eyes, upon the tall figure in the doorway.

It was Robert Daventry!

       *       *       *       *       *

But her hysterical, glad cry was stifled in her throat as her husband,
bending forward over the rug, turned over the dead man with his foot.

Fearful, yet eager to see, she rose upon her knees, peering with wide
eyes over the foot-board.

Then—hysteria seized her with, by turns, a sudden storm of mingled
weeping and frantic laughter.

“That.... _That_...!” she cried, pointing a shaking finger at the still
figure on the carpet.

And then:

“Oh, my God!... it might have been—!”

But Daventry, gazing with a grim face at the rigid figure of the
housebreaker—the unclean skin, with its bristly stubble of unshaven chin,
blue now under the lights—thought it merely the natural reaction of the
terrific strain which she had undergone.

“You mean—it might have been—_me_!” he said slowly. “Well—of course....”

“Of course, Dear,” lied Rita Daventry, with a misty smile.




Mummies Made by Electricity


R. F. McCampbell, a Chicago undertaker, claims he has invented a process
of embalming a dead body so that it will last forever. For twelve years
Mr. McCampbell has been working on his process, and he now exhibits a
modern mummy, lying in grandeur in an elaborate coffin, as proof that
he has succeeded. By dehydrating a body with electricity, he says, its
natural expression, even its complexion, may be preserved for ages.

“In the dehydration process performed by the Egyptians,” said Mr.
McCampbell, “the body was buried in the sand for seventy days. Then linen
was wrapped about the corpse to prevent reabsorption of water and the
body was placed away in a tomb. Through the electrical process the body
will retain its lifelike appearance. It will be particularly valuable for
preserving the bodies of great men so that future generations may see
them as lifelike as the day they died.”




MASTERPIECES OF WEIRD FICTION

_No. 1—The Haunted and the Haunters; or, The House and the Brain_

_By_ BULWER LYTTON


A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me
one day, as if between jest and earnest, “Fancy! since we last met I have
discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.”

“Really haunted—and by what?—ghosts?”

“Well, I can’t answer that question; all I know is this: six weeks ago
my wife and I were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet
street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apartments,
Furnished.’ The situation suited us; we entered the house, liked the
rooms, engaged them by the week—and left them the third day. No power on
earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don’t wonder at
it.”

“What did you see?”

“Excuse me; I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious
dreamer—nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my
affirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of
your own senses. Let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or
heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our
own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us
away, as it was an indefinable terror which seized both of us whenever
we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither
saw nor heard anything. And the strange marvel of all was, that for once
in my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be—and allowed,
after the third night, that it was impossible to stay a fourth in that
house. Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who kept
the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite
suit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said dryly, ‘I know why;
you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever stayed a second
night; none before you a third. But I take it they have been very kind
to you.’

“‘They—who?’ I asked, affecting to smile.

“‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I do not mind them.
I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a
servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don’t
care,—I’m old, and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them,
and in this house still.’ The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness
that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her
further. I paid for my week, and too happy were my wife and I to get off
so cheaply.”

“You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I should like better than to
sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you
left so ignominiously.”

My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight
toward the house thus indicated.

It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but
respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up—no bill at the
window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy,
collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, “Do you want
any one at that house, sir?”

“Yes, I heard it was to be let.”

“Let!—why, the woman who kept it is dead—has been dead these three weeks,
and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr. J⸺ offered ever so
much. He offered mother who chars for him, £1 a week just to open and
shut the windows, and she would not.”

“Would not!—and why?”

“The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in
her bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her.”

“Pooh! You speak of Mr. J⸺. Is he the owner of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he live?”

“In G⸺ Street, No. —.”

“What is he? In any business?”

“No, sir—nothing particular; a single gentleman.”

I gave the potboy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and
proceeded to Mr. J⸺, in G⸺ Street, which was close by the street that
boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J⸺ at home—an
elderly man with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.

I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house
was considered to be haunted—that I had a strong desire to examine a
house with so equivocal a reputation; that I should be greatly obliged
if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing
to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. “Sir,”
said Mr. J⸺, with great courtesy, “the house is at your service, for as
short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question—the
obligation will be on my side should you be able to discover the cause of
the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. I cannot
let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or answer
the door. Unluckily the house is haunted, if I may use that expression,
not only by night, but by day, though at night the disturbances are of
a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. The poor
old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out
of a workhouse; for in her childhood she had been known to some of my
family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented
that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong
mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house.
Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s inquest,
which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have so despaired of
finding any person to take charge of the house, much more a tenant, that
I would willingly let it rent free for a year to anyone who would pay its
rates and taxes.”

“How long is it since the house acquired the sinister character?”

“That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. The old woman
I spoke of, said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and
forty years ago. The fact is, that my life has been spent in the East
Indies, and in the civil service of the Company. I returned to England
last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, among whose possessions
was the house in question. I found it shut up and uninhabited. I was
told that it was haunted, that no one would inhabit it. I smiled at what
seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in repairing it, added
to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles—advertised it, and
obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel on half pay. He came in
with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants; they
all left the house the next day; and, although each of them declared that
he had seen something different from that which had scared the others,
a something still was equally terrible to all. I really could not in
conscience sue, nor even blame, the colonel for breach of agreement.
Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to
let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than
three days. I do not tell you their stories—to no two lodgers have there
been exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better that you should
judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination influenced
by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or
other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.”

“Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?”

“Yes, I passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in
that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no
desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that I
am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager
and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add, that I advice you _not_
to pass a night in that house.”

“My interest is exceedingly keen,” said I; “and though only a coward will
boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves
have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the right to
rely on them—even in a haunted house.”

Mr. J⸺ said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his
bureau, gave them to me—and, thanking him cordially for his frankness,
and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.

Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home, I summoned my
confidential servant—a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as
free from superstitious prejudice as anyone I could think of.

“F⸺,” said I, “you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not
finding a ghost in that old castle which was said to be haunted by a
headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I
have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there tonight.
From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to
be seen or heard—something, perhaps, excessively horrible. Do you think
if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may
happen?”

“Oh, sir, pray trust me,” answered F⸺, grinning with delight.

“Very well; then here are the keys of the house—this is the address. Go
now—select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not
been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire, air the bed well—see, of
course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolver
and my dagger—so much for my weapons; arm yourself equally well; and if
we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of
Englishmen.”

I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had
not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had
plighted my honor. I dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read,
as is my habit. I selected one of the volumes of Macaulay’s Essays. I
thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much
of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that
it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious
fancy.

Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book into my pocket, and
strolled leisurely toward the haunted house. I took with me a favorite
dog: an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull terrier,—a dog fond of
prowling about strange, ghostly corners and passages at night in search
of rats; a dog of dogs for a ghost.

I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile.

We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms,—in fact, they felt so damp
and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire upstairs. We locked
the doors of the drawing-rooms,—a precaution which, I should observe,
we had taken with all the rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my
servant had selected for me was the best on the floor,—a large one, with
two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took up no
inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear and
bright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window,
communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself.
This last was a small room with a sofa bed, and had no communication
with the landing place,—no other door but that which conducted to the
bedroom I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard
without locks, flush with the wall, and covered with the same dull-brown
paper. We examined these cupboards,—only hooks to suspend female dresses,
nothing else; we sounded the walls,—evidently solid, the outer walls of
the building. Having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed
myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I then still accompanied by
F⸺, went forth to complete my reconnoiter. In the landing place there was
another door; it was closed firmly. “Sir,” said my servant, in surprise,
“I unlocked this door with all the others when I first came; it cannot
have got locked from the inside, for—”

Before he had finished his sentence, the door, which neither of us
then was touching, opened quietly of itself. We looked at each other a
single instant. The same thought seized both,—some human agency might be
detected here. I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small, blank,
dreary room without furniture; a few empty boxes and hampers in a corner;
a small window; the shutters closed; not even a fireplace; no other door
but that by which we had entered; no carpet on the floor, and the floor
seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as was shown
by the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, and no visible
place in which a living being could have hidden. As we stood gazing
round, the door by which we had entered closed as quietly as it had
before opened; we were imprisoned.

For the first time I felt a creep of indefinable horror. Not so my
servant. “Why, they don’t think to trap us, sir; I could break that
trumpery door with a kick of my foot.”

“Try first if it will open to your hand,” said I, shaking off the vague
apprehension that had seized me, “while I unclose the shutters and see
what is without.”

I unbarred the shutters,—the window looked on the little back yard I have
before described; there was no ledge without,—nothing to break the sheer
descent of the wall. No man getting out of that window would have found
any footing till he had fallen on the stones below.

F⸺, meanwhile, was vainly attempting to open the door. He now turned
round to me and asked my permission to use force. And I should
here state, in justice to the servant, that far from evincing any
superstitious terrors, his nerve, composure, and even gayety amidst
circumstances so extraordinary, compelled my admiration, and made me
congratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to
the occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he required. But though
he was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle as his milder
efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick. Breathless and
panting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself, equally in vain. As I
ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror came over me; but this
time it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if some strange and ghastly
exhalation were rising up from the chinks of that rugged floor, and
filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to human life.
The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord. We
precipitated ourselves into the landing place. We both saw a large, pale
light—as large as the human figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial—move
before us, and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the
attics. I followed the light, and my servant followed me. It entered, to
the right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open.
I entered in the same instant. The light then collapsed into a small
globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid, rested a moment on a bed in the
corner, quivered, and vanished. We approached the bed and examined it,—a
half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants. On
the drawers that stood near it we perceived an old faded silk kerchief,
with the needle still left in a rent half repaired. The kerchief was
covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the old woman who had last
died in that house, and this might have been her sleeping room. I had
sufficient curiosity to open the drawers: there were a few odds and ends
of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded
yellow. I took the liberty to possess myself of the letters. We found
nothing else in the room worth noticing,—nor did the light reappear;
but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the
floor, just before us. We went through the other attics (in all four),
the footfall still preceding us. Nothing to be seen—nothing but the
footfall heard. I had the letters in my hand; just as I was descending
the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort
made to draw the letters from my clasp. I only held them the more
tightly, and the effort ceased.

We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked
that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrusting
himself close to the fire, and trembling. I was impatient to examine the
letters, and while I read them, my servant opened a little box in which
he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out,
placed them on a table close at my bed head, and then occupied himself in
soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.

The letters were short,—they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five
years ago. They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a husband
to some young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a distinct
reference to a former voyage, indicated the writer to have been a
seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly
educated, but still the language itself was forcible. In the expressions
of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there
were dark unintelligible hints of some secret not of love,—some secret
that seemed of crime. “We ought to love each other,” was one of the
sentences I remember, “for how everyone else would execrate us if all
was known.” Again: “Don’t let anyone be in the same room with you at
night,—you talk in your sleep.” And again: “What’s done can’t be undone;
and I tell you there’s nothing against us unless the dead could come to
life.” Here there was underlined in a better handwriting (a female’s),
“They do!” At the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand
had written these words: “Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as——”

I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might
unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to
cope with whatever of marvelous the advancing night might bring forth.
I roused myself; laid the letters on the table; stirred up the fire,
which was still bright and cheering; and opened my volume of Macaulay.
I read quietly enough till about half past eleven. I then threw myself
dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own
room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave open the door between
the two rooms. Thus alone, I kept two candles burning on the table by
my bed head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly resumed
my Macaulay. Opposite to me the fire burned clear; and on the hearth
rug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. In about twenty minutes I felt an
exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a sudden draught. I fancied
the door to my right, communicating with the landing place, must have
got open; but no,—it was closed. I then turned my glance to my left, and
saw the flame of the candles violently swayed as by a wind. At the same
moment the watch beside the revolver softly slid from the table,—softly,
softly; no visible hand,—it was gone. I sprang up, seizing the revolver
with the one hand, the dagger with the other; I was not willing that my
weapons should share the fate of the watch. Thus armed, I looked round
the floor,—no sign of the watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were
now heard at the bed head: my servant called out, “Is that you, sir?”

“No; be on your guard.”

The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears moving
quickly backward and forward. He kept his eyes fixed on me with a look
so strange that he concentered all my attention on himself. Slowly he
rose up, all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the
same wild stare. I had no time, however, to examine the dog. Presently
my servant emerged from his room; and if ever I saw horror in the human
face, it was then. I should not have recognized him had we met in the
street, so altered was every lineament. He passed by me quickly, saying,
in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips, “Run, run! it
is after me!” He gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and
rushed forth. I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling him
to stop; but, without heeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging
to the balusters, and taking several steps at a time. I heard, where I
stood, the street door open,—heard it again clap to. I was left alone in
the haunted house.

It was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not to
follow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a
flight. I reëntered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded
cautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered nothing to justify my
servant’s terror. I again carefully examined the walls, to see if there
were any concealed door. I could find no trace of one,—not even a seam
in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung. How, then, had the
THING, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress except
through my own chamber?

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the
interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. I now
perceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was
pressing himself close against it, as if literally striving to force his
way into it. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute
was evidently beside itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the
slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if I
had touched it. It did not seem to recognize me. Whoever has seen at
the Zoological Gardens a rabbit, fascinated by a serpent, cowering in
a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited.
Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his
bite might be as venomous in that state as in the madness of hydrophobia,
I left him alone, placed my weapons on the table beside the fire, seated
myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.

Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather a
coolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I may be pardoned
if I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.

As I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to be precisely
proportioned to familiarity with the circumstances that lead to it,
so I should say that I had been long sufficiently familiar with all
experiments that appertain to the marvelous. I had witnessed many very
extraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world,—phenomena that
would be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, or ascribed to
supernatural agencies. Now, my theory is that the supernatural is the
impossible, and that what is called supernatural is only a something in
the laws of Nature of which we have been hitherto ignorant. Therefore,
if a ghost rise before me, I have not the right to say, “So, then, the
supernatural is possible;” but rather, “So, then, the apparition of a
ghost is, contrary to received opinion, within the laws of Nature,—that
is, not supernatural.”

Now, in all that I had hitherto witnessed, and indeed in all the wonders
which the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, a material
living agency is always required. On the Continent you will find still
magicians who assert that they can raise spirits. Assume for the moment
that they assert truly, still the living material form of the magician is
present; and he is the material agency by which, from some constitutional
peculiarities, certain strange phenomena are represented to your natural
senses.

Accept, again, as truthful, the tales of spirit manifestation in
America,—musical or other sounds; writings on paper, produced by no
discernible hand; articles of furniture moved without apparent human
agency; or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no bodies
seem to belong,—still there must be found the MEDIUM, or living being,
with constitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining these signs. In
fine, in all such marvels, supposing even that there is no imposture,
there must be a human being like ourselves by whom, or through whom,
the effects presented to human beings are produced. It is so with the
now familiar phenomena of mesmerism or electro-biology; the mind of the
person operated on is affected through a material living agent. Nor,
supposing it true that a mesmerized patient can respond to the will or
passes of a mesmerizer a hundred miles distant, is the response less
occasioned by a material being; if may be through a material fluid—call
it Electric, call it Odic, call it what you will—which has the power
of traversing space and passing obstacles, that the material effect
is communicated from one to the other. Hence, all that I had hitherto
witnessed, or expected to witness, in this strange house, I believe to
be occasioned through some agency or medium as mortal as myself; and
this idea necessarily prevented the awe with which those who regard
as supernatural things that are not within the ordinary operations of
Nature, might have been impressed by the adventures of that memorable
night.

As, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented, or would be
presented to my senses, must originate in some human being gifted by
constitution with the power so to present them, and having some motive
so to do, I felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather
philosophical than superstitious. And I can sincerely say that I was in
as tranquil a temper for observation as any practical experimentalist
could be in awaiting the effects of some rare, though perhaps perilous,
chemical combination. Of course, the more I kept my mind detached from
fancy, the more the temper fitted for observation would be obtained; and
I therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the
page of my Macaulay.

I now became aware that something interposed between the page and the
light,—the page was overshadowed. I looked up, and I saw what I shall
find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe.

It was a Darkness shaping itself forth from the air in very undefined
outline. I cannot say it was of a human form, and yet it had more
resemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than to anything else. As
it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it,
its dimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touching the ceiling.
While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An iceberg before me
could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have
been more purely physical. I feel convinced that it was not the cold
caused by fear. As I continued to gaze, I thought—but this I cannot say
with precision—that I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from the
height. One moment I fancied that I distinguished them clearly, the next
they seemed gone; but still two rays of a pale-blue light frequently shot
through the darkness, as from the height on which I half believed, half
doubted, that I had encountered the eyes.

I strove to speak,—my voice utterly failed me; I could only think
to myself, “Is this fear? It is _not_ fear!” I strove to rise,—in
vain; I felt as if weighed down by an irresistible force. Indeed,
my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming Power opposed
to my volition,—that sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force
beyond man’s, which one may feel _physically_ in a storm at sea, in a
conflagration, or when confronting some terrible wild beast, or rather,
perhaps, the shark of the ocean, I felt _morally_. Opposed to my will was
another will, as far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark
are superior in material force to the force of man.

And now, as this impression grew on me,—now came, at last, horror, horror
to a degree that no words can convey. Still I retained pride, if not
courage; and in my own mind I said, “This is horror; but it is not fear;
unless I fear I cannot be harmed; my reason rejects this thing; it is
an illusion,—I do not fear.” With a violent effort I succeeded at last
in stretching out my hand toward the weapon on the table; as I did so,
on the arm and shoulder I received a strange shock, and my arm fell to
my side powerless. And now, to add to my horror, the light began slowly
to wane from the candles,—they were not, as it were, extinguished, but
their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn; it was the same with the
fire,—the light was extracted from the fuel; in a few minutes the room
was in utter darkness. The dread that came over me, to be thus in the
dark with that dark Thing, whose power was so intensely felt, brought a
reaction of nerve. In fact, terror had reached that climax, that either
my senses must have deserted me, or I must have burst through the spell.
I did burst through it. I found voice, though the voice was a shriek. I
remember that I broke forth with words like these, “I do not fear, my
soul does not fear”; and at the same time I found strength to rise. Still
in that profound gloom I rushed to one of the windows; tore aside the
curtain; flung open the shutters; my first thought was—LIGHT. And when I
saw the moon high, clear, and calm, I felt a joy that almost compensated
for the previous terror. There was the moon, there was also the light
from the gas lamps in the deserted slumberous street. I turned to look
back into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely and
partially—but still there was light. The dark Thing, whatever it might
be, was gone,—except that I could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed the
shadow of that shade, against the opposite wall.

My eye now rested on the table, and from under the table (which was
without cloth or cover,—an old mahogany round table) there rose a hand,
visible as far as the wrist. It was a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh
and blood as my own, but the hand of an aged person, lean, wrinkled,
small too,—a woman’s hand. That hand very softly closed on the two
letters that lay on the table; hand and letters both vanished. There then
came the same three loud, measured knocks I had heard at the bed head
before this extraordinary drama had commenced.

As those sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole room vibrate sensibly;
and at the far end there rose, as from the floor, sparks or globules
like bubbles of light, many colored,—green, yellow, fire-red, azure. Up
and down, to and fro, hither, thither as tiny Will-o’-the-Wisps, the
sparks moved, slow or swift, each at its own caprice. A chair (as in
the drawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall without apparent
agency, and placed at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as forth
from the chair, there grew a shape,—a woman’s shape. It was distinct as a
shape of life,—ghastly as a shape of death. The face was that of youth,
with a strange, mournful beauty; the throat and shoulders were bare, the
rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudy white. It began sleeking
its long, yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its eyes were
not turned toward me, but to the door; it seemed listening, watching,
waiting. The shadow of the shade in the background grew darker; and
again I thought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the summit of the
shadow,—eyes fixed upon that shape.

As if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another
shape, equally distinct, equally ghastly,—a man’s shape, a young man’s.
It was in the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness of
such dress (for both the male shape and the female, though defined,
were evidently unsubstantial, impalpable,—simulacra, phantasms); and
there was something incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the contrast
between the elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned
garb, with its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpselike aspect
and ghostlike stillness of the flitting wearer. Just as the male shape
approached the female, the dark Shadow started from the wall, all three
for a moment wrapped in darkness. When the pale light returned, the two
phantoms were as if in the grasp of the Shadow that towered between them;
and there was blood stain on the breast of the female; and the phantom
male was leaning on its phantom sword, and blood seemed trickling fast
from the ruffles from the lace; and the darkness of the intermediate
Shadow swallowed them up,—they were gone. And again the bubbles of light
shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker and thicker and more
wildly confused in their movements.

The closet door to the right of the fireplace now opened, and from the
aperture there came the form of an aged woman. In her hand she held
letters,—the very letters over which I had seen _the_ Hand close; and
behind her I heard a footstep. She turned round as if to listen, and then
she opened the letters and seemed to read; and over her shoulder I saw a
livid face, the face as of a man long drowned,—bloated, bleached, seaweed
tangled in its dripping hair; and at her feet lay a form as of a corpse;
and beside the corpse there cowered a child, a miserable, squalid child,
with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. And as I looked in the
old woman’s face, the wrinkles and lines vanished, and it became a face
of youth,—hard-eyed, stony, but still youth; and the Shadow darted forth,
and darkened over these phantoms as it had darkened over the last.

Nothing now was left but the Shadow, and on that my eyes were intently
fixed, till again eyes grew out of the Shadow,—malignant, serpent eyes.
And the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their disordered,
irregular, turbulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. And now from
these globules themselves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things
burst out; the air grew filled with them: larvæ so bloodless and so
hideous that I can in no way describe them except to remind the reader of
the swarming life which the solar microscope brings before his eyes in
a drop of water,—things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each other,
devouring each other; forms like naught ever beheld by the naked eye.
As the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were without
order. In their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came round
me and round, thicker and faster and swifter, swarming over my head,
crawling over my right arm, which was outstretched in involuntary command
against all evil beings. Sometimes I felt myself touched, but not by
them; invisible hands touched me. Once I felt the clutch as of cold, soft
fingers at my throat. I was still equally conscious that if I gave way to
fear I should be in bodily peril; and I concentered all my faculties in
the single focus of resisting stubborn will. And I turned my sight from
the Shadow; above all, from those strange serpent eyes,—eyes that had now
become distinctly visible. For there, though in naught else around me, I
was aware that there was a WILL, and a will of intense, creative, working
evil, which might crush down my own.

The pale atmosphere in the room began now to redden as if in the air
of some near conflagration. The larvæ grew lurid as things that live
in fire. Again the room vibrated; again were heard the three measured
knocks; and again all things were swallowed up in the darkness of the
dark Shadow, as if out of that darkness all had come, into that darkness
all returned.

As the gloom receded, the Shadow was wholly gone. Slowly, as it had been
withdrawn, the flame grew again into the candles on the table, again into
the fuel in the grate. The whole room came once more calmly, healthfully
into sight.

The two doors were still closed, the door communicating with the
servant’s room still locked. In the corner of the wall, into which he had
so convulsively niched himself, lay the dog. I called to him—no movement;
I approached—the animal was dead; his eyes protruded; his tongue out of
his mouth; the froth gathered round his jaws. I took him in my arms;
I brought him to the fire. I felt acute grief for the loss of my poor
favorite—acute self-reproach; I accused myself of his death; I imagined
he had died of fright. But what was my surprise on finding that his neck
was actually broken. Had this been done in the dark? Must it not have
been by a hand human as mine; must there not have been a human agency all
the while in that room? Good cause to suspect it. I cannot tell. I cannot
do more than state the fact fairly; the reader may draw his own inference.

Another surprising circumstance—my watch was restored to the table from
which it had been so mysteriously withdrawn; but it had stopped at the
very moment it was so withdrawn, nor, despite all the skill of the
watchmaker, has it ever gone since—that is, it will go in a strange,
erratic way for a few hours, and then come to a dead stop; it is
worthless.

Nothing more chanced for the rest of the night. Nor, indeed, had I long
to wait before the dawn broke. Not till it was broad daylight did I quit
the haunted house. Before I did so, I revisited the little blind room
in which my servant and myself had been for a time imprisoned. I had a
strong impression—for which I could not account—that from that room had
originated the mechanism of the phenomena, if I may use the term, which
had been experienced in my chamber. And though I entered it now in the
clear day, with the sun peering through the filmy window, I still felt,
as I stood on its floors, the creep of the horror which I had first
there experienced the night before, and which had been so aggravated by
what had passed in my own chamber. I could not, indeed, bear to stay
more than half a minute within those walls. I descended the stairs, and
again I heard the footfall before me; and when I opened the street door,
I thought I could distinguish a very low laugh. I gained my own home,
expecting to find my runaway servant there; but he had not presented
himself, nor did I hear more of him for three days, when I received a
letter from him, dated from Liverpool to this effect:

“Honored Sir:—I humbly entreat your pardon, though I can scarcely hope
that you will think that I deserve it, unless—which Heaven forbid!—you
saw what I did. I feel that it will be years before I can recover
myself; and as to being fit for service, it is out of the question. I
am therefore going to my brother-in-law at Melbourne. The ship sails
tomorrow. Perhaps the long voyage may set me up. I do nothing now but
start and tremble, and fancy IT is behind me. I humbly beg you, honored
sir, to order my clothes, and whatever wages are due me, to be sent to my
mother’s, at Walworth.—John knows her address.”

The letter ended with additional apologies, somewhat incoherent and
explanatory details as to effects that had been under the writer’s charge.

This flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that the man wished to go
to Australia, and had been somehow or other fraudulently mixed up with
the events of the night. I say nothing in refutation of that conjecture;
rather, I suggest it as one that would seem to many persons the most
probable solution of improbable occurrences. My belief in my own theory
remained unshaken. I returned in the evening to the house, to bring away
in a hack cab the things I had left there, with my poor dog’s body. In
this task I was not disturbed, nor did any incident worth note befall
me, except that still, on ascending and descending the stairs, I heard
the same footfalls in advance. On leaving the house, I went to Mr. J⸺’s.
He was at home. I returned him the keys, told him that my curiosity was
sufficiently gratified, and was about to relate quickly what had passed,
when he stopped me, and said, though with much politeness, that he had no
longer any interest in a mystery which none had ever solved.

I determined at least to tell him of the two letters I had read, as well
as of the extraordinary manner in which they had disappeared; and I then
inquired if he thought they had been addressed to the woman who had died
in the house, and if there were anything in her early history which could
possibly confirm the dark suspicions to which the letters gave rise. Mr.
J⸺ seemed startled, and, after musing a few moments, answered, “I am but
little acquainted with the woman’s earlier history, except as I before
told you, that her family were known to mine. But you revive some vague
reminiscences to her prejudice. I will make inquiries, and inform you of
their result. Still, even if we could admit the popular superstition that
a person who had been either the perpetrator or the victim of dark crimes
in life could revisit, as a restless spirit, the scene in which those
crimes had been committed, I should observe that the house was infested
by strange sights and sounds before the old woman died—you smile—what
would you say?”

“I would say this, that I am convinced, if we could get to the bottom of
these mysteries, we should find a living human agency.”

“What! you believe it is all an imposture? For what object?”

“Not an imposture in the ordinary sense of the word. If suddenly I were
to sink into a deep sleep, from which you could not awake me, but in that
sleep could answer questions with an accuracy which I could not pretend
to when awake,—tell you what money you had in your pocket, nay, describe
your very thoughts,—it is not necessarily an imposture, any more than it
is necessarily supernatural. I should be, unconsciously to myself, under
a mesmeric influence, conveyed to me from a distance by a human being who
had acquired power over me my previous _rapport_.”

“But if a mesmerizer could so affect another living being, can you
suppose that a mesmerizer could also affect inanimate objects: move
chairs,—open and shut doors?

“Or impress our senses with the belief in such effects,—we never having
been _en rapport_ with the person acting on us? No. What is commonly
called mesmerism could not do this; but there may be a power akin to
mesmerism, and superior to it,—the power that in the old days was called
Magic. That such a power may extend to all inanimate objects of matter, I
do not say; but if so, it would not be against Nature,—it would be only a
rare power in Nature which might be given to constitutions with certain
peculiarities, and cultivated by practice to an extraordinary degree.
That such a power might extend over the dead,—that is, over certain
thoughts and memories that the dead may still retain,—and compel, not
that which ought properly to be called the SOUL, and which is far beyond
human reach, but rather a phantom of what has been most earth-stained
on earth, to make itself apparent to our senses, is a very ancient
though obsolete theory upon which I will hazard no opinion. But I do not
conceive the power would be supernatural. Let me illustrate what I mean
from an experiment which Paracelsus describes as not difficult, and which
the author of the ‘Curiosities of Literature’ cites as credible: A flower
perishes; you burn it. Whatever were the elements of that flower while it
lived are gone, dispersed, you know not whither; you can never discover
nor re-collect them. But you can, by chemistry, out of the burned dust of
that flower, raise a spectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life.
It may be the same with the human being. The soul has as much escaped you
as the essence or elements of the flower. Still you may make a spectrum
of it. And this phantom, though in the popular superstition it is held to
be the soul of the departed, must not be confounded with the true soul;
it is but the eidolon of the dead form. Hence, like the best-attested
stories of ghosts or spirits, the thing that most strikes us is the
absence of what we hold to be soul,—that is, of superior emancipated
intelligence. These apparitions come for little or no object,—they seldom
speak when they do come; if they speak, they utter no ideas above those
of an ordinary person on earth. American spirit seers have published
volumes of communications, in prose and verse, which they assert to
be given in the names of the most illustrious dead: Shakespeare,
Bacon,—Heaven knows whom. Those communications, taking the best, are
certainly not a whit of higher order than would be communications from
living persons of fair talent and education; they are wondrously inferior
to what Bacon, Shakespeare, and Plato said and wrote when on earth. Nor,
what is more noticeable, do they ever contain an idea that was not on the
earth before. Wonderful, therefore, as such phenomena may be (granting
them to be truthful), I see much that philosophy may question, nothing
that it is incumbent on philosophy to deny,—namely, nothing supernatural.
They are but ideas conveyed somehow or other (we have not yet discovered
the means) from one mortal brain to another. Whether, in so doing,
tables walk of their own accord, or fiendlike shapes appear in a magic
circle, or bodiless hands rise and remove material objects, or a Thing
of Darkness, such as presented itself to me, freeze our blood,—still am
I persuaded that these are but agencies conveyed, as by electric wires,
to my own brain from the brain of another. In some constitutions there
is a natural chemistry, and those constitutions may produce chemic
wonders,—in others a natural fluid, call it electricity, and these may
produce electric wonders. But the wonders differ from Normal Science in
this,—they are alike objectless, purposeless, puerile, frivolous. They
lead on to no grand results; and therefore the world does not heed,
and true sages have not cultivated them. But sure I am, that of all I
saw or heard, a man, human as myself, was the remote originator; and
I believe unconsciously to himself as to the exact effects produced,
for this reason: no two persons, you say, have ever told you that they
experienced exactly the same thing. Well, observe, no two persons ever
experience exactly the same dream. If this were an ordinary imposture,
the machinery would be arranged for results that would but little vary;
if it were a supernatural agency permitted by the Almighty, it would
surely be for some definite end. These phenomena belong to neither class;
my persuasion is, that they originate in some brain now far distant; that
that brain had no distinct volition in anything that occurred; that what
does occur reflects but its devious, motley, ever-shifting, half-formed
thoughts; in short that it has been but the dreams of such a brain put
into action and invested with a semisubstance. That this brain is of
immense power, that it can set matter into movement, that it is malignant
and destructive, I believe; some material force must have killed my dog;
the same force might, for aught I know, have sufficed to kill myself, had
I been as subjugated by terror as the dog,—had my intellect or my spirit
given me no countervailing resistance in my will.”

“It killed your dog,—that is fearful! Indeed it is strange that no animal
can be induced to stay in that house; not even a cat. Rats and mice are
never found in it.”

“The instincts of the brute creation detect influences deadly to their
existence. Man’s reason has a sense less subtle, because it has a
resisting power more supreme. But enough; do you comprehend my theory?”

“Yes, though imperfectly,—and I accept any crotchet (pardon the word),
however odd rather than embrace at once the notion of ghosts and
hobgoblins we imbibed in our nurseries. Still, to my unfortunate house,
the evil is the same. What on earth can I do with the house?”

“I will tell you what I would do. I am convinced from my own internal
feelings that the small, unfurnished room at right angles to the door of
the bedroom which I occupied, forms a starting point or receptacle for
the influences which haunt the house; and I strongly advise you to have
the walls open, the floor removed,—nay, the whole room pulled down. I
observe that it is detached from the body of the house, built over the
small backyard, and could be removed without injury to the rest of the
building.”

“And you think, if I did that——”

“You would cut off the telegraph wires. Try it. I am so persuaded that I
am right, that I will pay half the expense if you will allow me to direct
the operations.”

“Nay, I am well able to afford the cost; for the rest allow me to write
to you.”

About ten days after I received a letter from Mr. J⸺, telling me that
he had visited the house since I had seen him; that he had found the
two letters I had described, replaced in the drawer from which I had
taken them; that he had read them with misgivings like my own; that he
had instituted a cautious inquiry about the woman to whom I rightly
conjectured they had been written. It seemed that thirty-six years ago
(a year before the date of the letters) she had married, against the wish
of her relations, an American of very suspicious character; in fact,
he was generally believed to have been a pirate. She herself was the
daughter of very respectable tradespeople, and had served in the capacity
of a nursery governess before her marriage. She had a brother, a widower,
who was considered wealthy, and who had one child of about six years old.
A month after the marriage the body of this brother was found in the
Thames, near London Bridge; there seemed some marks of violence about his
throat, but they were not deemed sufficient to warrant the inquest in any
other verdict than that of “found drowned.”

The American and his wife took charge of the little boy, the deceased
brother having by his will left his sister the guardian of his only
child,—and in event of the child’s death the sister inherited. The child
died about six months afterwards,—it was supposed to have been neglected
and ill-treated. The neighbors deposed to have heard it shriek at night.
The surgeon who had examined it after death said that it was emaciated as
if from want of nourishment, and the body was covered with livid bruises.
It seemed that one winter night the child had sought to escape; crept out
into the back yard; tried to scale the wall; fallen back exhausted; and
been found at morning on the stones in a dying state. But though there
was some evidence of cruelty, there was none of murder; and the aunt and
her husband had sought to palliate cruelty by alleging the exceeding
stubbornness and perversity of the child, who was declared to be
half-witted. Be that as it may, at the orphan’s death the aunt inherited
her brother’s fortune. Before the first wedded year was out, the American
quitted England abruptly, and never returned to it. He obtained a
cruising vessel, which was lost in the Atlantic two years afterwards. The
widow was left in affluence, but reverses of various kinds had befallen
her: a bank broke; an investment failed; she went into a small business
and became insolvent; then she entered into service, sinking lower and
lower, from housekeeper down to maid-of-all-work,—never long retaining
a place, though nothing decided against her character was ever alleged.
She was considered sober, honest, and peculiarly quiet in her ways; still
nothing prospered with her. And so she had dropped into the workhouse,
from which Mr. J⸺ had taken her, to be placed in charge of the very house
which she had rented as mistress in the first year of her wedded life.

Mr. J⸺ added that he had passed an hour alone in the unfurnished room
which I had urged him to destroy, and that his impressions of dread while
there were so great, though he had neither heard nor seen anything, that
he was eager to have the walls bared and the floors removed as I had
suggested. He had engaged persons for the work, and would commence any
day I would name.

The day was accordingly fixed. I repaired to the haunted house,—we went
into the blind, dreary room, took up the skirting, and then the floors.
Under the rafters, covered with rubbish, was found a trapdoor, quite
large enough to admit a man. It was closely nailed down, with clamps and
rivets of iron. On removing these we descended into a room below, the
existence of which had never been suspected. In this room there had been
a window and a flue, but they had been bricked over, evidently for many
years. By the help of candles we examined this place; it still retained
some moldering furniture,—three chairs, an oak settle, a table,—all of
the fashion of about eighty years ago. There was a chest of drawers
against the wall, in which we found, half rotted away, old-fashioned
articles of a man’s dress, such as might have been worn eighty or a
hundred years ago by a gentleman of some rank; costly steel buckles and
buttons, like those yet worn in court dresses, a handsome court sword; in
a waistcoat which had once been rich with gold lace, but which was now
blackened and foul with damp, we found five guineas, a few silver coins,
and an ivory ticket, probably for some place of entertainment long since
passed away. But our main discovery was in a kind of iron safe fixed to
the wall, the lock of which it cost us much trouble to get picked.

In this safe were three shelves and two small drawers. Ranged on the
shelves were several small bottles of crystal, hermetically stopped. They
contained colorless, volatile essences, of the nature of which I shall
only say that they were not poisons,—phosphor and ammonia entered into
some of them. There were also some very curious glass tubes, and a small
pointed rod of iron, with a large lump of rock crystal, and another of
amber,—also a loadstone of great power.

In one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait set in gold, and
retaining the freshness of its colors most remarkably, considering the
length of time it had probably been there. The portrait was that of a
man who might be somewhat advanced in middle life, perhaps forty-seven
or forty-eight. It was a remarkable face,—a most impressive face. If
you could fancy some mighty serpent transformed into man, preserving in
the human lineaments the old serpent type, you would have a better idea
of that countenance than long descriptions can convey: the width and
flatness of frontal; the tapering elegance of contour disguising the
strength of the deadly jaw; the long, large terrible eyes, glittering and
green as the emerald,—and withal a certain ruthless calm, as if from the
consciousness of an immense power.

Mechanically I turned round the miniature to examine the back of it,
and on the back was engraved a pentacle; in the middle of the pentacle
a ladder, and the third step of the ladder was formed by the date 1765.
Examining still more minutely, I detected a spring; this, on being
pressed, opened the back of the miniature as a lid. Withinside the lid
were engraved, “Marianna to thee. Be faithful in life and in death to ⸺.”
Here follows a name that I will not mention, but it was not unfamiliar to
me. I had heard it spoken of by old men in my childhood as the name borne
by a dazzling charlatan who had made a great sensation in London for a
year or so, and had fled the country on the charge of a double murder
within his own house,—that of his mistress and his rival. I said nothing
of this to Mr. J⸺, to whom reluctantly I resigned the miniature.

We had found no difficulty in opening the first drawer within the iron
safe; we found great difficulty in opening the second: it was not locked,
but it resisted all efforts, till we inserted in the chinks the edge
of a chisel. When we had thus drawn it forth, we found a very singular
apparatus in the nicest order. Upon a small, thin book, or rather
tablet, was placed a saucer of crystal; this saucer was filled with a
clear liquid,—on that liquid floated a kind of compass, with a needle
shifting rapidly round; but instead of the usual points of a compass
were seven strange characters, not very unlike those used by astrologers
to denote the planets. A peculiar but not strong nor displeasing odor
came from this drawer, which was lined with a wood that we afterwards
discovered to be hazel. Whatever the cause of this odor, it produced
a material effect on the nerves. We all felt it, even the two workmen
who were in the room,—a creeping, tingling sensation from the tips of
the fingers to the roots of the hair. Impatient to examine the tablet,
I removed the saucer. As I did so the needle of the compass went round
and round with exceeding swiftness, and I felt a shock that ran through
my whole frame, so that I dropped the saucer on the floor. The liquid
was spilled; the saucer was broken; the compass rolled to the end of the
room, and at that instant the walls shook to and fro, as if a giant had
swayed and rocked them.

The two workmen were so frightened that they ran up the ladder by
which we had descended from the trapdoor; but seeing that nothing more
happened, they were easily induced to return.

Meanwhile I had opened the tablet; it was bound in plain red leather,
with a silver clasp; it contained but one sheet of thick vellum, and on
that sheet were inscribed, within a double pentacle, words in old monkish
Latin, which are literally to be translated thus: “On all that it can
reach within these walls, sentient or inanimate, living or dead, as moves
the needle, so works my will! Accursed be the house, and restless be the
dwellers therein.”

We found no more. Mr. J⸺ burned the tablet and its anathema. He razed to
the foundations the part of the building containing the secret room with
the chamber over it. He had then the courage to inhabit the house himself
for a month, and a quieter, better-conditioned house could not be found
in all London. Subsequently he let it to advantage, and his tenant has
made no complaints.




WOMAN’S SPIRIT IS PHOTOGRAPHED


Before her death, Mrs. Mary McVickers of Los Angeles requested that a
photographer be commissioned to take photographs of her body as it lay
in the casket. Accordingly, after she died, C. H. Monroe, a licensed
photographer, entered the room where her body lay and prepared to obey
her dying wish. In making the pictures, he used a velour screen to
balance the light; and later he was amazed to find on this screen three
weird impressions that are declared to be “spirit photographs.” Monroe
declared the screen was the sort he always used and that he examined
it carefully before photographing the woman’s body and found nothing
unusual about it. Mrs. Mary Vlasek, pastor of the Spiritualist Temple,
and a number of her followers stated positively that they had seen Mrs.
McVicker’s spirit in the temple, some time after her death, and also at
the crematory.




_The Mystery of the Frightful Invisible Monster Is Solved in the Last
Chapters of_

The Whispering Thing

_By_ LAURIE McCLINTOCK _and_ CULPEPER CHUNN


    _The first half of “The Whispering Thing” was published in
    the March issue of WEIRD TALES. A copy will be mailed by the
    publishers for 25 cents._

    A RESUME OF THE EARLY CHAPTERS:

    Stark terror and mysterious death follow in the wake of an
    unseen demon, which lurks in the city streets and houses,
    whispering in the ears of its victims before killing them.
    Medical examination shows that they were, apparently, strangled
    to death. One of the victims, before dying, declares the breath
    of the Whispering Thing is icy cold. Nobody has seen it. Nobody
    can imagine what it is. Then Jules Peret, French detective who
    is in America, undertakes to fathom the terrible mystery. After
    his preliminary investigation, he goes home, and when he enters
    his darkened rooms he feels an ice-cold breath on his cheek,
    and he knows he is in the presence of the Whispering Thing.

    THE PRESENT INSTALLMENT STARTS HERE


_CHAPTER VI. (Continued)_

THE WHISPERING THING

With a stifled cry, Peret whirled round and made a frantic, though
futile, effort to open the door. In his slapdash haste he struck his head
against the jamb and dropped the key.

Cursing fluently under his breath in four languages, he fell to his knees
and felt around on the carpet. Failing to find the key, he sprang to his
feet and began to fumble on the wall for the push-button.

Before he could find it, however, the Thing again whispered its warning
of death in his ear and scorched his face with its icy breath.

Almost mad with terror, Peret threw himself backward and crashed against
a chair with such violence that he was almost knocked senseless. For a
second he lay still, to gather his forces and to fill his bursting lungs
with air. His clothes were wet with perspiration, and his body cold and
numb.

Expecting each instant to feel the vise-like grip of the Thing on his
throat, he staggered to his feet and made another frantic effort to find
the push-button. Remembering the flashlight in his pocket, he was about
to reach for it, when he felt the ice-cold breath of the Thing on his
face, and, in an effort to protect himself, he sprang against the wall.
What he had been trying for an eternity to accomplish by strategy was now
brought about by accident. His shoulder struck the push-button, and the
lights flashed on.

Almost blinded by the sudden glare, blinking rapidly to clear his vision,
he took a step back and swept the room with an all-embracing gaze.

Except for himself, the room _was unoccupied_!

It was, in fact, exactly as he had left it earlier in the day. The
room bore not the slightest evidence of having been entered during his
absence, nor was there anything large enough to afford a human being a
place of concealment.

As he stood stupidly surveying the room, the whisper of the invisible
menace once more sounded in his ear!

With a cry of terror, Peret whipped out his automatic and, blindly
fanning the air in front of him, pulled the trigger until the magazine
was empty. A picture fell to the floor with a crash and bits of plaster
flew from the walls and ceiling. Scarcely waiting until the last shot was
fired, Peret snatched the key off the floor and slipped it in the keyhole.

As he threw open the door, the Thing again whispered in his ear and
brushed his face with its clammy breath. With a yell, the Frenchman
precipitated himself into the hall with such vigor and rapidity of action
that he fell sprawling. Bounding to his feet, he grabbed the knob and
violently slammed the door.

“Victory!” he shouted, and his joy was excessive. “Ah, monster! _cochon!
boyeux!_ Thing or devil! Whatever you are, I’ve got you now! _Oui!_”

He shook his fist at the door and hurled at the imprisoned horror a
string of excited invective.

“Your hour is come. Your shot is bolt! Assassin! Ghoul! _Voila!_ how you
frightened me—me, the Terrible Frog! _Dame!_ I am trembling a little yet,
I think.”

A number of doors along the corridor opened, and men and women in night
attire stuck their heads out cautiously.

“I say, old top, what’s coming off?” asked one of the startled
individuals, catching sight of Peret.

“Nothing,” shouted Peret, and wiped the dew from his forehead.

“You are drunk,” said another man, disgusted. “Go to bed. You are keeping
everybody awake.”

“You’re a liar!” yelled Peret, and the other, fearing violence hastily
closed the door.

Pinching his arm to assure himself that he was not the victim of a
nightmare, Peret tried the doorknob to see if the night-latch had, by any
ill chance, failed to spring. Having reassured himself on this point, he
turned and, taking the steps four at a time, dashed down the stairs.

Scaring the now thoroughly-awake elevator boy nearly out of his senses
with his wild gestures and still wilder appearance, Peret careened
into a telephone booth, and, after being connected with the police
headquarters, barked into the receiver a few disjointed sentences that
froze the blood of Central, who had been listening in, and made Detective
Sergeant Strange, at the other end of the wire, drop the receiver and
bellow an order that brought everybody within hearing distance to their
feet.

Whereupon Peret, having heard the order as plainly as if he had been in
Strange’s office, reeled out into the lobby and collapsed in a chair to
await the arrival of the homicide squad.


_CHAPTER VII._

PERET EXPLAINS

At 9 a. m. on the following morning Jules Peret presented himself at the
front door of a small, unpretentious red-brick house on Fifteenth Street,
one block from the home of the murdered scientist.

One would never have suspected from his manner or appearance that, eight
hours previously, he had battled with an invisible menace in the narrow
confines of a darkened room, and had felt stark terror grip his soul
before he emerged triumphant from the most harrowing experience of his
adventurous career. No one would ever have suspected that, because, to
all outward appearance, Peret was at peace with the world and had no
thought on his mind of greater weight than the aroma of the cigarette
between his lips. Debonair as ever, and attired with the scrupulous
neatness that was so characteristic of him, he made a picture that had
caused more than one young lady to pay him the honor of a lingering
glance when, a half-hour previously, he had issued from his apartment and
pursued his way down the well populated thoroughfare.

In answer to the tinkle of the bell the door was opened three inches by
the butler, a small, wrinkled, leathery-faced old Chinaman, whose head
was as bald and shiny as a polished egg. In one hand he held a faded silk
skull cap, which he had evidently just removed from his head or forgotten
to put on.

“Whatchee want, huh?” he demanded, with a regrettable lack of civility.

“I want to see your master,” returned Peret courteously, extending his
card. “Please present my compliments to him, _Monsieur_, and tell him my
business is pressing.”

“Mlaster no see nobody,” chattered Sing Tong Fat. “He sick. Allee samee
dlunk. No see noblody. Clome back nex’ week.”

“But it is necessary that I should see your master this morning,” was
Peret’s polite but firm retort. “Your master will be glad enough to see
me when you show him my card.” He displayed his badge of special officer
and added, “Get a wiggle on!”

“_Yak pozee!_” shrilled Sing Tong Fat indignantly, and opened the door.
“You clazy. Allee samee tong man. Master have you alested.” He contorted
his face until it resembled a hyena’s, and broke into a shrill laugh.
“_Tchee, tchee._ (yes, yes.) Alee samee tam fool clazy man.”

“You are an amiable old scamp, _Monsieur_,” laughed Peret. “But we are
losing time, and time is of importance. Where does your master hang out,
eh? I will present my own card.”

“I tellee him you see him flirst,” chattered the Chinaman. “You wait
here. He sleepee. Me wakee him up. He sick. Allee samee dlunk. You wait
leddle time. _Tchon-dzee-ti Fan-Fu_ (it is the will of the master).”

A door on the right side of the hall opened and a man stepped out into
the hall. In spite of his disheveled hair and the brilliantly-colored
dressing robe that covered his heavy frame, there was no mistaking the
handsome features of Albert Deweese.

“’S all right, Sing,” he said, when he saw who his visitor was. “I
decided to get up for a while.” Then to Peret: “Good-morning, Mr. Peret.
I guess you think I am an inhospitable cuss, what? Fact is, I have been
trying to sleep.”

“No, I do not think you are inhospitable, _Monsieur_,” replied Peret,
as he shook hands. “After your experience last night, you need time to
recuperate. The wonder of it is that you are able to be up at all.”

“I agree with you there!” responded Deweese with feeling. “I told Sing
last night when I retired to admit no one this morning until I rang,
which accounts for his discourtesy in keeping you waiting. I felt the
need of a round twelve hours’ sleep to recover from the effects of my
adventure, but I haven’t been able to close my eyes. I feel as if I shall
_never_ be able to close them.”

Deweese indeed showed the effects of his near-tragic battle with the
Whispering Thing. His face was grayish-white and the heavy black
circles under his bloodshot eyes accentuated his pallor and gave him an
appearance that was almost ghastly. Had he been stretched out on a bed
and his eyes closed, one could easily have mistaken him for a corpse.

Dismissing the garrulous and indignant old Chinaman, he crossed the hall
and ushered Peret into a large, well-lighted room that was fitted out as
a studio. The walls were hung with canvases of an indifferent quality in
various stages of completion, and on an easel near a large double window
reposed the half-completed picture of a semi-nude, which immediately
caught and held the detective’s gaze.

After a moment’s critical inspection of the painting, Peret remarked:
“You seem to be a busy man, my friend. But I don’t suppose you find much
interest in your paintings this morning, eh? In fact, you look on the
verge of a collapse. Have you seen your physician yet?”

“That’s the first thing I did after leaving Berjet’s house last night,”
the artist replied. “He found nothing serious the matter with me,
however. Shock more than anything else, I suppose. But to what do I
owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Peret? Have you had any success in
running down the Thing?”

“Yes and no,” answered Peret, and then went on to explain: “We are hot on
the trail, but haven’t yet succeeded in entirely clearing up the mystery.
It was in the hope that you would be able to help me a little that I
called upon you this morning. I thought you might like to see the affair
through to the end.”

“Good!” cried the artist, his feverish eyes glittering with eagerness.
“After I had gotten some sleep, I intended hunting you up, anyway. You
are right when you say I want to see the thing through to the finish. You
can count on me to help you in any way that lies in my power. God knows,
there is no one more eager than myself to get to the bottom of this
affair! With the Whispering Thing still at large—”

He shuddered involuntarily, laughed, and added, “It is difficult for you
to understand my feelings, I guess.”

“Perhaps it’s not as difficult as you imagine, my friend,” said Peret
quietly, subsiding into a chair. He selected a cigarette from the case
the artist proffered, and continued: “But let us get down to business.
First, I will recount a few facts disclosed by my investigations and then
explain how you can help me. In the meantime, let us be comfortable. You
are as pale as a ghost. Be seated, my dear fellow, I beg of you,” he
added with solicitude.

“Oh, I am not as bad off as I may appear,” declared Deweese confidently,
dropping into a chair nevertheless. “I will be all right after a few
hours’ rest. Now, let me have your story. Naturally, I am consumed with
curiosity to hear what you have discovered.”

“Ah, you are a delightful companion, _Monsieur_,” was Peret’s genial
response. “Me—I am a great talker, but a poor listener. I will tell you
what I know with pleasure. But let me first congratulate you upon the
excellence of these Persian cigarettes. _Sacre!_ But you have a delicate
taste, _Monsieur_.”

The artist bowed his acknowledgment to the compliment, but impatiently.
It was evident that he was eager to hear what the Frenchman had on his
mind, and Peret, remarking this, did not keep him longer in suspense.

“I will not take up your time by recounting all that has transpired since
I saw you last night, _Monsieur_,” began Peret, “and for the sake of
convenience I will tell my story in a round-about sort of way. Let me
begin with my first attempt to motivate Berjet’s murder.

“M. Berjet was, as you are doubtless aware, a scientist of international
repute. In scientific circles, in fact, he was a towering figure. I have
the honor of having had a casual acquaintanceship with him for several
years, and as I knelt beside his dead body on the sidewalk last night I
recalled to mind many of the achievements that had brought him moderate
wealth and fame. Among other things, I remembered having recently seen a
newspaper account of a new invention of his—a poison gas of unparalleled
destructive powers, the formula of which several warring nations have
been trying to purchase.

“As clues were sadly lacking, and our investigation in his house failed
to reveal any satisfactory explanation for Berjet’s death, I at once
assumed that the motive for the murder had been the theft of the formula.
I knew that at least one of the nations that have been trying to acquire
the formula would go to almost any length to gain possession of a new and
really effective weapon of this kind. I therefore got in touch with the
Secret Service, which usually has an intimate knowledge of such matters,
and learned several facts that made me more certain than ever that I was
on the right track.

“Berjet’s poison gas, I learned, is indeed a terrible destructive agent.
It is said to be even more deadly than Lewisite. A minute portion of a
drop, if placed on the ground, will kill every living thing, vegetable
and animal, within a radius of half a mile. Think, then, what a ton would
do!

“Berjet called his invention ‘Q-gas.’ The formula was first offered to
our government for a moderate sum, and rejected, and at the time of his
death the savant was negotiating for its sale to the French government.”

“Surely, you are not going to try to make me believe that this Q-gas
played a direct part in the death of Berjet and Sprague and the attack on
me,” interrupted Deweese. “Believe me, Mr. Peret—”

“I do believe you, my friend,” was Peret’s smiling response. “The gas
itself played no part in the tragedy last night, but the formula is at
the bottom of all of the trouble, as has been suggested. The murders were
simply incidental to the robbery of the formula.”

“Have you discovered who the robber was?” queried Deweese, with natural
curiosity.

“Yes,” replied Peret calmly. “Even without clues to work with, this
would not have been very difficult. Of the several nations that have
been trying to get possession of the Q-gas formula there are only one
or two that would authorize their agents to go to such extremes as were
employed last night to acquire it, and as virtually all of their agents
are known to the Secret Service, our search would have been confined to
a limited group of men and women. It would simply have been a matter of
elimination.”

Deweese nodded his understanding, and the sleuth continued:

“Almost from the very first, however, for reasons which I will explain
later, I was led to suspect a man who has since turned out to be a
notorious international agent, known in diplomatic circles as Count
Vincent di Dalfonzo. During his absence, I made a somewhat hurried search
of his rooms after my departure from the scientist’s house, but could
find nothing to incriminate him.

“One of my operatives, however, a former Secret Service agent, was able
to identify him, if nothing more. According to this operative, Dalfonzo,
who is one of the greatest scoundrels unhung, at the present time bears
the secret credentials of a nation I will leave unnamed, but one which,
I have reason to know, has made several unsuccessful attempts to buy the
Q-gas formula from Berjet.”

Deweese was leaning forward in his chair, an eager listener. As Peret
paused to relight his cigarette, he remarked:

“If Dalfonzo is such a notorious character, one would have thought that
the Secret Service would have kept him under its eye.”

“One would have thought so, indeed,” agreed Peret, expelling a cloud of
smoke from his lungs. “When last heard of several months ago, Dalfonzo
was in Petrograd and he probably entered this country in disguise and has
since kept himself well under cover.”

“Have you arrested him?”

“I have scarcely had time yet, _Monsieur_,” answered Peret. “I feel safe
in saying, however, that he will be in the custody of the police within
the next twenty-four hours.”

“Good! I will never feel safe while this scoundrel is at large, if indeed
he really did have a hand in the murders of Berjet, Sprague and Adolphe,
and the attack on me.”

“Dalfonzo had nothing to do with Adolphe’s murder, and only an indirect
hand in the attack on you,” said Peret. “_Sacre bleu!_ Dalfonzo is not
the kind of man that strikes down his victims with butcher knives and
such; he is a man of delicate ideas and sensibilities, _Monsieur_.”

“So it seems,” said Deweese drily. “I know that the finger prints on the
dagger tend to prove that Adolphe was murdered by his employer, but in
the light of the other facts can this evidence be considered conclusive?
The prints on the dagger may simply be a trick to confuse the police. The
Whispering Thing—But stay! For the moment I had forgotten the Whispering
Thing. It seems to me that we are getting away from the main issue.”

“Patience, _Monsieur_,” said Peret, with an enigmatical smile.
“Everything will be explained in good time. But first, let me assure you
that the finger prints on the dagger are genuine. Adolphe was undoubtedly
murdered by the scientist, and as the penalty for this crime he gave his
own life.”

Deweese started. The Frenchman’s indirect method of telling his story,
and the complacence with which he stated apparently contradictory facts,
confused and annoyed him.

“You mean—?” he began.

“I mean that Berjet was murdered because he stabbed his valet.”

“Well,” averred Deweese, unable to conceal his impatience, “all of
this is about as clear as mud to me. First you say that the motive for
Berjet’s murder was the robbery of the formula, and now you declare that
he was done away with because he killed his valet. What am I to believe?”

“What you will, _Monsieur_,” replied Peret. “Everything I have stated is
true, although I confess that as yet I have nothing to prove it. If the
facts seem contradictory, it is because I have expressed myself badly.

“According to my theory, Count Dalfonzo (for a consideration of course),
induced Adolphe to steal the formula of Q-gas from his benefactor. When
poor Berjet learned that he had been betrayed he stabbed the betrayer
in a fit of insane rage and hid the body in the closet in his library
until he would have time to dispose of it. Dalfonzo in some way learned
of this, or suspected it, and as he already had the formula in his
possession, decided that his safest plan would be to murder Berjet before
he could communicate with French Secret Service agents operating in this
country, who were about to consummate the purchase of the secret. _Eh,
bien!_ the murder was committed, and but for one little slip, one tiny
slip—_Ha; ha!_ It is amusing, is it not, _Monsieur_?”

“Very!” rejoined Deweese sarcastically. “I think, however, that I have
begun to get a glimmer of what you erroneously conceive to be the truth,
and that is that Dalfonzo and the mysterious Thing are identical.”

“Patience, _Monsieur_, patience,” cried Peret. “The glimmer of light that
you see is a will-o’-the wisp. Dalfonzo is a man; the Thing is—the Thing.
The murders were _instigated_ by Dalfonzo, but were _committed_ by the
invisible terror.”

Deweese, as had many a man before him, began to wonder if he had to deal
with an imbecile or a man by no means as feeble-minded as he seemed. In
his puzzlement he stared at Peret for a moment, with mouth agape, then
he leaned forward in his chair until less than two feet separated his
corpselike face from Peret’s.

“And what the devil _is_ the Whispering Thing?” he asked sharply.

“All in good time,” came the amiable reply. “Let us first consider the
little slip that upset Dalfonzo’s apple cart.”

“Well, let us consider the little slip then,” said Deweese, relaxing in
his chair. “Where did our diplomatic freelance slip?”

“Why, when he tried to murder me in the same way that he did that poor
Berjet,” quietly responded Peret.

The artist half rose from his chair and stared at the detective with
astonishment written on his face.

“Do you mean to say that _you_ have been attacked by the Whispering
Thing?” he demanded.

“Just that, _Monsieur_. I was attacked by the whispering phantom in my
rooms last night after I left the scene of the attack on you. You can
realize, therefore, that I can appreciate all that you have gone through.
It is true that my experience was, in some respects, not as terrible as
your own, because I escaped the Thing before it could do me bodily harm.
But I never expect entirely to recover from the fright it gave me. _Mon
dieu_, what a monster this Dalfonzo is!”

“It was at his instigation that the Thing attacked you?” questioned
Deweese.

“Who else?” asked Peret.

“Well,” cried Deweese, impatiently, “why do you beat around the bush
so much? Be definite. What the devil is the Whispering Thing? And who,
exactly, is the man you call Dalfonzo?”

Peret lifted his eyes and gazed steadily at the artist.

“I will answer your second question first, _Monsieur_,” he replied, with
exasperating slowness. “My answer will explain why I have been beating
around the bush, as you call it.”

He leaned slightly forward, his right hand in his coat pocket, his eyes
smiling, the muscles around his mouth tense.

“Count Vincent di Dalfonzo,” he said, “is the man who at the present time
calls himself Albert Deweese—_Don’t move, Monsieur!_ The revolver in my
coat pocket is centered on your heart!”


_CHAPTER VIII._

THE MYSTERY IS SOLVED.

If Peret expected to catch Deweese off his guard, he was sadly
disappointed. The artist met his gaze squarely, and without any apparent
emotion.

Flicking the ashes from his cold cigarette, he applied a lighted match to
it and tossed the charred splinter upon the floor. The corpselike look
of his face became a little accentuated, perhaps, and there was a slight
narrowing of the eyes that had not been apparent before; but, except for
that, there was no change in his manner or appearance.

For a moment neither of the men spoke. Their eyes clashed and held. The
stillness became tense, electric, as they contemplated each other through
the haze of smoke that curled from the ends of their cigarettes. Finally:

“You are quite mad, I think,” remarked Deweese, unmoved. “Where the deuce
did you ever get the idea that I was Dalfonzo?”

Peret was unable to conceal his admiration.

“You are a great actor, _Monsieur_, and a brave man,” he declared in a
tone that left no doubt of his sincerity. “I told part of my story to
test you—a sort of indirect third degree—but so far not a muscle of your
face has moved. What a pity it is you are such a damned scoundrel!”

Deweese laughed shortly.

“It is always safe to insult a man when you have him covered,” he
observed composedly. “Nevertheless, pray continue. You interest me
exceedingly, and cause me no annoyance. Your wild theories brand you a
fool and an ass, and, strangely enough, it always gives me pleasure to
hear an ass bray. Proceed, my dear chap.”

“There are many others whose opinion of me is similar to your own,” said
Peret blandly; “but the fool is he who holds his enemy in contempt.”

Deweese’s eyes flashed.

“Well, dear enemy, what makes you think that I am the chap you call
Dalfonzo?” he questioned, smiling with his lips.

“You will not admit your identity, then?” countered the detective.

“Certainly I will admit my identity,” said Deweese, with a laugh. “I
am Albert Deweese, very much at your service. What reason have you for
believing me to be the man you call Dalfonzo—a man who, if one is to
believe you, seems to be in league with an invisible demon that commits
murders for him? The very fact that I almost met my death at the hands of
the Whispering Thing is proof that I am not the man you seek. If I had
anything to do with the Thing, does it seem reasonable to suppose that I
would turn it loose on myself?”

“The attack on you was an accident, _Monsieur_—a bit of retributive
justice, perhaps. Were it not for the fact that you still suffer from
the effects of it, I would say that you only got part of what was coming
to you. Not a full dose of your own medicine, _Monsieur_—just a taste of
it. Ah, you are clever, my friend, clever as the fiends in hell; but, it
appears, not clever enough, _Diable, Monsieur_, you should have better
trained that terrible monster before you turned it loose, eh?”

“You seem to like to talk in riddles,” snapped Deweese. “What is the
Whispering Thing, anyway? If you know, I shall be obliged if you will
tell me.”

“Very well, my friend,” acquiesced Peret. “I will do so with
pleasure. The invisible monster, the terrible, whispering, breathing,
fear-inspiring demon is—”

“_Well?_” demanded Deweese tersely.

“One little bat,” concluded Peret—“or rather, two little bats.”

Absurd as the detective’s statement may have sounded, its effect on the
artist was, nevertheless, pronounced. His gaze wavered and his face, if
such a thing were possible, became a shade paler. His recovery, however,
was almost immediate.

“I do not know what it was that attacked you last night,” he sneered. “It
may have been and probably was a bat. It is possible that an insect could
strike terror in the heart of a delicate little flower like you. But if
you think a bat attacked _me_—” with one of his chilling laughs—“I can
only say that I think you are a poor damned fool.”

“There are times that I think the same thing,” replied Peret, seriously;
“but this is not one of them. I not only think that the Thing was a
bat—I _know_ it. And to prove to you how futile it is for you to pretend
ignorance of the Thing, and of your own identity, let me reenact in words
the tragedy that ended in the death of two good and innocent men.”

“Do so,” gritted Deweese, his cold blue eyes glittering. “But if you
think you can convince me that the Thing that attacked me was a bat—”

“As I have already stated,” said Peret, fixing his gaze on the unwavering
eyes of the artist, “the murder of M. Berjet was conceived after you
learned that Adolphe had been killed. You deemed it necessary to your own
safety. Having completed your diabolical plans, therefore, you lost no
time in calling at the scientist’s home. Upon reaching your destination,
you entered the house by way of the front door, which you found unlocked.
The door of the library or sitting-room, on the other hand, was secured.

“You therefore placed a chair in front of the door to stand on and opened
the transom over the door. After tying a handkerchief over your mouth and
nostrils, you raised the cover of a little box you had brought with you
and released a bat in the room. Then you closed the transom and departed
from the house as silently as you had entered it.

“The bat proved to be a faithful ally, _Monsieur_. On little rubber pads
that you had glued on the upper side of its wings was a preparation
used by the Dyaks to poison the tips of their arrows and spears.
The preparation, which you used in powdered form, with a few added
ingredients of your own, as employed by the Dyaks, consists of a paste
made from the milky sap of the upas tree, dissolved in a juice extracted
from the tuba root. With one possible exception, it is the most deadly
poison known, a minute quantity, breathed in through the nostrils or
absorbed into the system through an abrasion on the skin, causing almost
instant death.

“When you released the bat in the library, it began to circle around the
room and its fluttering wings scattered the powder and poisoned the air
to such an extent that poor Berjet had only time, before he died, to
realize the significance of the bat’s presence in the room and to leap
through the window in a vain effort to save himself.

“You, in the meantime, had walked slowly down the street, and when the
scientist catapulted himself through the window-sash, you were calmly
lighting a cigarette under the corner lamp post half a block away. The
complication was one you doubtless had not anticipated; you had thought
that Berjet would die an instant death when he got a whiff of the powder.

“Nevertheless, you had nothing to fear, you thought; you had laid your
plans too carefully. Like any innocent pedestrian would be expected to
do, therefore, you ran back down the street, determined to be in at the
finish, to see your work well done.

“All this time the bat—whose mouth and nostrils, by the way, you had
protected with a tiny gauze mask from which the creature could eventually
free itself—was no doubt flying around and around, trying to find egress
from the room. It was while you were standing on the pavement in front of
the house, talking with Sprague and Greenleigh, that the bat discovered
the broken window-sash and escaped into the open air.

“As it winged its way aimlessly over the sidewalk, it flew close enough
to Sprague to scatter some of the powder in his face, and an instant
later, continuing its flight, it passed in front of you.

“Dr. Sprague inhaled a fatal amount of the powder, but you breathed in
only enough to throw you into a kind of convulsion. The struggles of
both you and the physician to get your breath and otherwise to overcome
the seizure made it appear that you were grappling with an invisible
antagonist. Sprague succumbed almost instantly; but you, after a brief
struggle, recovered, and in order to throw me off the track, as you
believed, cleverly conceived the ‘invisible monster.’

“Nor did you have to draw much upon your imagination for the ‘whispering
sound’ and the ‘icy breathing’ of the unholy creature of your mind.
The _whir_ of the bat’s wings as it flew past you made a sound not
unlike that of a sibilant whisper, while the whiffs of air that the
animal’s wings fanned against your cheek, suggested the ‘cold and clammy
breathing’ of the mythical monster.

“_Ma foi!_ well do I know whereof I speak, _Monsieur_, for I heard the
‘whisper’ and felt the ‘breath’ of the Thing myself. The bat that was
loosed in my room last night gave me the fright of my life. When its
wings brushed against the wall it sounded like a whisper of the devil
himself, and when its wings fanned the air against my face, I thought a
corpse was breathing death into my soul. No coward am I, _monsieur_, but
the ‘whispering’ and ‘breathing’ were so terribly real—which only goes
to show what suggestion will do to a vivid imagination. You had talked
so earnestly and so picturesquely about the ‘whisper’ and the ‘breath’
of the Thing, that when I first heard the _whir_ of the little animal’s
wings in the inky-dark room—_Dame!_ It makes me shiver yet!

“Fortunately, however, the bat had been in my room long enough before I
entered it to shake all the deadly powder from its wings. The powder had
settled and the air was pure before I crossed the threshold of that room,
else I would have died a quick and horrible death.

“The same thing is true of the bat that sprinkled death in the face
of Berjet. When you and I, in company with the police, entered the
scientist’s house, the bat had been gone for several minutes, and the
stray particles of pulverized death had settled. You realized this, of
course, or you would not have entered the room. If Strange and I had
entered the house five minutes earlier, you would have let us enter it
alone.”

Peret took a lavender handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and
wiped from his brow some beads of perspiration. A slight moisture was
also noticeable on the forehead of the artist, but it was due to another
cause. Although he must have known that each word of the detective’s
was a strand in the rope that was being woven around his neck, he gave
no signs of emotion. Inwardly, the strain had begun to tell on him, but
outwardly he was calm, confident, almost indifferent.

Restoring the handkerchief to his pocket, Peret resumed: “I confess that
at first the case baffled me. Through a mistake of my own, soon to be
explained, I got started on the wrong track. Your story of the Whispering
Thing did not impress me, although I did not at first suspect you of
deliberately trying to deceive me. I laid the Thing to your imagination
and wrought-up condition. My skepticism vanished, however, when I reached
my rooms, as I have explained.

“At first I scarcely knew what to believe. The asphyxiation theory of
Sprague and, later on, of Coroner Rane set my mind in motion, but led me
nowhere, because it did not fit in with my interpretation of Berjet’s
last words. As a matter of fact, nothing else seemed to fit in with
anything. Clues ran counter to each other and the facts themselves
clashed.

“I got my first inspiration when you declared that the breathing of the
Thing was cold and clammy, for this made it seem likely that poison fumes
had been fanned in your face by some mechanical device. Had it not been
for the horrible experience in my room, this is the theory upon which I
should have based my investigation.”

“Then you captured the bat?” said Deweese, in a tense voice.

“_Oui, Monsieur_,” nodded Peret. “I tried to shoot the tiny thing,
without even knowing what it was; but I ask you in all seriousness, my
friend, could one hope to hit with a thirty-two bullet a _chauve-souris_
that one could not see? Not I! So I telephoned for the police and they
came and conquered it with a tear bomb!

“The bat, _Monsieur_, was then turned over to the city chemists, and they
analyzed the traces of powder found adhering to the little pads on its
wings. Their report gave me the name of the poison that opened the gates
of eternity for Berjet and Sprague.”

Peret twisted the needle-points of his slender black mustache and beamed
upon his host.

“But why accuse me?” asked Deweese, smiling. “I have no bats in my
menagerie—nothing, in fact, but a flea-bitten bulldog.”

Peret’s face became sober.

“You stand accused not by me,” he said solemnly, “but by Berjet, the
first of your victims.”

“What’s that?” asked Deweese sharply. For the first time, he seemed
alarmed. He sat up suddenly in his chair, and as suddenly relaxed, but
the hunted look that crept into his eyes continued to show how sharply
the blow had struck home.

“You start, eh? Good! My reasoning is sound. Yes, my friend; Berjet is
your accuser. Just before he died, he uttered two words. The first word
was ‘assassins;’ and the other was a word that I at first believed to be
‘_dix_,’ the French word for ‘ten,’ which is pronounced _dees_. I thought
Berjet meant he had been attacked by ten assassins, incredible as it
seemed. That is what got me all balled up, as the saying goes.

“But after I heard your name, and let it roll around in my mind for
awhile, I realized my mistake. The dying man did not say _Dix_. He
pronounced your name, or rather, your present _alias_, ‘Deweese.’

“When realization of this burst upon me, I was so gratified that I
decided to lay a little trap for you. I became very excited, you may
recall, shouted that I knew what the Whispering Thing was, that the
mystery was solved! I wanted you to show your hand, my friend. But I was
not looking for you to act through a confederate, and as a result I very
obligingly walked into the little trap which you, in turn, laid for me.

“Who was it that put the _chauve-souris_ in my room, eh? Was it Sing Tong
Fat? It could not have been you, for you have been under surveillance
every minute of the time since you left the murdered scientist’s house
last night. I think you gave Sing Tong Fat instructions to destroy me
over the telephone, for the police report you as having called your house
from Greenleigh’s drug store after your departure from Berjet’s. Ah,
that devil of a Chinaman! I was watching him through the kitchen window
for a little while this morning polishing silver, and he was singing to
himself! _Pardieu!_ he has an easy conscience for a would-be murderer,
_monsieur_!”

“You have a very fertile imagination,” remarked Deweese, when Peret
paused to blow the ashes from his cigarette. “But your fairy tale amuses
me, so pray continue. In view of the fact that I was near the scene of
the crime when Berjet was murdered, it is not difficult to perceive how
you might confuse my name with the scientist’s last utterance. But how
you ever came to identify me with Dalfonzo is past my comprehension.”

“That is very easily explained,” was Peret’s affable reply. “After
leaving the scene of the crime last night, I had your house placed under
surveillance of the operative I have already mentioned. While he was
waiting for me to join him, so we could search the house, he saw Sing
Tong Fat through one of the windows and recognized him as your familiar.

“There are very few foreign agents unknown to the Secret Service, and my
operative has the record of you and Sing Tong Fat at his finger-tips. He
knows that you and the Chinaman have been associated for years, and that
at the present time you are working in the interests of Soviet Russia.
Sing Tong Fat is not the idiot he appears to be; he is an international
agent that several countries would give a good deal to lay their hands on.

“When my operative saw Sing Tong Fat in your house, he did not have to
tax his mind much to deduce the name of the ‘master’ he is serving.
Before I joined the operative, some one called Sing Tong Fat on the
’phone and he left the house almost immediately afterward. As the time
of the call coincides with the hour you are reported as having ’phoned
from Greenleigh’s drug store, I have no doubt that the message was from
you. As the operative had instructions to wait for me, he did not shadow
Sing Tong Fat when he left the house, which is a pity, for he probably
would have caught the old scoundrel in the act of putting the bat in my
room. After I arrived on the scene, we amused ourselves by searching your
house—this house—thoroughly.”

“So it was you prowling around here last night, was it?” said Deweese
savagely. “I wish I had known it; you should not have gotten away so
easily.”

“Then I am glad you did not know,” laughed Peret. “Your bulldog and your
bullet made it lively enough as it was.”

“I hope that you found your search worth while,” sneered Deweese.

“No,” replied Peret regretfully; “my search gave you a clean bill
of health. We did not find the formula or anything else that would
incriminate you. Nevertheless, _Monsieur_, your little game has been
played—played and lost.

“And you played the game badly, too, my friend. For a man of your
intelligence, your blunders are inexcusable. Why did you not leave that
blood-thirsty old Chinaman in Russia, _Monsieur_? You can never hope to
remain incognito as long as you have Sing Tong Fat in tow. His hatchet
face is too well known. Your other blunders were all just as glaring
as this one. Why did you linger near the scene of your crime, eh? And
introduced yourself to the human bloodhounds that were searching out your
scent! Ah, _Monsieur_, I admire your self confidence, but you have an
over abundance of it.”

“Perhaps,” said Deweese, with an ironic smile. “At any rate, it doesn’t
desert me now. For I know that you cannot convict me. You haven’t a shred
of real evidence against me, and the chain of circumstantial evidence you
have woven around me would be laughed to scorn in a jury room.”

“You are right,” assented Peret, almost apologetically. “So far I have
only been able to reconstruct the crime in my mind by piecing together
inconsequential nothings that do not constitute legal evidence. Surmises,
deductions, and a stray fact or two—I possess nothing more, my friend.
But for the present they must suffice. Before I am through, however, I
promise to tie you up in a knot of incontestable evidence.”

“That you will never be able to do,” declared Deweese, “for I am innocent
of the murders of Berjet and Sprague. I deny any knowledge of the crimes,
in fact, except what I saw in your presence last night. However, ever
since you have been here, I have noticed your hand toying with the
revolver in your pocket, so I presume that I am under arrest, what?”

“What the devil do I want to arrest you for?” asked Peret, with feigned
astonishment. “You yourself have said that I have no real evidence
against you.”

The lids of Deweese’s eyes narrowed and the lines around his mouth grew
hard. The pupils of his eyes, contracted to half their usual size, looked
like points of cold fire.

“If you are not here to arrest me, what’s your game?” he demanded.

“Oh, I just wanted to see what effect my theories would have on you,”
replied Peret calmly, as he rose to his feet. “I am a close student of
psychology, and I find much in you that interests me. Thanks for your
hospitality, _Monsieur_,” he continued, opening the door. “Perhaps I
shall have an opportunity to return the courtesy some day, as I have no
doubt we shall meet again.”

“Rest assured of that,” rejoined Deweese, with a sinister smile. “We
shall certainly meet again.”

“It is written,” returned Peret.

He looked at Deweese for a moment, and then, with a bow, withdrew from
the room.


_CHAPTER IX._

THE WORM TURNS

When the door had closed behind the detective, Deweese walked across the
room and put his ear to the keyhole.

He heard the shrill chatter of Sing Tong Fat as he let Peret out of the
house, and the slam of the front door when he closed it behind him.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Deweese threw himself into a chair. The strain
through which he had just come had been terrific. Ordinarily, he would
have found a battle of wits with the detective much to his liking, for it
was for just such games as this that he lived. But his experience with
the Whispering Thing had left his nerves in such a state that he felt he
had been no match for the Frenchman.

Nevertheless, now that he was at least temporarily unembarrassed by the
detective’s presence, his brain began to function more normally and
he set about evolving plans to extricate himself from his hazardous
position. What a devil the Frenchman was! The man’s powers of deduction
smacked of the supernatural. And yet—

He knitted his brow. Recalling to his mind his own blundering, it was not
so difficult, after all, to perceive how the detective had arrived at
his conclusions. He, Deweese, had laid his plans so carefully, that he
had believed detection impossible. But now, viewing the working out of
his plan in retrospection, he could see where he had erred, and cursed
himself for his carelessness. His blunders, as Peret had implied, had
been too obvious to escape notice. Should not the remarkable accuracy
of Peret’s reasoning, therefore, be attributed to chance rather than to
genius? The accursed dying speech of the scientist had given him the key
to the mystery, and it was certainly only an ill chance that had led
him to be on hand to hear it. With such a clue to work on, he reasoned,
the solving of the case had simply been a matter of routine. Without
this clue, the detective would have been lost. The fact that he himself
had been attacked by the Whispering Thing would have shielded him from
suspicion.

As he thought of his chance encounter with the bat, he shuddered. The
accident in itself proved his carelessness. It had indeed almost proved
his death. As Peret had said, he had been a fool to linger near the scene
of his crime, but he had been so sure, so confident, that he had done his
work too well to fear detection. As for Peret—well, his very frankness
proved that he was something of a fool. Who but an idiot would have
exposed his hand when he knew that his opponent held the strongest cards!

Of course, there was a possibility that the Frenchman was holding
something back, but what if he was? Was he, Count Vincent di Dalfonzo,
“mystery man” of a hundred _aliases_ and acknowledged by the police to be
the cleverest international crook outside of prison bars, to be deprived
of his liberty and a fortune by an imbecile of a private detective?

He laughed, and his laugh did not sound pleasant. After all, he had the
formula, and the game was not yet lost. His blunders had not been as bad
as they might have been. He would have been arrested at once, he argued,
had Peret believed that there was even the slightest chance of convicting
him. It only remained for him to make one imperative move, and then sit
tight. The Frenchman was bluffing, or perhaps he was laying another of
his diabolical traps. Well, he should see!

After fortifying himself with a stiff drink of whisky from the flask
in the table drawer, he tapped the hand-bell on the table, and Sing
Tong Fat, as if he had been awaiting the summons, entered the room with
noiseless tread.

“Did you let that blankety-blank Frenchman out?” demanded Deweese.

“_Tchèe, tchée_,” chattered Sing Tong Fat. “He gone. Me watchee him glo
dlown stleet. He allee samee tam fool clazy man. He say he blowee topee
head off. _Hoi, hoi._” He drew one of the silken sleeves of his blouse
across his face and looked at his master anxiously. “He say polis alle
lound house in stleet, _Fan-Fu_. He talkee allee samee Victrolee—”

“The house is still under surveillance, is it?” observed Deweese,
wrinkling his brow. “Well, so much the better. We work best when we work
cautiously, and we are not likely to be incautious when we know we are
watched.”

He lighted a fresh cigarette and gazed reflectively at the thread of
smoke that curled upward from the lighted end. The drink of whisky had
cleared his brain, and, alert, feverishly bright-eyed, every nerve
in tune, he was now the man who for years had matched wits with the
continental police and eluded them at every turn. Sing Tong Fat, well
aware of the seriousness of the situation, shuffled his feet uneasily and
waited, with an anxious look on his face, for his “master” to speak.

“Sing Tong Fat,” said Deweese, finally, “you and I have been friends
and coworkers for many years. We have associated in many dangerous
enterprises and I have always been liberal when it came to a division of
the spoils. As we have shared the pleasures of our adventures, so too
have we shared their dangers. I feel it only fair to tell you, therefore,
that our peril has never been so great as it is now. Unless we act
quickly we are doomed. You follow me, do you not?”

Sing Tong Fat touched his forehead and gravely nodded.

“It seems as if Fate has been against us from the very beginning in the
Q-gas business,” resumed Deweese in an unemotional tone. “The murder of
Berjet, while necessary, was unfortunate, and since then we have had one
stroke of bad luck after the other. We erred in trying to kill the French
detective in the manner we did. He should have been knifed, swiftly,
surely, silently. The bat that I instructed you to put in his room failed
to accomplish his death and gave him a clue which, if we are not careful,
may prove to be our undoing. Most important of all, both of us have been
recognized. So you can realize how serious the situation is.”

“I await thy command, O Illustrious Master,” said the Chinaman gravely,
in his native tongue.

Deweese, as if he took this for granted, nodded and proceeded:

“Of the two of us you have the most cunning, and you therefore stand the
better chance of eluding the police. This is not flattery; it is wisdom
I have acquired through the years of my association with you. You are as
elusive as a phantom when at large, and, when in the toils, as slippery
as an eel. Execution of the plan I have formed, therefore, I am going to
entrust to you. It is very doubtful if I could slip through the cordon of
police around the house but I think that you may be able to do so, and it
is very necessary that one of us should. Here, then, is what I want you
to do:

“The soviet agent, No. 29, is waiting in New York for the Q-gas
formula. He is stopping at the Alpin Hotel. The formula is locked in a
safe-deposit box in the Exporter’s Bank in this city. The box was rented
by me under the name of John G. McGlynn. I want you to take the first
train to New York and get No. 29 to return to Washington with you. It is
too risky for you to try to telegraph him.

“I will give you a paper authorizing him to open the box and remove the
formula. The formula is to be replaced with fifty thousand dollars in
gold, the second and final installment of the price No. 29 agreed to pay
for the secret.

“After the exchange, which must take place in your presence, you are to
rejoin me here and we will settle our score with Peret, and then take
steps to extricate ourselves from the net he has woven around us. The
most important thing now is the formula. Once we have gotten rid of that,
we can doubtless make our get-away. We have done so many times in the
past under circumstances almost as trying as the present ones, and we can
doubtless do so again.

“What do you think of the plan, Sing? It is filled with danger, but—if
you can think of a better one, I should be glad to hear it.”

“I agree with you as to the danger,” rejoined the Chinaman in a strange
voice, and then, very suddenly, he pressed the muzzle of an automatic
against Deweese’s temple.

With his free hand he then swept the wax wrinkles from his face and
grinned. Deweese, in spite of the proximity of the automatic, recoiled.
The man was not Sing Tong Fat. He was _Jules Peret_!

“Move at your peril, _Monsieur_,” warned the detective. Then, raising his
voice, “Hello, major!” he shouted.

The door swung open, and Major Dobson, accompanied by Detective Sergeant
Strange and Harvey Bendlow, entered the room. Behind them came O’Shane
and Frank, dragging between them Sing Tong Fat, the latter bound and
gagged and minus his skull cap and outer clothing which, needless to say,
now adorned the head and body of the mirthful French detective.

“Did you hear the conversation, Major?” cried Peret gleefully.

“Every word of it,” declared Dobson, much gratified at the success of
Peret’s stratagem. “Sergeant Strange and I were watching through a crack
in the door and heard and saw all. The stenographer in the hall has it
all down. The jig is up, Mr. _Alias_ Deweese,” he added, turning to
the international agent. “Your goose is cooked, and the mystery of the
‘invisible monster’ is a thing of the past.”

“You devil!” shouted Deweese hoarsely, glaring at the Frenchman; “you
have trapped me!”

“So I have,” agreed Peret, wiping the yellow stain from his face with
a handkerchief. “But did I not promise you that I would do so? Ah,
_Monsieur_, if you but knew what it cost me to keep my promise! Did I not
have to sacrifice my hair and beautiful mustache this morning? Still, the
wig and false mustache I wore before I donned Sing Tong Fat’s regalia
looked very natural, did they not? They must have, since they deceived
you, my friend. But you should see my head without a covering! it looks
like the egg of the ostrich.”

He pressed Sing Tong Fat’s skull-cap down more firmly on his head and
laughed heartily.

“_Ma foi_,” he continued, as he removed from his face the little pads
of wax that had given his eyes an almond slant, “I almost feel tempted
to make my present impersonation permanent. Sing is such a handsome and
charming man—which doubtless explains why he fought so hard to retain
his identity. When he was seized by my good friends in the vestibule,
as he opened the door to let me out awhile ago, he was an astonished
and infuriated man. He fought, hissed and scratched like the cat of the
alley. And how he glared at them when they divested him of his clothing
and helped me to make up my face to look like his own. Look at him
glaring at me now!

“My colleagues say I am a mimic and make-up artist of the first order,
and when I think how beautifully I deceived you, _M. le Comte di
Dalfonzo_, I am almost persuaded that they are right.”

                                 THE END.




_Strange, Indeed, Are the Possibilities of the Human Mind. A Weird
Example Is Found in_

THE DEATH CELL

_By_ F. K. MOSS


[Illustration]

“Man is by nature an experimenter,” argued my friend, Dr. Armand, a
psychologist of some repute, “and he is steadily delving into the Unknown
and bringing to light knowledge that is often appalling in its intricacy
of concept.

“He gathers about him a few relatively simple pieces of apparatus and
discovers the existence of particles infinitely smaller than the most
minute object visible under the ultra-microscope. He measures its size,
mass, electrical charge, and in truth finds out more about it than he
knows of visible objects. All of this he learns about matter that he can
never even hope to see with his naked eye. The simple but marvelous
instrument, the spectroscope, tells him of the composition of the
stars. It told him that upon the sun there is an element unknown upon
this earth; he called it helium, and later discovered and isolated the
gas after first finding it on a body millions of miles away. Beautiful
indeed, is modern science!”

Armand paused for a moment as if more fully to comprehend the scope of
the subject, and then continued:

“But the most refined and sensitive piece of apparatus, if I may call it
that, and about which so little is understood, is the human brain. A vast
amount of research has been done along the lines of psychology by many
able men and the data has been formulated into several well established
hypotheses, and yet”—he stretched out his arms in a vague sort of
gesture—“how little we really know about the brain!”

We had met, as had been our custom, at Armand’s apartment to enjoy
an afternoon together and to discuss old times and friends. I must
confess, with all due respect to the Doctor, that the subject was often
soon changed into a scientific lecture by him on his favorite theme,
psychology. I really enjoyed these informal talks immensely, for there is
no more entertaining speaker than the scholarly Armand.

I nodded. “Yes, I suppose so, but it seems a natural consequence—the
brain. How can the brain be studied and mathematically analyzed
like—well, mechanics, for example?”

“Perhaps that is not such an impossibility as it would seem,” said
Armand. “In the past the whole proposition has been studied conceiving of
the brain as a matter quite as abstract as the ‘soul.’ The more recent
school of investigation has attacked the problem, bearing in mind that,
after all, the functioning of the brain might be governed by the same
laws of physics that can be universally applied elsewhere.

“The application of the electron theory is not absurd in the least.
However, all research must be based upon the axiom, ‘If an occurrence can
be made to take place under certain conditions, then the repetition of
those conditions should invariably produce the same occurrence.’ As yet
this fact has not been established firmly in the case of the brain.

“I have,” he continued, “just finished obtaining the data on the most
absorbing case I have ever had the opportunity to study. The data was
available only in fragments obtained from various sources, and in many
places I have been forced to bridge the gaps by drawing purely from my
conception, or imagination, of what took place.”

I was deeply interested in Dr. Armand’s work, particularly in a case
which he deemed so extraordinary, and I urged him to relate the thing in
some detail.

“The first part of the amazing affair is of common knowledge and varies
little from many other cases on record. However, the weirdest and most
intensely absorbing episode began after the rest of the world conceded
the whole unfortunate affair closed forever. Perhaps it would have been
closed had the principal actor been but slightly different in mentality,
or even in a different mood at the crucial hour. Potentially, there
might be many possibilities of such an occurrence, but the probability
of the combination of the required circumstances at the critical hour,
is infinitesimal. Even the exact repetition of the conditions might not
necessarily produce the same results.”

Dr. Armand then related the story as he conceived it, prefacing his
remarks with the statement:

“If the reactions of what we term the abnormal mind could only be
chronicled, we would stand aghast at what would be written.”


DR. ARMAND’S STRANGE NARRATIVE

The friendship of James McKay and William Larson was a source of wonder
and pleasure to their mutual friends and acquaintances. Such was the
close companionship of the two men that they were often laughingly
referred to as “David and Jonathan.”

Each regarded the other with pride, respect, and understanding. Possibly
there could not have been found a more glorious example of the love of
one man for another than this one. Certainly few, if any, would have been
so mentally constituted as to produce reactions which would lead to such
terrible results.

McKay had met Larson some six years previous through his newspaper work,
both being on the staff of a Denver newspaper. Strangely, in view of
their later friendship, neither was particularly attracted to the other
until some time later.

On this occasion McKay had been asked to “sit in” a card game at Larson’s
apartment, which he willingly did, for games of chance were attractive to
McKay. The party lasted nearly the entire night, and upon breaking up,
Larson offered to share his room with McKay, as the latter lived at some
distance.

What drew the two men together is impossible to say, but their friendship
must have ripened quickly, for the next evening found McKay established
permanently as a roommate of Larson.

In appearance, if their expressions were analyzed, the two men were
strikingly alike; enough so to be readily taken for brothers. Both were
of a slender athletic build, dark complexioned, and with sharp, clean-cut
features—sportsmen, in every sense of the word.

In character, however, there was much difference. McKay, the younger, was
an impulsive, quick-acting and confident sort of fellow, easily offended,
but correspondingly quick to accept an apology. While clever in many
respects, he was not given to concentrated and painstaking study.

This trait was evident from his writing—original, snappy, entertaining,
but often lacking in fine details of accuracy. Larson, on the other hand,
was of a more conservative type, slower but more positive in his actions,
and of a nature that inquired into things in a thorough and precise
fashion.

Such was the well-known friendship of the two that great was the surprise
of all who knew McKay when, his face black with anger, he entered the
barroom of the Palace Hotel and demanded:

“Where’s that damned Larson?”

Friends at once tried to ascertain the trouble, and also to urge him to
return to his home, as he had evidently been drinking heavily. But McKay
was in no mood to be pacified by his friends.

“Don’t interfere in my affairs!” he snarled.

Then he ordered a drink, swallowed it at a gulp, and then seated himself
in a far corner of the room.

McFadden, a close friend of both Larson and McKay, went over to him and,
linking his arm in McKay’s in a hearty and jovial manner, attempted
to take him away. McKay turned on him so savagely that he gave it up,
resolving to find Larson and learn the reason for McKay’s anger.

As McKay only sat and watched and waited, his eyes blazed with a deadly
gleam.

       *       *       *       *       *

McKay had become, as Larson expressed it, hypnotized by and infatuated
with a really beautiful but altogether shallow and irresponsible sort of
woman. The affair had caused Larson a great deal of annoyance, as McKay
would, at times, become extraordinarily cheerful and then sink into
spells of despondency so sullen and irritable that even the quiet-natured
Larson found it impossible to live with him.

These moods, as Larson well knew, were occasioned by Miss Conway’s
treatment of Jim. Her influence over McKay seemed as unlimited as it was
magical. Larson had tried to reason with Jim, and had tried to convince
him that Miss Conway did not care seriously for him or any one else
except herself. But all his efforts produced no other effect than to
kindle new passion in McKay.

On the evening mentioned, McKay had asked permission to call at her home,
but was refused, she pleading a previous engagement. For some unknown
reason (the guiding hand of fate, for those who believe in fate), he
walked out to her home, and as he drew near he saw Larson—his old pal,
Bill Larson—enter the home of Miss Conway!

For a moment he stood as if stunned. Of all persons, Bill was the last he
would have suspected.

Then it all became plain to him—Bill had tried to alienate the girl’s
love!

Slowly, listlessly, McKay turned and retraced his steps to his room.
He sat there a long while in the dark and let his mind become polluted
with the poison of an insane jealousy, while he saturated his system and
dulled his conscience with whisky.

About eleven he rose, placed a gun in his pocket, and started for the
hotel where he and Larson often met in the evening. As he walked, his
mind became closed to reason, closed to his regard for his friend, closed
to everything except that Larson had double-crossed him. As he sat and
waited in the barroom his brain focused itself on this one point until it
had taken possession of him.

He had been there about a half hour when Larson appeared, laughing
and chatting with some friends. Bill was in great spirits, for he had
accomplished, that night, the thing he had long sought. Miss Conway had
been very reasonable and had promised that she would cause McKay no more
anxiety.

McFadden and a few others hastened at once toward him to tell him about
McKay. But they were too late, for Larson, espying McKay, sang out:

“Hello, Jim, old scout! Come over and ‘hist’ one with us!”

McKay jumped up and strode over to the bar, his eyes glittering and his
mouth twitching with hatred.

“You damn——!” and he leveled an accusing finger at Larson.

“Jim!” cried Larson, “what’s wrong?” Larson was greatly shocked and
distressed over the condition of his friend, and he overlooked, if he
heard, the insult hurled at him.

“So that was what you wanted?” McKay snarled.

“My God, Jim, what is it?”

“You may have beaten me, but you will never, never get her!” And a stream
of fire leapt from McKay’s gun and Larson dropped to the floor, uttering
but one word—“Jim!”

The weapon dropped from McKay’s limp hand, and his face was ashen as he
gazed, speechlessly, at the bleeding and lifeless body of his best friend
on earth.

He slowly turned away, and later surrendered himself to the authorities.

The tragic affair caused a great deal of comment. Some three weeks
after the murder the case was brought to trial and attracted widespread
interest. The dingy West Side courtroom was crowded to capacity. Friends,
acquaintances, business men, curiosity seekers, fought for seats.

Considerable difficulty was encountered in the selection of a jury. The
popularity of the murdered man, as well as the defendant, made it hard to
find an unbiased yet capable juryman.

After that, however, the trial was brief, the end coming with almost
startling suddenness. The state’s case was plain and simple: The evidence
was overwhelmingly against McKay, and the situation was not improved by
his refusal to offer any defense.

His attorney put up the plea of temporary insanity. His arguments held
weight. The plea was eloquent and logical, and probably would have been a
deciding factor had not McKay himself, at the conclusion of the address,
risen—and, to the dumbfounded court and attorney, refused to accept
insanity as a defense.

The jury was out fifty minutes and returned a verdict of “guilty in the
first degree,” and recommended the death penalty. All eyes were turned
toward McKay, who remained perfectly emotionless.

The judge then pronounced the death sentence on James McKay.

       *       *       *       *       *

The friends of McKay were surprised at the severity of the penalty.
Especially dejected over the outcome were McFadden, a brother newspaper
man; Kirk, an oil operator, and Barnard, a young Medic, for these three,
with McKay and Larson, had formed what they termed the “gang.” Now one of
the five was dead and another was sentenced to be hung.

They at once demanded a new trial, but it was refused. Scarcely could the
men refrain from emotion when McKay asked them and his attorney to settle
up his worldly affairs. As he was without a family, he willed all his
property to his three friends, and even mentioned in some detail a few
personal effects he wanted each to have.

Of all present, McKay was the least affected by the scene. His voice and
movements were those of an automaton rather than that of a human being.
Indeed, he was practically such and had been so since the death of Larson.

After attending to the last detail of his worldly affairs he rose and
silently shook the hands of his friends. Accompanied by two plain
clothesmen, handcuffed wrist to wrist, he left them and started on his
last trip to Canon City. He had often visited that little Colorado city,
and had spent many a pleasant time there. He requested the officers to
drive down Seventeenth Street.

At one end was the golden dome of the State Capitol, brilliantly aglow
from the crimson rays of the setting sun; at the other was the station,
dark against the purple, snow-capped Rockies.

As he neared the station he looked long and sadly at the huge arch
erected at the entrance. The word _Mizpath_ was blazoned across the arch.

       *       *       *       *       *

The utmost consideration was shown McKay by the prison authorities, who
were well acquainted with the young reporter. The Warden met him at the
office and personally took him to the death cell.

The door clamped shut and the bolts shot in place with metallic
harshness, and the law began to exact its penalty as it had done in the
Dark Ages—caging him in with stone and steel.

Five days passed, long grinding days and longer nights, for sleep no
longer supplied periods of relaxation. His friends were agreeably
surprised when they visited him a few days later to find him in an
apparently cheerful frame of mind. He talked of Larson in the freest sort
of manner. He delighted in dwelling upon the characteristics of his late
friend. More and more, as the days passed by, did he like to discuss
Larson. He would relate incident after incident in the life of the latter
which, due to the closeness of their friendship, he knew quite as well as
his own.

As to his impending execution, he seemed surprisingly unconcerned. Calmly
and without bitterness, McKay waited for justice to take its course.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barnard and McFadden were silently playing pinochle, while Kirk stared
moodily out the window at the cold and drizzling rain.

The spirits of the men were at low ebb and they had met that Wednesday
evening only through force of habit. Efforts to liven up the evening had
been made, but with no enthusiasm, and it promised to be as dull as the
weather outside.

“Why not!” suddenly muttered Kirk, half to himself and half aloud.

Barnard and McFadden turned around and eyed their companion curiously.
Kirk went over to his desk and started searching for something.

Reseating himself, he read and re-read the newspaper clipping he had
taken from the desk. The expression on his face was so strange that the
pinochle game was abandoned and his friends attempted to learn the cause
of his unusual behavior.

“What is the matter with you?” demanded McFadden, somewhat impatiently.

“Read that!” and Kirk forced the clipping into McFadden’s hand.

The latter glanced at it briefly, then gave it his undivided attention
and then passed it over to Barnard, who was exceedingly impatient to read
it after noting its effect upon McFadden.

Barnard’s expression instantly changed from one of curiosity to one of
great seriousness. Kirk looked at McFadden in an effort to appraise the
effect of the article, and read an excitement equal to his own. Together
they turned to Barnard, who read aloud:

    “CHICAGO, MARCH 8: The startling disclosure was made today by
    Chicago detectives that associates of ‘Red’ Murphy, gunman, who
    was hanged this morning, had all but succeeded in restoring
    Murphy to life! The request was made and granted for the body
    immediately after being taken from the scaffold. The body was
    placed in an ambulance and whirled away. Inside the ambulance,
    hot blankets, pulmotor and restoratives were applied until
    Murphy began to breathe again. The desperate attempt was
    futile, however, as Murphy died a few minutes after being
    revived.”

For at least fifteen minutes after Barnard finished not a word was
spoken. Finally Kirk turned to Barnard.

“You are a doctor. What about it?”

Barnard deliberated. “Yes, it might be done if the neck was not broken by
the drop. If such was the case, death would be produced by strangulation.”

Gone was the boredom of the evening, and in its place was created a
plan that was to write additional chapters beyond the “Finis” placed on
the case of James McKay by the state. Throughout the entire night they
discussed the plan—accepting and rejecting it time and time again.

There were many phases to be considered. The probability that McKay would
be hanged without having his neck broken finally became the crux of the
argument. Kirk suggested a plan. McFadden, as a newspaper man, would have
access to the death chamber; the rope could be shortened and the knot
fixing it to the scaffold could be arranged so that it would slip a bit,
thereby easing the shock of the drop.

McFadden immediately protested, and refused to consider such a move. It
would be torture for McKay. Barnard said:

“I could give McKay a ‘shot’ that would dull any pain produced.”

“Jim would not stand for a hypo.”

“He would not notice it, in the excitement and confusion of being bound.”

Throughout the discussion of the proposed plan, the possibility of legal
consequences for themselves was not considered. They were playing for
the life of a friend and the ethics of the methods were of secondary
importance.

By morning they had formulated and agreed upon a definite plan
of procedure, and before separating they spent a few moments in
anticipating the joy of the reunion, if they were successful. Although
McKay had taken the life of an equally close friend, so well did they
understand the conditions that they extended their sympathy rather than
censure.

Day by day the details of the plan were carried out. Each was assigned
a definite part of the work to be done. McFadden spent all the time
he dared spend at the penitentiary. He familiarized himself with the
equipment of capital punishment. He studied the tying of knots; he
experimented and found the best possible way to adjust a rope so that the
shock of the drop would be taken up as smoothly as possible.

Nor could a more zealous medical student be found than Barnard. He sought
out every possible reference on the subject, prepared emergency equipment
to the last detail.

The day before the execution, McFadden and Barnard left for Canon City,
Kirk remaining in Denver. That night Kirk got out McKay’s suitcase and
started packing it.

       *       *       *       *       *

McKay was the center of the solemn little group that, with precise
movement, passed down the steel corridors. They entered the death
chamber, and it was McKay who sought to cheer his friends.

He stepped upon the trap, and the officials bound his wrists to his
thighs with wide leather straps. He laughed and joked with his friends,
who could not force a laugh from their dry set lips. Then, while the
hangman stood waiting with the black hood, the chaplain offered up a few
words in prayer.

McFadden stepped up and bade his friend farewell. Barnard then came up
and in a strained manner clapped McKay on the shoulder and said, “So
long, old scout,” and then stepped down, quickly concealing a small
hypodermic syringe in his pocket.

Barnard and McFadden left the room and waited just outside, where they
exchanged significant glances. Each knew the other had not failed in
his task. A few seconds later they heard the trap drop, and for eleven
excruciating minutes—an eternity—they waited.

The prison physician pronounced McKay dead and they returned. The body
was cut down quickly, then turned over to Barnard and placed in a waiting
ambulance, and whirled away.

Once again the experiment was being tried.

The long chance won. After a desperate effort Barnard’s work was
rewarded by a slight and uncertain breathing by McKay.

McFadden noticed this, and scarcely could refrain from shouting with joy.
Barnard, however, quickly assured him that the results as yet were far
from certain.

The body reached the mortuary and, by well-laid plans and judicious
selection of undertakers, was placed on a bed rather than the marble slab
of the embalmer. Barnard watched his “patient” with close attention,
while McFadden hastened to telegraph Kirk, who was waiting in Denver.

The three friends were gathered about McKay when the latter regained
consciousness after hours of quiet and restful sleep. McKay opened his
eyes—shut them—then, with eyes wide open, hand on his forehead, he gazed
in a glassy manner about the room. His whole body quivered for a few
seconds, then relaxed, and then he spoke in a hoarse and mechanical tone.

“What—” His eyes wandered about and his words became inarticulate.
Finally:

“What—what has happened?”

“Steady, old man,” said Barnard. “Everything is O. K. You came out fine.”

Again McKay stared. “Came out? Came out of what?”

“Don’t you realize—”

Barnard interrupted Kirk, and with a look warned McFadden to remain quiet.

“Never mind, old boy. Rest up a bit, and then we’ll explain.”

McKay was not satisfied. He asked: “Where is Jim—Jim McKay?”

“_What!_”

The three friends riveted their eyes on McKay, and slowly, first with
Barnard, an expression of horror spread over their faces as they
understood what had happened. The shock of being launched into eternity,
only to be snatched back by his friends, had, as the law demanded,
blotted out the life of McKay—_and they had brought back William Larson!_

       *       *       *       *       *

Armand finished, and I turned over in my mind many questions that wanted
answering.

“Is there any explanation of the transition of the personality, or soul
of McKay, to that of Larson?”

“Yes,” said Armand. “The brain is composed of two hemispheres, one
of which receives impressions and is the seat of thinking. The other
hemisphere remains thoughtless. Undoubtedly, after the normal section
became somewhat paralyzed by the melancholia of those terrible nights
alone in the death cell the thoughtless section must have received
impressions. You will remember that, following his melancholia, McKay
desired above all to talk of Larson, and in dwelling on this the usually
inactive hemisphere probably received its impressions.”

“Do you believe that he will always remain as Larson?” I asked.

“It is my belief that he will. He says that he is Larson, and he acts the
life of Larson. Impossible as it may sound, I believe that exactly six
years from the day of his execution, McKay, as Larson, will die—a victim
of auto-suggestion and the vividness of his imagination.”




_Ghastly Retribution Befell the Victim of_

THE DEVIL PLANT

_By_ LYLE WILSON HOLDEN


It was the last straw! Injury upon injury I had borne without a murmur,
but now I determined to revenge myself upon Silvela Castelar, let the
cost be what it would. His malevolent influence had pursued me since
early boyhood, and it was he who caused every fond hope of my life to
turn to ashes before its realization.

Long ago, when we were boys in school together, his evil work began.
We were both of Spanish blood, and both, having lost our parents in
childhood, were being educated by our respective guardians at one of the
famous boys’ schools of England.

Nothing was more natural in the circumstances, than that we should become
chums and room-mates. However, it was not long before I began to be
sorry that I had entered into such close relationship with him. He was
absolutely unscrupulous, and soon his escapades won him an unenviable
reputation among the other students, although he always managed, by
skillfully covering his trail, to stand well with the authorities of the
school.

Before many weeks had passed, a particularly heinous outrage, which
he had committed, set the whole school in an uproar. It could not be
overlooked, and a strict investigation was started.

What was my horror to discover that his devilish ingenuity had woven a
web of evidence which thoroughly enmeshed me within its coils! There was
no escape; I was dismissed in disgrace from the school, and in disgrace
I left England. The notoriety I received in many of the leading papers
of the Kingdom made it impossible for me to enter another school or to
obtain any honest employment.

I came to America, working my passage over upon a cattle ship. The years
that followed were hard ones, but by sober industry I forged slowly ahead
until, at last, I had bright prospects of becoming the junior partner in
a large business house in Baltimore.

Then my evil genius appeared. Silvela obtained employment in our company,
and by his devilish cunning soon made himself well liked and trusted.

Then one morning, a few months after he came, it was reported that a
large amount of money had been stolen from the firm. Again a network of
circumstantial evidence pointed indisputably in my direction.

I was arrested and brought to trial. The evidence not being entirely
conclusive, the jury disagreed, and I was set free; but my career in
America was forever blasted.

As soon as I could close up my affairs, I buried myself in the wilds
of Australia, where I began life anew. Fortune was kind to me and I
prospered. Under another name, I became a respected and honored citizen
of a thriving new settlement.

Then the crowning blessing of all came when I won the love of the
beautiful Mercedes, a black-eyed, olive-hued immigrant from my old
province of Andalusia. Then, indeed, I was at the threshold of Heaven!
But how short was my day of bliss!

Four weeks before our wedding day Silvela Castelar suddenly entered our
settlement. It is useless to dwell upon that wretched period. Sufficient
to say that this hellborn fiend again worked his diabolic sorcery, and
Mercedes was lost to me forever.

The report came to me that Silvela, for the first time in his life,
loved with a fierce, consuming passion, and that Mercedes soon would be
betrothed to him. Then it was that I vowed by all that was holy that
Silvela Castelar should pay in full his guilty debt, even though, as a
result, my soul should sink into stygian blackness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why do I write this? Because I take a grim pleasure in telling of
my revenge, and because I want the world to know that I had just
provocation. I am not afraid. Life or death—it matters little which is my
portion now. When this is read I shall be far from the haunts of men.

Silvela Castelar thought I was a fool. It suited my purpose that he
should continue to think so. I treated him as a bosom friend, and he,
poor idiot, thought I never guessed that he was the instigator of the
ruin which drove me from England, wrecked my business career in America,
and in the end left me desolate, without hope of ever enjoying the
blessings of love.

So, while we smoked, read, or hunted together, I brooded upon my wrongs,
and racked by brain for some method by which I could accomplish that
which was now the sole absorbing motive of my life. Then chance threw
across my path the instrument of my vengeance.

One day, while I was wandering, desolate and alone, through a wild and
unexplored part of the country, I came upon one of the rarest and at the
same time one of the most terrible species of the vegetable kingdom ever
discovered. It is known as the octopus plant, called by the natives “the
devil tree.” When I saw it my heart gave a throb of exultation, for I
knew that my search was ended; the means by which I could accomplish my
purpose was now at hand.

Silvela and I had but one passion in common—an intense love for botanical
investigation. I knew that he would be interested when he heard of my
strange discovery, and I believed that his knowledge of the plant was not
sufficient to make him cautious. On the evening of the next day but one,
as we sat smoking, I broached the subject.

“Silvela, in the old days you used to be considerably wrapped up in the
study of plant life. Are you still interested?”

“Somewhat,” he replied, and then his eyes narrowed craftily. “I exhausted
the interesting possibilities of most of the known plants of the world a
number of years ago. Lately I have found ‘the light that lies in women’s
eyes’ a subject of greater interest.”

I could have strangled him where he sat; but a lifetime of trouble has
taught me to conceal my feelings. I betrayed no emotion.

“I’ll venture that there is one plant which you have never studied at
first hand.”

“What is that?” he asked, with mild curiosity.

“A plant,” I continued, “found only in the most inaccessible places
of the earth. Probably it could be seen only in the wildest parts of
Sumatra or Australia, and then scarcely once in a lifetime.”

He was now thoroughly aroused.

“What is the family of this wonderful shrub?” he asked. “I have a dim
recollection of having heard of it. Let me see—isn’t it called—”

“The devil tree by the natives, by others the octopus plant,” I broke in.
“But I have heard that the name is somewhat of a misnomer. It is said
that it is rather a tree of heaven, for it distills a rare and delicious
nectar which has a wonderful rejuvenating power. At the same time it
intoxicates in a strange and mysterious manner, causing him who drinks
to revel in celestial visions of love and radiant beauty. Instead of
leaving one depressed, as is the case with alcohol, it is said that the
impression lingers, the face grows younger, and he who sips is actually
loved by any of the female sex whose eyes look upon him. Indeed, I have
heard that if our countryman, Ponce de Leon, had gone to the South Seas
instead of to Florida, he would have really discovered the fountain of
youth for which he sought.”

I looked at Silvela. His eyes were sparkling, and he was breathing
quickly; I knew I had found his weak point. His was a dreamy,
half-superstitious nature, and my words appealed to him strongly.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Would that I could see this marvelous phenomenon and
sip of its celestial juice!”

“It could be done,” I replied, hesitatingly, “but it would involve some
hardship and considerable danger.”

“Did you ever see one of these plants?”

“Yes; not two days since.”

Silvela sprang to his feet, with a Spanish oath.

“_Dios mio!_” he cried. “Rodriguez, why did you not tell me? When can we
start to find it?”

“Softly,” I admonished. “I told you there was danger. Haven’t you heard
that this devil’s plant has been known to gorge itself upon human flesh?”

“The wild story of some frightened native,” he scoffed. “Take me to
it and nothing shall prevent me from testing the fabled powers of its
juices. Stop! Did you not drink of this delicious nectar?”

I shook my head sadly.

“No, I had no wish to try. Why should I seek to become young in body when
my heart is old within?”

“You were afraid,” he sneered, “afraid of the trailing tendrils of this
plant devil.”

“Have it that way if you wish,” I answered indifferently. “However, if
in spite of my warning, you still persist in wishing to see this strange
freak of nature, I will do my best to guide you to it; but, I repeat, the
way is long and difficult, and you had better leave this cursed thing
alone.”

“We will start in the morning,” he asserted decisively, as he arose to
leave.

I said nothing more, but, alone in my room, I laughed like a devil at the
success of my ruse.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning the weather was squally and tempestuous, and I was afraid
that the fire of Silvela’s enthusiasm would be burning low. But I also
knew that opposition would be fuel to the flame.

“I fear we shall have to postpone our journey,” I remarked, when he
appeared.

If Silvela had any doubts as to the advisability of our starting out that
morning, they vanished at once.

“Nonsense!” he rasped. “It is fine weather for our purpose.”

“All right, my friend,” I replied. “Remember, though, that I advised
against going.”

“The consequences be upon my head,” he rejoined. “Come, let us be on our
way.”

Our path was strewn with difficulties, and we progressed but slowly. At
times the wind howled and whistled across the wild spaces with a sound
so mournful that it sent a shudder through me. The heavens were murky,
and low, dark clouds raced across the leaden sky as though fleeing from
some scene of horror. Great rocks impeded our progress at every step, and
their grotesque forms seemed to leer at us evilly as we passed. At length
Silvela paused and mopped his brow.

“Come,” I exclaimed, “you are tired and exhausted. The day is declining.
Let us go back.”

Silvela hesitated, and there was an instant in which I was afraid
he would take me at my word. Then he straightened, and his chin set
determinedly.

“No. We have come far; we will continue to the end. Lead the way.”

“So let it be,” I returned grimly. “We will continue to the end.”

I thought a tremor passed over Silvela’s sturdy form and that his face
paled slightly, but he turned resolutely and followed me as I pushed
forward once more.

It was late in the afternoon when we approached the end of our journey.
The clouds had become less dense, and the sun, hanging low upon the
horizon, gleamed through with a sullen glare. The whole western sky bore
the appearance of curdled blood.

At length I led the way around an immense rock, stopped, and pointed to
the north. There, but a short distance ahead, stood the ghastly plant.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was, in appearance, like a huge pineapple about ten or twelve feet
in height. From the top sprang the broad, dark green leaves, trailing
downward to the ground and enclosing the plant in a kind of cage.

Inside these leaves, at the top of its bulky body, could be seen two
round, fleshy plates, one above the other. Dripping constantly from
these was a golden, intoxicating nectar, the fatal lure that tempts the
victim to his fate. Surrounding these plates were long green tendrils
or arms like those upon an octopus. A slight pressure upon one of these
disks would cause the serpent-like tendrils to enfold the victim in their
deadly embrace, while the sweet fluid rendered the poor wretch oblivious
to danger until it was too late.

Silvela stood for a moment silently looking at the strange plant at which
I pointed.

“It is an uncanny sight,” he muttered, and a shiver ran over his body.

“Uncanny it is, indeed,” I replied. “I, for one, have no desire to make a
closer acquaintance.”

“You were always ready to show the white feather,” he derided scornfully.

I did not openly resent this; I could bear insult for a little while
longer.

“Silvela,” I said, “Let us leave this dreadful plant alone. I implore you
to return with me now. You have seen this horrid thing, why should you
care to test the legendary power of the fluid which it distills?”

“Because I love,” he replied in a dreamy voice, “and I wish to be loved
beyond all men. If it be, indeed, the fountain of youth, what danger can
deter me from sipping its miraculous juice?”

“Then I will say no more. Drink, then, of the fabled wonders of this tree
of destiny, and may all the joy and all the happiness to which your life
entitles you, come to you as you drink the nectar that drips in golden
drops from its heart.”

Silvela darted a quick look at me from his dark eyes, as though half
suspecting a hidden meaning in my words. Then he stepped quickly toward
the ominous plant.

“Careful!” I cautioned, “Do not touch the long, green tendrils. There is
where the danger lies, for they might tear your flesh.”

Silvela stood for an instant close beside the trailing arms, his
eyes glowing with a half insane light. His face was flushed with the
passionate fire that surged through his veins. To his susceptible mind I
know that it was the crowning adventure of his life. I could tell that
his heart was pounding, from the throbbing arteries of his throat. His
lips were moving, and I strained my ears to catch the sound.

“For Mercedes!” he murmured, and stepped between the hanging tendrils.

Another moment’s pause, and he bent down to the fleshy plates in the
heart of the plant and drank long and deeply of the golden juice.
Dreamily he closed his eyes, and, leaning forward, I could faintly catch
some of the broken accents that came from his lips.

“Ah, love, my only love!” he murmured, “See, beloved, the angel
faces—celestial voices coming near—sweet, how sweet—the unearthly light
of elysian fields—ah, the heavenly perfume—the surging of the eternal
sea!”

With folded arms, I stood and waited. Lost to all else save the delights
of his entrancing vision, every faculty, every sense deluded into happy
quiescence by the chimerical phantasm, he did not note the tremulous
vibrations which ran through the whole mass of the horrible plant.

Slowly at first, and then more quickly, the long, sinewy palpi began to
rise and twist in what seemed a fearful dance of death. Higher and higher
rose the dreadful arms, until they hovered over the unconscious form of
their victim.

Once I pressed a little too closely, and one of the awful, twisting
tendrils came in contact with my hand. I sprang back and just in time for
so deadly was the grasp of the noxious arms, that the skin was stripped
from my flesh.

Slowly, but surely, the octopuslike arms settled about Silvela’s body.
One of them dropped across his cheek. As it touched the bare flesh a
tremor ran through his frame, and he suddenly opened his eyes.

It was only a moment until he was fully awake to the horror of his
position. While he was reveling in dreams of paradise, the grim arms of
the death plant had enclosed him in their vise-like clasp, and I knew
that no power upon earth could make them relax until they opened to throw
forth the dry husk—the dead skin and bones—of their prey. Already they
had so constricted his chest that he could breathe only in short, panting
gasps. His terror-stricken eyes sought my face.

“My God, Rodriguez!” he cried in a terrible voice.

The arms gripped him closer. He gasped out a word, “_Help!_”

“Silvela Castelar,” I said, with quiet bitterness, “You are beyond all
human aid. I could not help you if I would. Once within the grasp of
those awful arms, I would be as helpless as you. Remember at every step
of this fatal journey I warned you, but at each warning you grew more
determined. Three times you have brought ruin upon me; the third time
you left for me nothing in life, but I was resolved that you should not
enjoy what I had lost. Silvela, tonight the debits and credits of your
account with me stand balanced. Across the page of the book of life I
write the words, ‘_Paid in full!_’”

He heard me through. Then, as he realized that hope was gone, shriek
after terrible shriek burst from his frenzied lips. In his terror and
despair, he struggled in a madness of desperation; but every movement
caused the embrace of the ghastly arms to tighten upon his body.

With a sick heart, I turned from the awful scene and plunged forward on
my homeward path. As I passed around the great rock from where we had
first glimpsed the fatal tree, a last heartbreaking wail reached my ears.

“_Mercedes! Mercedes!_”

Like the last cry of a lost soul hovering over the abyss of gehenna,
it shrilled in vibrating terror through the air, echoing back from the
ghoulish rocks, and then died away into the silence of the approaching
night.

A faintness seized me, and I shivered at the touch of the chilling breeze
which sprang up as the sun sank, blood-red, below the horizon; and my
heart was as cold as my shrinking flesh.

Sunshine or shadow—it is the same to me now. But in recompense for my
shattered life, I shall carry with me always, the vision of Silvela’s
distorted form writhing in close embrace of the devil-tree’s snaky arms,
in my ears there will ever ring the echo of his last despairing cry of,
“_Mercedes!_”




HOOTCH

_By_ William Sanford


I had committed murder. In a terrible fit of rage I had killed my friend,
Jim McCarthy. I was going to be hung at sunrise. There was no hope. I
must die.

Slowly the great steel door swung open, and four guards entered my cell.
One of them stepped a little in advance of the others.

“Come!” he said, and that was all.

I rose, tottering, from my bench. I must die! I must leave the sunlight
of the earth behind me. I had committed murder.

I was led through the cold, bleak prison corridors and out into the
lighted courtyard where a number of people were gathered—prison officials
and a few newspaper men. The scaffold stood before me, and with tottering
legs I was assisted to the top.

A black cap, a horrible thing spelling death, was fitted over my head and
drawn tight about my neck. All was still about me. No one spoke.

I felt the noose placed about my neck. The cold sweat broke out over my
body. I could scarcely stand. Death! _Death!_ I was to know the feeling
of that terrible rope in a few moments.

“Ready!” said a sharp voice.

I felt the earth slip from under me, and I shot into space. A feeling of
suffocation, indescribably terrible, enveloped me, and a million sparks
of fire seemed dancing before my eyes, though I could not see. I tried to
scream, but could make no sound. Then something seemed to burst; my lungs
were free; I gave a terrible cry.

A voice from above came sharply down to me:

“What the devil’s the matter with you, Bill?”

The ship gave a lurch and brought me wide awake. In the dim light of the
cabin I saw Jim McCarthy’s face peering at me from the bunk above.

“Jim,” I said, wiping my sweat-soaked face with the sheet. “If you fill
me up on any more of your home-made hootch I _will_ kill you!”




THE THUNDER VOICE

_The Story of a Hairy Monster_

_By_ F. WALTER WILSON


It was my grandfather who told me of The Thunder Voice, and of the
terror which it spread throughout the Valley of Trelane away back in the
early days, when scattered Indians hunted the forests thereabouts—told
me of how the gruesome horror of it changed strong men into whimpering
weaklings, afraid to step beyond their thresholds after dark.

Perhaps I was a morbid child, for it was on wild storm-ridden nights,
when the rain splashed in sheets against the windows and the raving wind
screamed dismally about the eaves of the big house, that I would climb
upon his knee and beg for “The Thunder Stories,” as I had come to call
them.

Full well I knew that I would later creep up the dark stairs with quaking
knees, and with my heart pounding against my ribs—knew too, that I would
lie awake, with the blankets drawn tightly over my head, and listen, yet
dread to hear—the Thunder Voice!

The Indians had so named it—for that is what their word “Namshka”
meant—but grandpa himself had heard The Thunder Voice, when he was no
older than I, and he assured me that it was little akin to thunder in its
tone, although it came to be known in the valley by the name the Indians
had given it.

It was on the night Jeanne Delloux lay dead in the pine-wood coffin in
the best room of Bartien Delloux’s cabin that The Thunder Voice was first
heard in the valley.

It was a custom, when one died, that neighbors would sit all night with
the bereaved, to lessen somewhat the poignancy of the first smarting
blows of grief. Bartien’s cabin could scarce hold them all that night,
for he was popular with the valley folk; and Jeanne, his wife, had been
loved by young and old alike.

“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”

Its first notes were deep and strong, but trailed off into a shrieking
scream—first loud, then dying out in a wailing whine.

The men held their breath, their questioning eyes fixed upon each other.
The women screamed, and Millie Barton fainted.

Again and again it sounded, coming, it seemed, from somewhere down the
valley road. At length the men found voice:

“It’s a panther,” suggested John Carroll. “I’ve heard many a one before.”

“If you have, then you know that’s no panther,” another retorted.

Fear was written on every face but one. Old man Dodson—Old Bill Dodson,
as he was known in the valley—had yet to learn what fear meant. But
before another sunrise he was to know.

Shouldering his flint-lock musket, he opened the door and passed out into
the pitch-black night, which now and again was illuminated by flashes of
lightning, for a storm had threatened since early twilight.

Grouped about the fireplace, the others huddled together and listened,
scarce breathing, for another of those cries which made the roots of
one’s hair to tingle, and the spine to prickle creepily. For a time it
came at almost regular intervals:

“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”

At length a shot was heard, and several of the men sprang to their feet.

“He’s got it!” one cried. “Old Bill Dodson never missed a target in his
life.”

And, thus reassured, they stood in the doorway, listening, and then
called loudly. From the black, still night there came no answer. Across
the ridge the rumble of distant thunder alone broke the awful quiet.

It was near daylight when they heard a shuffling step, and, opening the
door, Dodson pitched headlong across the threshold. From his hands fell
the stock and barrel of his musket—broken one from the other!

Physically, the old man’s injuries were slight. On his swollen neck were
four blackened welts extending half way round it. Otherwise, he appeared
unhurt—but his courage, his well-known bravery, was a thing of the past.
For the remainder of his life the old pioneer, who had faced so many
dangers, was a nerveless coward. At any unusual noise he would start in
abject terror.

Questioned, he could tell but little. He had seen an object—a dark bulky
_something_—in the road, and had fired. It was too dark to see clearly,
but he could not have missed. Had it been of this earth it would now be
dead.

After the shot it had vanished among the shadows. He was hurrying toward
it when something crashed down upon him from the overhanging boughs.
Long, hairy fingers closed about his throat and all went black. It was
the devil himself—of that he was positive.

Even these startling events might have been forgotten, if the Voice
had given an opportunity to forget. Now here, now there, it would be
heard—sometimes in the direction of the ridge hills, at other times from
the river growth in the lowlands. Often it seemed quite near, and dogs
would bristle and whine, and lie under the beds with green-glowing eyes,
as they quivered in nervous fear. The horses, too, would tremble in
their stalls when the unknown monster broke the night stillness with its
unearthly:

“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”

The valley people seldom ventured out at night; and the younger men no
longer sought opportunity to boast of their bravery.

It was some weeks after Jeanne Delloux was buried that Margaret Kingsley,
the young and pretty teacher of the valley school, disappeared.

It was the Carroll’s who boarded her that winter, and John Carroll had
gone on a trip to the lower mill. Jennie, his wife, and the teacher were
alone in the cabin that night. Jennie had protested that she would not be
afraid, since Margaret would be with her.

As Jennie related it, they had been seated before the fire, she engaged
in darning and Margaret correcting examination papers. For a time they
had been silently working when—from quite nearby—it came:

“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”

Sick and limp from terror, Jennie’s work rolled from her lap to the
floor. The dog was outside, and piteously it whined and scratched at the
door, but she dared not open it.

Then her attention centered on Margaret. She stood erect. Her face
betrayed no sign of fear. Instead—_she smiled_!

Then, as Jennie watched, Margaret moved toward the door, opened it, and
walked out into the night.

She was never seen again!

Jennie called to her frantically, but there was no reply. She had moved
as one might walk in a sleep—her eyes wide open, but fixed straight
before her, gazing vacantly.

Within the next three months, until about the beginning of the spring
rains, other strange things occurred in the valley.

Lucy Duval met the monster at dusk one evening as she followed the
path through the woods behind the Rhodes’ place. She had swooned from
terror, and, recovering, fled in panic to her home, fainting again from
exhaustion as she reached the door. Safely within the house, she noticed
for the first time that her long hair, which had been coiled upon her
head, now hung unfettered. The pins and two side-combs, which had held it
in place, were missing! Aside from the shock she was uninjured.

A school child, too, saw the beast as she came from school, and while
it was yet daylight. Her parents went in frantic search when she failed
to arrive at the usual time, and found her cringing in terror by the
roadside. Her leather school-bag, containing her books and writing
materials, was nowhere to be found.

It was a very long time before the child recovered from the fright
inspired by “the big hairy man” as she described the monster.

Again, on a gusty, moon-haunted night, it was heard by Jule Darien and
his wife—right in their yard! Had they dared, they could have looked from
the window and seen it, but instead they bolted the door of their room
and lay face down upon the bed—a fact they were not at all ashamed to
admit.

In the morning Jule’s clothing still fluttered from the rope
clothes-line, which spanned between oak trees in the yard behind the
cabin—but every garment belonging to his wife had disappeared! An even
greater misfortune was the loss of three soft, heavy, woolen blankets.
But Jule Darien and his wife considered this a trivial matter in view of
the fact that they had been unharmed.

It was Delia Callahan, of all the valley folk, who found aught that was
amusing in these uncanny doings.

“It’s true—as ol’ man Gibson’s always maintained—th’ devil’s a woman;
ain’t it proven, right ’ere in th’ valley?” she demanded. “An’ it’s an
eddication she’s goin’ to git, too. Some fine day she’ll be comin’ to
th’ school wi’ her books in th’ school bag, an’ her hair done up wi’
Lucy Duval’s side-combs, an’ like as not a’ dressed up in Fan Darien’s
clothes. _Ha! Ha!_—it’s too funny!” Shaken with laughter, she rocked back
and forth until tears rolled from her bright blue eyes.

But she was quite alone in her mirth, for there was none who laughed with
her. None dared to laugh. They feared to make sport of The Evil One.

The long winter broke at last with a protracted period of drenching
rains. Never in all the experience of the valley dwellers had there been
so much rain in such a length of time. Rivers could not be forded; the
rich, loamy soil was washed in great patches from the fields; little
gullies, usually dry, now ran brimming with muddy water. Cattle were
drowned and the spring planting was long delayed.

But when the sun again broke through the gray clouds people began to
remark that for a long time they had not heard The Thunder Voice.

As a matter of fact it was never heard again.


_II._

So ran the stories, and so often did my grandfather tell them, in order
to humor my childish demands, that at length I could repeat them all—just
as he told them, and almost word for word.

One by one, the years dropped into history, and recollection of “The
Thunder Stories” came to me but rarely; and brought, instead of thrills
of horror, only a mild amusement, as I would reflect on them as folk-lore
of the Valley of Trelane.

But, there was the disappearance of Margaret Kingsley. That was difficult
to explain away. A normal, healthy young woman walks out into the night
and is never seen again!

Hunters accustomed to trailing animals and Indians utterly failed in
their efforts to find her, or to track this evil monster to its lair.
Often its spoor was plainly marked—a four-toed foot of unfamiliar shape.
Bloodhounds had been brought from a distant settlement; but, as with the
human hunters, the trail ended at the base of a huge white-oak tree.
There the dogs looked up and whined; they could follow the scent no
further.

Along with fairy tales, and stories of grim giants, told to me in
childhood days, these stories of the Thunder Voice might have passed into
hazy forgetfulness, but for a grisly reminder which occurred while I was
studying to become a physician.

In the college I found much interest in visiting the library and poring
over bound volumes of _The Medical Journal_. Some of these dated back to
many years before my birth.

It was while reading one of these that I suddenly started into quickened
interest at sight of a familiar name—_Bartien Delloux_!

For a few moments I could not recall where I had heard the name, and then
came back to me my grandfather’s stories. I pictured again, as I had
often done before, the log cabin peopled with sympathetic neighbors come
to console Bartien Delloux. The dead body of his wife in an adjoining
room. The dull rumble of distant thunder, with now and again flashes of
lightning. And then, suddenly, from out the black night—The Thunder Voice!

It was he—the same Bartien Delloux—his name handed down on these
age-brown pages in a history of most unusual kind.

A physician had told the tale in plain matter-of-fact language. Briefly
it was as follows:

A patient, who said his name was Bartien Delloux, lay dying in a charity
hospital. He asked for a priest. The priest remained with him until he
died. Then, coming to the doctor, the priest had remarked:

“I think that man’s story is of more concern to your profession than to
mine. I’m sorry you didn’t hear it.”

“How so?” the doctor inquired.

“Well, because it dealt with the bodily, not the spiritual side of life.
It was not confided to me under the sanctity of the confessional, for the
man had nothing to confess in the matter. He simply wanted my opinion,
and if possible some comforting assurance. Given under these conditions I
can repeat it to you.”

Urged by the doctor, the priest continued:

“At one time the man lived in one of the Eastern Townships of the
Province of Quebec, in a district known as the Valley of Trelane. Once a
year it was his custom to go to Quebec and market his stock of furs, for,
like others who dwelt in the valley, he combined the pursuit of farmer
with that of a hunter and trapper.

“On one such trip his wife accompanied him. This was against his wishes,
since the journey at that early day was beset with dangers and hardships.

“One day, as they walked about the city, they came upon a tentshow,
stationed on a vacant lot. Outside the tent, banners announced the
exhibition of a so-called ‘wild-man,’ said to have been captured in the
jungles of Africa. They visited this show, and from Delloux’s description
the creature was evidently a huge gorilla.

“After a brief look at the ugly thing, Delloux made to go away, but his
wife would not consent to leave. Fascinated, she stared between the iron
bars, and the hideous-featured animal crept close to her, and crooned
and gently whined as it gazed at her with little black beady eyes, which
peeped from its black wrinkled face.

“At length Delloux induced his wife to accompany him. As she moved away
the animal became violent. Tearing frantically at the iron bars, it
growled and screamed. So vigorously did it shake the bars that it seemed
the cage must fall to pieces. The owner of the show urged them to leave
quickly.

“They returned to their home, and later, when their child was born, it
resembled—in miniature—the gorilla!”

“It is not an impossible instance of pre-natal influence,” the doctor
remarked.

“Perhaps not,” replied the priest, “but there are incidents pertaining to
its later life which I fancy are quite unusual.”

The priest’s story was resumed:

“In spite of the ugliness of the half-beast the mother loved it dearly.
She realized, however, that it must not be seen by the neighbors, and in
consequence it was kept in the cellar, but when it grew older was allowed
to roam about at night. Always it returned before daylight, and crept to
its bed in a corner of the cellar.

“Bright metal, and keen-edged tools, appeared to fascinate it, and due to
this the father first learned of its amazing strength.

“Delloux possessed a long-bladed knife which he valued highly, and he was
using it one day in skinning a fox when his wife called to him. The knife
was left lying beside the half-skinned carcass of the animal. When he
returned, both had disappeared!

“Entering the cellar, he found the beast cutting apart the body of
the fox and greedily eating it. It had never liked him; and when he
approached and made as though to take away the knife it rose and, with a
shove of its long arm, sent Delloux sprawling through the open doorway.
When he picked himself up the creature faced him from the door, and
growled menacingly.

“It was then but ten years old.

“Delloux was a strong man, but his strength was a puny thing when matched
against this powerful brute. The knife was abandoned to it thereafter.

“From that day on, it refused to eat cooked food; but at night went into
the forest and killed game, which it carried home and ate raw.

“A few words of the French language it was able to learn, but not enough
to permit of continued conversation.

“Finally, on the night when Delloux’s wife lay dead, it went forth,
never to return to the cabin. That night, as Delloux’s neighbors were
gathered about his fireside in friendly condolence, strange cries were
heard—unlike those of any animal known to the vicinity. It inspired them
with a superstitious terror—and Delloux did not dare to make known to
them what he believed to be the real origin of the dread sounds.

“After that night the weird, unearthly cries were repeated on many
nights, and throughout the valley people came to believe that The Evil
One himself had come among them.

“Delloux alone knew the truth.

“There were strange occurrences in the valley that winter, but whether
the thing was responsible for them or not, Delloux could not say. Some
claimed to have seen it. Perhaps they had.

“Finishing his story, the dying man begged me for assurance that this
curse put upon him did not signify that his soul was lost, and I did for
him what the Holy Church prescribes in cases of similar kind.”

There followed a lengthy report of the discussion by other physicians.
Some argued that the story was untrue—impossible. Others considered it
quite within the bounds of possibility.

I closed the volume and gave myself over to reflection on the strangeness
of this tale. Assuming that it were true, the mystery of The Thunder
Voice was explained. But only in part, for many questions hurtled through
my mind as this story recalled them.

What about Margaret Kingsley’s disappearance? Where had the beast lived
after it left Delloux’s home? Why had it indulged in the queer doings
which were so meaningless and puzzling? Why did it voice those terrifying
cries which frightened the usually brave pioneers? And, finally, what had
happened to still the awful Thunder Voice, leaving the valley people to
regain their wonted equanimity?

At length I gave over the futile questioning.


_III._

Again a measure of years slipped by, and I was nearing my fortieth
birthday. I had succeeded in my profession. I was happily married.

In the busy interest of full-lived days, the tales of The Thunder
Voice were again relegated to a place alongside the story of
Jack-the-Giant-Killer and other legends of the kind. But subconsciously,
behind my sane, sunlit life, there lurked a strong desire to know the
truth—_all_ the truth—about this strange affair; for, try as I might, I
could not catalogue it with mythical legends, for somehow I _believed_
Delloux’s story.

It was about this time that I received a letter from a solicitor, who
resided in a small town to the north of Quebec, informing me that
a relative—a man named Carroll—had died without making a will, and
search had established that I was the next of kin, and his estate would
therefore come to me.

I was greatly surprised, but on reflection I recalled having once heard
that the Carrolls, who lived in Trelane Valley were distantly related to
me. At that time I had given the information no serious attention.

In order to settle the matter I went to interview the solicitor, and for
the first time in my life visited Trelane Valley. A broad fertile valley
it was; now beautified by acres of waving grain. Along the road on which
I motored were scattered substantial homes of the prosperous farmers.

The legal formalities had been concluded, and I had signed my name to the
last of several documents when I had a visit from a stranger.

He informed me that he was a Civil Engineer employed by the railway
company whose line ran through the valley. Davis was his name. His
company wished to build a water-tank nearby, and the only available water
supply which had been discovered was a large spring, which he understood
was located on land now owned by me. The company wished to lease the
water rights, and obtain permission to construct a pump house near the
spring.

At his suggestion, I went with him to view the location of the spring,
and decide what I should do regarding his proposition.

As we walked along the railway track he pointed out the location selected
for the tank, and then, leaving the right-of-way, we descended a gentle
slope and, turning sharply to the left, came before the face of an
outcropping ledge of gray, lichened stone.

A large, almost circular, hole appeared in the cliff, and as we stood
before it, there lay, a few feet beneath us, a pool of bright clear
water. The roof of the hole pitched downward at a uniform slope to where
it met the level of the water.

The deal was quickly arranged, and a lease of the water rights drawn up
and signed.

I returned to Montreal and resumed my work.

But it was a matter of only a few weeks until I was again called to
Trelane Valley. A letter from the railway company informed me that the
supply of water in the spring had failed, and they wished to cancel the
lease.

The letter invited me to come and see for myself, and a few days later I
again stood at the mouth of the huge hole which opened into the upright
face of the cliff.

But now the water had receded until, from the entrance, one could discern
only a black pool, far underground. The hole in the cliff was now the
entrance to a cave of impressive dimensions. The shaft pitched downward
at a gentle slope, and I could see that the roof of the cave now hung
clear, above the water.

Through mud and slime we waded along the floor of the cavern until we
reached the water’s edge. Davis carried a flashlight, which he turned
into the further depth. On the other side of the water the floor sloped
upward until it became lost in the gloom beyond the reach of the light.

Somewhat past the opposite edge of the water, I made out two
objects—bulky, and but dimly defined against the black floor.

“What do you think they are?” I asked Davis.

“Loose boulders—flaked off from above. Stones are always dropping from
the roof of caves.”

This suggestion left me unsatisfied. Of course, such stones might be of
almost any shape, and yet the outline of those objects did not suggest
the chance figure of loose stones.

Curiosity mastered me, but I was silent.

Returning to the village, the cancellation of the lease was soon
effected. The very next day the pumping engine was hauled away, and
the board shack which housed it was torn down and removed. A few
pieces of its timber framing were left lying about—some of substantial
cross-section, and some pieces of board.

This I noticed with satisfaction, for they would prove useful in carrying
out my determination to explore the cave.


_IV._

That night, while the village people slept, I walked to the cave. I was
equipped with a hammer, some nails, and an electric flashlight.

From the refuse lumber of the pump-house I constructed a raft, and with a
pole to propel it, easily crossed the pool of water, and stepped out into
the muddy slime which covered the upward slope of the cave floor.

Although encrusted with mud, it was at once apparent that one of the
objects I had come to examine was a human skeleton.

But, _such_ a skeleton!

Short of stature it was, with a barrel-like chest of prodigious size. The
arms reached well below the knees. The skull was of unusual thickness and
abnormal shape.

It required no effort of imagination to recall the stories of The Thunder
Voice. Such a frame must have housed lungs of a power far surpassing
that of any ordinary human being. I could easily conjecture the vocal
might this creature had possessed when this skeleton had housed a living
organism.

The other object was a boat—of most unusual build.

It was constructed from rough slabs which had apparently been hewn from
solid timbers with an ax. It was flat-bottomed, with square ends which
sloped upward. The pieces were fastened together by wooden pegs driven
through roughly cut holes.

I turned from the boat and, climbing the sloping floor, roved my light
about as I continued my exploration. A little further along the floor
under my feet became dry, and then the cave turned abruptly to the left.
Just beyond this turn I stumbled over something.

It, too, was a skeleton!

Different in every particular from the first, however. Its living tenant
had been fairly tall, and with a well-proportioned figure. The cave was
quite dry here, and only a light dust covered the yellowed bones.

My interest quickened. There had been _two_ tenants in this unknown cave!
One, I felt sure, had been the son of Bartien Delloux—the creature with
The Thunder Voice. But who had shared this dark cavern with him?

Inch by inch, I examined the floor, the walls, and even the roof of the
cavern. There was little to be seen—some bones of small animals, the
rusted blade of an axe, portions of rotted fur, and in a nook opening out
from the main cave were some scattered fibers of decayed cloth.

Finally, when I was on the point of turning about to leave the place,
I found something which fired me with renewed interest. It was a small
bottle of flattish shape. The bottom was covered with dry, black, flaky
particles—dried ink, I surmised.

In a crevasse of the rock I found a rotted leather bag, which
fell to pieces at my touch. From it dropped several articles, but
eagerly I seized upon one—an age-yellowed, thin, paper book; such as
school-children, even to this day, use for writing exercises.

Gingerly I turned the leaves, for the paper was brittle with age. The
pages were filled with writing—but no childish scrawl, this!

The penmanship was exquisite—of that type affected by ladies of a
generation long past—the letters narrow and slanting, yet as clear and
distinct as those on a printed page.

Carefully I tucked the book inside my coat, and with all possible haste
made my way back to the village hotel.

       *       *       *       *       *

Locking the door of my room, I opened the book, and the words upon its
first page brought me to a startled attention:

    “_Why am I, Margaret Kingsley, the child of good, honorable
    parents, living now in a cave, eating raw meat, existing as
    a savage—my mate, a hideous creature whose very sight would
    disgust and appall the people I have heretofore known?_

    “_The answer is, that I am here because I WANT to be here.
    Since the night when he called to me, and I went forth to be
    carried here in his arms, I have had many chances to escape,
    but I CHOOSE TO REMAIN!_

    “_Ugly he is, beyond argument, but I love him for his giant
    strength, and for the tenderness he shows me—a tenderness
    exceeding that of a mother for her child. Within his misshapen
    body is a heart starved for affection—and that I am glad to
    give._

    “_Only a few words of French can he speak, and yet he quickly
    grasps my unspoken wishes and tries to gratify them._

    “_This book, the quill, the ink with which I write this,
    belonged to one of my pupils. The other night he brought them
    to me, in the bag containing her school books. How he obtained
    them I know not. Secretly I had longed for the materials with
    which to write—not that human eyes will ever see that which is
    written here—but because I have been accustomed to write down
    the things which are me—those inner thoughts and impulses which
    possess and dominate me._”

       *       *       *       *       *

Then followed pages describing her life in the cave—and of night journeys
through the woods when her mate would delight himself in voicing wild
cries—sounds which she came to love. Wildly she rejoiced with him, and
laughed as she thought of the terror these resounding cries brought to
the simple folk in the valley below them.

Strangest of all, she thought, was his understanding of her slightest
wish without the medium of words.

On one occasion she was trying to arrange her long hair, but the
hairpins she had brought to the cave had, one by one, been lost. It was
impossible to arrange the hair with none, and she had been vexed. That
very night he brought her some hairpins and two side-combs. The latter
she recognized—they belonged to Lucy Duval! Again she wondered how he had
obtained them; and laughed as she considered Lucy’s probable fright.

Another time she had shivered with the cold, for the cave had been
damp—the next night he brought clothing, and several woolen blankets.

Whatever he might be to others, he was her chosen man. He could not live
her kind of life—gladly she would live his.

Then came an entry on the very last page.

    “_The storm! How it has rained, and rained, until somewhere
    the flood has changed the course of some small stream, and now
    we are imprisoned—the water has risen to the roof of the cave,
    and we can no longer leave it in the boat. The flood came quite
    suddenly, last night, while we slept._

    “_Perhaps it may subside in time—but probably it will not. I
    shall write no more. Good-bye, little book, and good-bye to
    all—everything! In dying I can reflect that at least I have
    lived. So very many never do!_”

I closed the book. At last my strong desire to _know_ had been gratified.
In the yellowed manuscript which I held in my hand was inscribed the last
chapter in the mystery of The Thunder Voice.

Now that curiosity was satisfied, the professional instinct asserted
itself. I reflected on the peculiar warped trait which so often causes
a woman gifted with all the refinements of civilization to become
infatuated with a male who is, in every sense, a barbarian.

I recalled the season at Earlscourt exposition in London when a dozen
black, repulsive-featured cannibals had been exhibited. The over-zealous
attentions of a concourse of well-dressed women of apparent refinement,
who daily surged about them, caused their removal from the exhibit.

No, there was nothing very remarkable in the infatuation confessed by
Margaret Kingsley. At least it was not remarkable to those who observe
life with wide-open eyes.




CASE No. 27

_A Few Minutes in a Madhouse_

_By_ MOLLIE FRANK ELLIS


Doctor Maynard paused midway of the long hospital corridor and waved an
inclusive hand toward its twin rows of iron-barred cells.

“This, Wayne,” he said, “is the Psychopathic Ward. We have some unusual
cases here. Take, for instance, Number Twenty-Seven. I’m sure you will be
interested in Number Twenty-Seven. Step this way.”

[Illustration]

I obeyed with reluctance. I was concerned with Maynard, not his
psychopathic cases. We had not seen each other since our college days,
twenty years before, and I had hoped for a return of our old intimacy
during these few hours together, which chance had thrown in my way.

I had knocked about the world, acquiring the kaleidoscopic knowledge of
life accorded the globe-trotter. Maynard had stayed at home, tinkering
with the mental workings of the human machinery until his name stood for
the accomplishment of amazing things in the realm of psychopathy. Each
had run true to form: Maynard’s passion was to make the wheels go round;
mine to wonder why they went.

“This is Number Twenty-Seven,” Maynard continued, as he stopped before
a cell door. “I’ll let her tell her own story.... Good morning, Mrs.
Howard. How are you this morning?”

At his words, a woman slowly rose from a bench against the far wall of
the cell. Then, abruptly, she made a sudden rush that ended in a frantic
shaking of the iron bars of the cell door where we stood.

“Doctor Maynard! You’re a-goin to let me out, ain’t you? You’re a-goin’
to let me go home an’ rub Jim’s head so’s he can sleep? Jim cain’t sleep
unless I rub his head for him. You know he cain’t, Doctor! I’ve told you
so, often.”

“Yes, yes. You’ve told me often, Mrs. Howard.” Maynard gave me a
significant glance. “But tell me again, please. Maybe I will understand
better this time and let you go.”

The woman strained her gaunt body against the cell door. She seemed in
a torture of anxiety, obsessed by a vital current of emotion in sharp
contrast to the pitiful meagerness of her personality.

She wore a cheap cotton dress; her hair was plain about her sharp face;
and there was written upon her countenance that look of repression, of
negation of all right to exist as an individual, which marks the poorer
type of rural woman.

It seemed for a moment as if she would break into a torrent of words;
then abruptly she fell back, silent, and the heartbreak in her eyes was
succeeded by a slow-growing horror. Yet her tragedy, whatever it might
be, brought with it a certain dignity which she had hitherto lacked. Her
attenuated homeliness forbade distinction, yet when she made pitiful
apology to Maynard, a certain nobility of soul shone from her eyes.

“I’d forgot for a minute, Doctor Maynard, that I’d killed Jim. I’d forgot
that I hated him. I was thinkin’ he was alive and that I loved him like I
used to before the children was killed. I’m a wicked woman—the wickedest
woman that ever lived; but I wouldn’t be in this penitentiary if Jim
could a-slept without havin’ to have his head rubbed.”

Maynard touched my foot at the word “penitentiary.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Howard.” His voice seemed unnecessarily loud
and cheerful against the thin anguish of her tones. “Tell me about the
children. How were they killed?”

       *       *       *       *       *

“They was run over, Doctor.”

No words can describe the deadness of her voice, as of a fierce pain
burnt out for lack of fuel for further endurance.

“It was the poultry truck that goes by the farm every morning. Milly was
too little to know not to git in the road, an’ Jacky run out to grab her
back an’ he fell, Jacky did. ’Twasn’t nobody’s fault, Doctor. The man
that drives the truck, he always waved at the children as he passed, and
he most went crazy when it happened. An’ Milly was too little to know
better; an’ Jackie done the best he could—only six years old.

“But afterwards me an’ Jim couldn’t sleep. At first we did, a night or
two, ’cause we was all wore out with the funeral and such; but after
the kinfolks was gone we couldn’t. We could see their faces—Milly’s and
Jacky’s.

“Then, after a while, Jim got so’s he didn’t see ’em so bad, an’ he said
he could ’a’ slept, only for me. He said I ought to be a-gittin’ over it
some; an’ I reckon I should ’a’ been. I tried to, but it didn’t do no
good. Mebby ’twas because they was just the two of ’em an’ both goin’ at
once.

“Jim got right fretful at me. He said a man couldn’t work on a farm an’
not sleep. He was right, too. Jim always was sensible.

“One night after I had worritted him considerable, a-cryin’, I found out
that I could put him to sleep by rubbin’ his forehead, slow an’ firm; an’
so I done it right along every night after that an’ he slept fine. I was
glad, ’cause Jim was a hard worker an’ a good provider; an’ a man can’t
work on a farm an’ not sleep.

“But somehow, after Jim had got to sleep of nights, things seemed a heap
lonesomer. Mebby if we’d lived nearer to the neighbors ’twould ’a’ helped
some. ’Twas so awful still, nights, out where we lived; an’ the moon come
in at the winder so white an’ all....

“Times, just before dawn, I’d git to wonderin’ if it would ’a’ happened
if I’d ’a’ been out in the front yard, a-watchin’ out for the childern,
instead of washin’ back in the kitchen. And I’d git to shakin’ all over
an’ couldn’t stop. Once I waked Jim up and begged him to talk to me; but
he said it wouldn’t help none for two of us to be losin’ our sleep, so I
never done it any more. Jim always was sensible.

“At last I got so the work ’round the house dragged on me until I was
afraid I couldn’t git things done. I told Jim about it and he was sorry.
But he said a woman’s work didn’t matter so much—it could be let go—but a
man had to make the livin’.

“Even with the work and all, I never wanted night to come. I’d git all
scared when it come on dusk. Jim didn’t like it. He said it wasn’t no
way to welcome a man home after a hard day’s work; an’ it wasn’t. I done
my best, but somehow I couldn’t laugh much or be lovin’; so Jim took to
drivin’ to town after supper was over. He hadn’t never done that before
the children was killed.

“Some times he’d stay real late. Me not bein’ used to bein’ left alone
made it worse, too. Sometimes I’d git so tired waitin’ up for him I’d
feel like I could go to sleep right then. But of course I couldn’t,
account of havin’ to rub his head. You see, he’d got to dependin’ on it,
an’, as he said, a man had to have his sleep or he couldn’t work.

“All this time, Doctor, I was lovin’ Jim an’ tryin’ to git along the best
I could. I knowed I’d been lucky to git Jim. He was a good man. He never
took tantrums like Pa. We’d never dared cross Pa at home ’cause he was
excitable-like; an’ finally he went crazy. They would a-took him to the
asylum, I reckon, only he died.

“Mebby I’d ’a’ got so’s I could a-slept after a while, only ’bout this
time it come on to October, when the fall winds begin to blow, an’ the
house would creak of nights—kind of little breakin’ noises like babies
whisperin’.... An’ the shadows of the leaves on our big tree outside
the winder kept twistin’ about on the walls like little hands a-pushin’
against coffin lids, a-tryin’ to git out an’ go back an’ find their
mammy’s breasts.”

       *       *       *       *       *

She stopped abruptly and stood in tense stillness—as if she were back
in that hushed house of sorrow, with its sharp noises and its tiny,
mother-seeking shadow-hands upon the walls—listening to the silence, the
unendurable silence, of the waning hours.

Doctor Maynard made a restless movement. With a start, the woman came
back to realities and turned to us once more.

“I didn’t git to hatin’ Jim, Doctor, until after I took to usin’ them
pills they gave Ma when she was on her deathbed. She died, leavin’ a
bottle of ’em on the kitchen shelf—morphine, they call ’em. One night,
when I just couldn’t stand it no longer, I thought of them an’ I got one
an’ it helped a lot.”

She paused, apparently musing upon how much it had helped. Then she went
on:

“’Twas along about then that I got to hatin’ Jim, lookin’ at him sleepin’
so hard, his face all red an’ his mouth open. ’Twasn’t that so much,
though, Doctor, ’cause I always thought Jim was nice-lookin’ even though
he was coarse complected. But he got to havin’ restless spells, wakin’ up
along of cock-crowin’ time, ’bout when I’d got my pill an’ had kind of
quit shakin’ over the shadows an’ things. Then I’d have to rouse up to
’em again an’ rub him to sleep once more. I got to wonderin’ if he’d die
right off, without it’s hurtin’ him none, if I’d press down hard on them
soft spots in his temples. Seem like havin’ to do it any more would be
more’n I could bear—”

She stopped again as if re-living her torture; perhaps slipping once more
like a white wraith from bedroom to kitchen shelf and back again, to
stand looking down upon her husband’s sprawled figure, battling against
the up-surge of desire to crush out the life beneath her hands and be
forever free from her hideous task!

“... I didn’t kill Jim, though, Doctor, until them pills give out. I
reckon mebby I wouldn’t never have done it if they hadn’t give out. But
after that ... sometime after that I killed Jim. I pressed down—down....”

Maynard waited until he was sure she had finished; then he spoke in a
commanding tone.

“_Mrs. Howard!_”

Startled, she stared at us as if seeing us for the first time. She
grasped the cell door and shook it in a frenzy of anxiety.

“Doctor Maynard! You’re a-goin’ to let me out, ain’t you? You’re a-goin’
to let me go home an’ rub Jim’s head for him so’s he can sleep? Jim
cain’t sleep unless I rub his head! I’ve told you so often, Doctor....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Maynard drew me away; but that pleading voice followed us down the length
of the corridor, thin, anguished—

I hurried.

When we had closed the door of the Psychopathic Ward behind us, Maynard
said:

“Now that’s the interesting part of it—that last—to a psychologist. Did
you note that she still loves him, whenever she comes out from under her
obsession about killing him?”

“Didn’t she kill him?” I asked.

“Not at all. You see, when she could get no more of the drug, her grief
and her loss of sleep ‘turned her brain,’ as you laymen would say.
Remember what she said about ‘Pa’.”

I battled with my bewilderment at this unexpected turn of the affair.

“But I don’t understand!” I stammered.

“Probably not. I shall try to explain it, as simply as possible and
without using scientific terms. You see, she had _wanted_ to kill him for
so long—had gone over the manner of it so often in her silent vigils—that
when at last her conscious mind became unbalanced the resisted desire
took its revenge by becoming a subconscious obsession, which announced
itself an accomplished fact. It is an interesting sidelight on
psychopathy, don’t you think?”

I did not. I changed the subject.

“What became of the man—her husband? How did he take it?”

“Well. Very well, indeed. Level-headed fellow. Of course, he was upset
at first over her condition; but when we made it clear to him that she
was incurable he calmed down. He went home and slept on it for a night or
two—”

“How do you suppose,” I broke in (I really could not resist asking
it)—“How do you suppose he got to sleep without—”

“... And then he applied for a divorce,” continued Maynard, ignoring my
childish rudeness. “He wants to marry again, but, of course, our laws—”

“_Marry!_”

Maynard frowned. “One can see his point of view.”

“Yes; to be sure. And our laws ... quite unsympathetic—”

Maynard dismissed the matter with a magnanimous gesture. Also, his
kindling eye bespoke a concentration of interest which ignored the
trivial. He peered at me eagerly.

“What would you think, Wayne—I am studying the case, and I ask
for information—would you be led to believe that her reason for
wanting to kill him was a subconscious sensing of that trait in him,
that eagerness to be rid of whatever irked him, regardless of his
responsibilities? Or, on the other hand, would you think it a flair of
sex antagonism—resentment that he, unlike herself, could resume a normal
existence so soon after an emotional cataclysm?”

I fumbled my hat and turned toward the door. I wanted to get away.

“My time is up, Maynard,” I said hastily. “Sorry, but I must go. Glad to
have had this visit with you. Awfully proud to have been the classmate
of a celebrity, you know, and all that. But I really cannot follow your
scientific subtleties. If you mean do I think his cruelty drove her mad—”

Maynard threw up his hands. “Oh you laymen!” he laughed. “But come in
again, Wayne. Any time you’re passing through town. Glad to see you
always. We have some very interesting cases here.”




Deaf and Blind Students Perform Miracles


Wide attention has been attracted by two students at Northwestern
University, one of them stone blind, the other deaf and dumb, by reason
of their marvelous demonstrations in “seeing” and “hearing.” Wiletta
Huggins, deaf and dumb, can hear with her fingertips, or by placing a
pole against a speaker’s chest and feeling the vibrations. Professor
Robert H. Gault is conducting a series of experiments with her that may
eventually lead to teaching deaf mutes to talk. No less remarkable are
the achievements of the blind student, Carl Bostrom, who has so trained
his facial nerves and ears that he can “see” things that are denied those
who have the use of their eyes. In a crowded court room, he could tell,
by the sound of a prisoner’s voice, whether or not he was telling the
truth. Also, with uncanny accuracy, he told the dimensions of the room,
located the doors and windows, and calmly announced that on one side of
the room only men were standing, and on the other only women.

“I can tell by the sounds,” he said—“little sounds that most people miss.
There is a difference in the noises made by men and women.”

A reporter asked him how many persons there were in the court.

He listened acutely, then said, “Seventy-five.”

The reporter guessed one hundred. Another guess estimated the number at
sixty. The persons in the room were counted. There were exactly eighty
two.




The Finale

_By_ WM. MERRIT


Thornton Stowe was always a puzzle to me. Very methodical in everything
from early childhood, he always seemed utterly devoid of impulsive
emotion. The only thing he ever did that really surprised me was to
suddenly declare, one evening, that he loved Josephine Thralton and was
betrothed to her.

Soon, vague rumors about Stowe’s private life were breathed around
town, and his fianceé married Lakeland; the thick lipped, pock marked,
red nosed political boss of the town, whose character was known and
unquestioned, and about which each citizen held a private, unvoiced
opinion.

I left town shortly after the wedding, and all that I heard of Stowe
after that was a newspaper account of his killing Lakeland. I then wrote
him the only letter since my departure; but knew him too well to expect
an answer.

I returned, unannounced, one dreary afternoon in November. Quickening
my steps as I left the depot, I turned toward the roller mill, which to
the world was Stowe’s sole vocation, but to me, only his avocation for
the purpose of defraying expenses of the work in his private chemical
laboratory.

I had left him experimenting with an explosive gas which was more
powerful and much cheaper than the most modern gunpowder. But it corroded
every metal known, except gold. If he could only find some means of
eliminating this fault, his fortune would be made.

As I hurried through the heart of town, a lone pedestrian, who seemed
to shudder at the doleful dirge of the bare tree limbs overhead, and to
shrink from looking at the gloomy, leaden skies beyond, approached with
stooped shoulders and bowed head. It was Thornton Stowe; but he had so
changed since I had seen him last that, had he not spoken, I would have
passed him by. On the instant of recognition I was about to greet him
cheerfully, but there was such an air of pathos in his whole bearing
that I merely walked up and gripped his hand. It was as listless as his
spirits, and he looked into my eyes with a silent appeal that sickened my
soul to think of the emotions that impelled it.

Finally I ventured, “How’s business in the old town now, Thornt?” I had
almost asked: “What’s the trouble?” but remembered that he had killed
Lakeland in July and, although he had been cleared on the plea of “self
defense” I felt a delicacy in arousing such reminiscences in a man of his
temperament.

His reply puzzled me:

“Let’s go on home to dinner. I’ve got to tell it to somebody.”

He left me to my conjectures the rest of the way to his home, a large
gray brick house, a mansion for that little town, where he lived alone
with a faithful old negro man, an ex-slave, who prepared his meals and
kept the house in order. The untrimmed ivy on the walls of the old
antibellum home was in keeping with the neglected condition of the house,
which looked now like an old deserted castle. There was no light in the
front windows, although it was long after sundown. As we approached, my
spirits were damped with awe at the weird aspect. A premonition of horror
haunted me and it was only by a tremendous effort that I refrained from
making some excuse to go immediately to the hotel.

       *       *       *       *       *

The door swung open noiselessly and easily and Stowe switched on the
lights in the hall. Everything was green, the sickly, poisonous green
of a stagnant tarn. The grim monotony of the hideous color, and the
suddenness with which the horrible aspect was revealed was appalling. The
curtains were green, the walls were green, the woodwork and furniture
were all green. With each turn of my head I was confronted by nothing but
that nauseating hue. My head swam. The ghastly invariable color seemed to
be pressing my eyeballs back into their sockets and irresistibly closing
ever closer and closer around me with its overwhelming and unbroken
density. The dull light from the green globe that hung in the center of
the hall seemed to stifle me. I was on the point of rushing back to the
street in frantic terror.

We disposed of our coats and hats without a word and walked back to the
library. Again everything was the same ghastly green. The impelling
terror of aggravated claustrophobia rushed back upon me with redoubled
fury. I could not by force of will power, nor by artifice of reason,
shake off the uncanny dread that haunted me; but was now determined to
stay.

Drinks were served, and my host then addressed me for the first time
since we had started home from the street; merely:

“Help yourself.”

He reached eagerly for a green bottle on the tray, drank two glasses of
absinthe from it, then rested his elbows on the table and stared steadily
at me for a few moments.

The real specter now rose before me: had he killed Lakeland for self
defense or was it merely the diabolic fancy of a lunatic? If, with the
precise cunning of a maniac, he had devised a scheme so intricate and
flawless that it had baffled even the eye witnesses, then I was at the
mercy of a man, known to have the power of thought impelled by passions
and emotions and not controlled by reason.

He began in an even hollow voice:

“I guess you know why I killed Lakeland.”

“I heard they found ‘self defense,’” I admitted.

He swallowed a glass of wine at a gulp, then sneered with a note of irony:

“Unquestionable evidence. Lakeland is the only man who has ever even
suspected that I intended to kill him when I shook hands with him.

“You can guess the first thing he did: but he was Josephine’s husband
before I learned who started those stories. I felt that she hadn’t given
me a fair chance to disprove all he had said and I resolved to forget
her; but when I saw her getting paler and thinner because of the life she
had to live, I couldn’t help feeling a sympathy for her. When Lakeland
wanted to buy back the mill I had bought from his father because he had
found it to be the best paying business in town, I was fool enough to
tell him I’d trade with him if he would stop drinking. Of course he just
told me to go to hell with my morals and threw all his money into an
effort to kill my business.

“I played the game with him until all my men suddenly refused to work
longer, and refused to explain why. That was too much; I shoved a pistol
into my pocket and went in search of him that very afternoon. When I
found him, he was, as usual, beastly drunk. To shoot him then would
convict me of murder in the first degree. Besides, I couldn’t snuff his
life out that way if my revenge was to be sweet. He must know about it,
for half the delight of revenge would be in knowing that I had made him
suffer without its costing me a thing.”

I was amazed at the mad man’s logic; for mad he certainly was.

“Of course,” he went on, “I thought first of my chemistry. He would come
to liquor like a hog to slop. A little potassium cyanide in it and he
would simply drop dead. There would be no symptoms of poison and the
coroner’s verdict would be ‘heart failure.’ But I never drank with him
and could not afford to make a special occasion for poisoning him. I
merely walked by.

“‘Hello,’ he grunted. ‘Looks like I’ll have to run you clear out of town
to get that mill. It isn’t half as easy to take away as your girl was.’

“Several heard it; and I wouldn’t have changed a word he said if I had
had the power.

“The very next day Lewis Dalton came into the mill and told me that
Lakeland was inquiring for me down in town. ‘And he’s sober today,’ he
added. What better could I ask? I shoved a wrench into my pocket—that
would be easily enough explained—and started immediately to town. I met
him just as I turned the corner on to Main Street. There were several
people in sight, but none within a hundred feet of us.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Stowe’s expression had been gradually changing ever since he had begun
his story. Now he was completely transformed. He leaned far over the
table toward me, every muscle tense, his eyes snapping with a steely
glint that made me shudder to see. I took another drink of wine, but, for
the first time, he seemed to forget his completely. His lips drew in a
thin, straight, colorless line as he hissed with diabolic vehemence:

“I held out my hand to him civilly enough, but spoke before he took it.
I didn’t call him Lakeland that time either, I called him by his right
name, the name he’s deserved ever since this world has been cursed with
his damned green eyed face. His hand went straight into his coat under
his arm, but I was ready for him. I grabbed his wrist and shoved him
back against the wall. As soon as he saw the wrench in my other hand he
realized that I was going to kill him, and the dammed coward got so weak
in the legs that he didn’t even try to get away. He groaned like a calf
when I hit him right over the temple. But his eyes; they still had enough
of the devil in them to look at me even while he was falling, and say:
‘You’re not ahead yet, even with this.’”

He reached again for the green bottle and I offered no protest. Although
he had already had enough for two men, anything would be better than his
present condition.

“I didn’t even know that she was sick when I killed him,” he continued.
“When they told me, I went straight to the house. She was dying—dying,
and that brute was down in town just walking around the streets while she
was calling for him and begging him to come to her! She recognized me as
soon as I got into the room and seemed to know all.

“‘Where is Jim?’ she begged me to tell her.

“I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t.

“‘Will I have to go to him?’ she cried; and she never spoke again, and
never took her eyes from mine. She is still looking straight into my
eyes. And since she died,” he groaned, “her eyes have gotten as green as
his.”

“Then why, in the name of Heaven, have you made everything in the house
green?” I asked, reminded once more of our hideous surroundings.

“So that I couldn’t see them here. But every way I turn they are looking
straight at me. Sometimes they almost blaze when I try to look away.”

There was but one chance for him now: he must have some diversion. I
forgot that I had come to stay this time.

“Say, Thornt,” I suggested, “come with me for a few weeks hunting in the
mountains. It’s been two years since you and I were together on a trip.”

He sat for a moment in deep thought, his face twitching convulsively, his
eyes staring into vacancy.

“I am going to get out of this town,” he finally asserted.

I reached my hand across the table to him. He hesitated as though he
didn’t understand, but finally took it with the same grasp he had given
me on the street when he recognized my sympathy for him, and with the
same pathetic appeal in his eye, gripped it until I winced.

While I still pondered over the situation he straightened up resolutely,
as though he had finally reached a determination. With a desperate effort
to control the emotion that now convulsed his whole being, he addressed
me in a dry, husky voice:

“Frank, excuse me for a moment; and as we have always been friends, don’t
think hard of me tonight.”

I nodded an assent and he walked slowly to a door at the far side of the
room, passed through and closed it.

As soon as I found myself alone, the grim horror of my surroundings
attacked me with reinforced fury. The dread of my wretched host’s
insanity became more intense with him in the next room on a mysterious
mission, at which he had asked me not to be offended. Not even the
slightest sound proceeded now from the room he had entered. The
changeless monotony of the omnipresent green was enhanced by the
oppressive silence that reigned throughout the house, save for the
intolerable tick of the old clock that stood on the floor in the corner,
and seemed to pause indefinitely after each stroke, measuring eternity
instead of time.

I had never seen inside that room more than half a dozen times in my
whole life. There was nothing in there to go for. It had been used as a
store room for old furniture ever since I could remember. Finally the
suspense grew unbearable. I rose impulsively, went hastily to the door
through which he had passed and flung it open.

The room had been cleared of its junk and remodeled into a neat little
laboratory. Thornton stood at the far side of a table in the center of
the floor, pouring absinthe into a glass that was sitting perilously near
the edge. With the glass half full he placed the bottle on the table.
It tilted and rolled off; but he paid it no heed. Supporting himself
with one hand and raising the glass in the other, he seemed aware of my
presence for the first time.

“Frank,” he gasped huskily, “no one but you knows; and they will never
guess.”

I remembered in a flash, what he had said of his abandoned plan to poison
Lakeland, and realized; but before I could reach him he had drained the
glass. It slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. He stood
for a moment, staring on past me into space.

I grasped the edge of the table for support and felt the cold sweat start
on my brow and weakening limbs.

“Green as hell!” he muttered; and flinging his arms across his fixed
eyes, crumpled to the floor; then stiffened, stark and dead.

For minutes I stood motionless, powerless to move.

Finally, tossing a burning match into the spilt liquor, I answered his
last and only plea:

“No, Thornt, they shall never know.”




_Here’s Proof of the Love of the Weird and Mysterious in the Eighteenth
Century_

THE CLOSED CABINET

_By_ ⸺ ⸺


_I._

It was with a little alarm and a good deal of pleasurable excitement
that I looked forward to my first grown-up visit to Mervyn Grange. I
had been there several times as a child, but never since I was twelve
years old, and now I was over eighteen. We were all of us very proud
of our cousins the Mervyns: it is not everybody that can claim kinship
with a family who are in full and admitted possession of a secret, a
curse, and a mysterious cabinet, in addition to the usual surplusage of
horrors supplied in such cases by popular imagination. Some declared that
a Mervyn of the days of Henry VIII had been cursed by an injured abbot
from the foot of the gallows. Others affirmed that a dissipated Mervyn
of the Georgian era was still playing cards for his soul in some remote
region of the Grange. There were stories of white ladies and black imps,
of bloodstained passages and magic stones. We, proud of our more intimate
acquaintance with the family, naturally gave no credence to these wild
inventions. The Mervyns, indeed, followed the accepted precedent in such
cases, and greatly disliked any reference to the reputed mystery being
made in their presence; with the inevitable result that there was no
subject so pertinaciously discussed by their friends in their absence.
My father’s sister had married the late Baronet, Sir Henry Mervyn, and
we always felt that she ought to have been the means of imparting to us
a very complete knowledge of the family secret. But in this connection
she undoubtedly failed of her duty. We knew that there had been a
terrible tragedy in the family some two or three hundred years ago—that
a peculiarly wicked owner of Mervyn, who flourished in the latter part
of the sixteenth century, had been murdered by his wife who subsequently
committed suicide. We knew that the mysterious curse had some connection
with this crime, but what the curse exactly was we had never been able
to discover. The history of the family since that time had indeed in
one sense been full of misfortune. Not in every sense. A coal mine had
been discovered in one part of the estate, and a populous city had grown
over the corner of another part; and the Mervyns of today, in spite of
the usual percentage of extravagant heirs and political mistakes, were
three times as rich as their ancestors had been. But still their story
was full of bloodshed and shame, of tales of duels and suicides, broken
hearts and broken honor. Only these calamities seemed to have little
or no relation to each other, and what the precise curse was that was
supposed to connect or account for them we could not learn. When she
first married, my aunt was told nothing about it. Later on in life,
when my father asked her for the story, she begged him to talk upon a
pleasanter subject; and being unluckily a man of much courtesy and little
curiosity, he complied with her request. This, however, was the only
part of the ghostly traditions of her husband’s home upon which she was
so reticent. The haunted chamber, for instance—which, of course, existed
at the Grange—she treated with the greatest contempt. Various friends and
relations had slept in it at different times, and no approach to any kind
of authenticated ghost-story, even of the most trivial description, had
they been able to supply. Its only claim to respect, indeed, was that it
contained the famous Mervyn cabinet, a fascinating puzzle of which I will
speak later, but which certainly had nothing haunting or horrible about
its appearance.

My uncle’s family consisted of three sons. The eldest, George, the
present baronet, was now in his thirties, married, and with children of
his own. The second, Jack, was the black-sheep of the family. He had
been in the Guards, but, about five years back, had got into some very
disgraceful scrape, and had been obliged to leave the country. The sorrow
and the shame of this had killed his unhappy mother, and her husband had
not long afterwards followed her to the grave. Alan, the youngest son,
probably because he was the nearest to us in age, had been our special
favorite in earlier years. George was grown up before I had well left the
nursery, and his hot, quick temper had always kept us youngsters somewhat
in awe of him. Jack was four years older than Alan, and, besides, his
profession had, in a way, cut his boyhood short. When my uncle and aunt
were abroad, as they frequently were for months together on account of
her health, it was Alan, chiefly, who had to spend his holidays with us,
both as school-boy and as undergraduate. And a brighter, sweeter-tempered
comrade, or one possessed of more diversified talents for the invention
of games or the telling of stories, it would have been difficult to find.

For five years together now our ancient custom of an annual visit to
Mervyn had been broken. First there had been the seclusion of mourning
for my aunt, and a year later for my uncle; then George and his wife,
Lucy—she was a connection of our own on our mother’s side, and very
intimate with us all—had been away for nearly two years on a voyage round
the world; and since then sickness in our own family had kept us in our
turn a good deal abroad. So that I had not seen my cousins since all the
calamities which had befallen them in the interval, and as I steamed
northwards I wondered a good deal as to the changes I should find. I
was to have come out that year in London, but ill-health had prevented
me; and as a sort of consolation Lucy had kindly asked me to spend a
fortnight at Mervyn, and be present at a shooting-party, which was to
assemble there in the first week of October.

I had started early, and there was still an hour of the short autumn
day left when I descended at the little wayside station, from which a
six-mile drive brought me to the Grange. A dreary drive I found it—the
round, gray, treeless outline of the fells stretching around me on every
side beneath the leaden, changeless sky. The night had nearly fallen as
we drove along the narrow valley in which the Grange stood: it was too
dark to see the autumn tints of the woods which clothed and brightened
its sides, almost too dark to distinguish the old tower—Dame Alice’s
tower as it was called—which stood some half mile farther on at its head.
But the light shown brightly from the Grange windows, and all feeling of
dreariness departed as I drove up to the door. Leaving maid and boxes to
their fate, I ran up the steps into the old, well remembered hall, and
was informed by the dignified man-servant that her ladyship and the tea
were awaiting me in the morning room.

I found that there was nobody staying in the house except Alan, who
was finishing the long vacation there: he had been called to the bar a
couple of years before. The guests were not to arrive for another week,
so that I had plenty of opportunity in the interval to make up for lost
time with my cousins. I began my observations that evening as we sat
down to dinner, a cozy party of four. Lucy was quite unchanged—pretty,
foolish, and gentle as ever. George showed the full five years’ increase
of age, and seemed to have acquired a somewhat painful control of his
temper. Instead of the old petulant outbursts, there was at times an air
of nervous, irritable self-restraint, which I found the less pleasant of
the two. But it was in Alan that the most striking alteration appeared.
I felt it the moment I shook hands with him, and the impression deepened
that evening with every hour. I told myself that it was only the natural
difference between boy and man, between twenty and twenty-five, but I
don’t think that I believed it. Superficially the change was not great.
The slight-built, graceful figure; the deep gray eyes, too small for
beauty; the clear-cut features, the delicate, sensitive lips, close
shaven now, as they had been hairless then—all were as I remembered
them. But the face was paler and thinner than it had been, and there
were lines round the eyes and at the corners of the mouth which were no
more natural to twenty-five than they would have been to twenty. The old
charm indeed—the sweet friendliness of manner, which was his own peculiar
possession—was still there. He talked and laughed almost as much as
formerly, but the talk was manufactured for our entertainment, and the
laughter came from his head and not from his heart. And it was when he
was taking no part in the conversation that the change showed most. Then
the face, on which in the old time every passing emotion had expressed
itself in a constant, living current, became cold and impassive—without
interest, and without desire. It was at such times that I knew most
certainly that here was something which had been living and was dead.
Was it only his boyhood? This question I was unable to answer.

Still, in spite of all, that week was one of the happiest in my life. The
brothers were both men of enough ability and cultivation to be pleasant
talkers, and Lucy could perform adequately the part of conversational
accompanist which, socially speaking, is all that is required of a woman.
The meals and evenings passed quickly and agreeably; the mornings I spent
in unending gossips with Lucy, or in games with the children, two bright
boys of five and six years old. But the afternoons were the best part
of the day. George was a thorough squire in all his tastes and habits,
and every afternoon his wife dutifully accompanied him round farms and
coverts, inspecting new buildings, trudging along half-made roads, or
marking unoffending trees for destruction. Then Alan and I would ride
by the hour together over moor and meadowland, often picking our way
homewards down the glen-side long after the autumn evenings had closed
in. During these rides I had glimpses many a time into depths in Alan’s
nature of which I doubt whether in the old days he had himself been
aware. To me certainly they were as a revelation. A prevailing sadness,
occasionally a painful tone of bitterness, characterized these more
serious moods of his, but I do not think that, at the end of that week,
I would, if I could, have changed the man, whom I was learning to revere
and to pity, for the light-hearted playmate whom I felt was lost to me
forever.


_II._

The only feature of the family life which jarred on me was the attitude
of the two brothers towards the children. I did not notice this much at
first, and at all times it was a thing to be felt rather than to be seen.
George himself never seemed quite at ease with them. The boys were strong
and well grown, healthy in mind and body; and one would have thought
that the existence of two such representatives to carry on his name and
inherit his fortune would have been the very crown of pride and happiness
to their father. But it was not so. Lucy indeed was devoted to them, and
in all practical matters no one could have been kinder to them than was
George. They were free of the whole house, and every indulgence that
money could buy for them they had. I never heard him give them a harsh
word. But there was something wrong. A constraint in their presence, a
relief in their absence, an evident dislike of discussing them and their
affairs, a total want of that enjoyment of love and possession which in
such a case one might have expected to find. Alan’s state of mind was
even more marked. Never did I hear him willingly address his nephews, or
in any way allude to their existence. I should have said that he simply
ignored it, but for the heavy gloom which always overspread his spirits
in their company, and for the glances which he would now and again cast
in their direction—glances full of some hidden painful emotion, though of
what nature it would have been hard to define. Indeed, Alan’s attitude
towards her children I soon found to be the only source of friction
between Lucy and this otherwise much-loved member of her husband’s
family. I asked her one day why the boys never appeared at luncheon.

“Oh, they come when Alan is away,” she answered; “but they seem to annoy
him so much that George thinks it is better to keep them out of sight
when he is here. It is very tiresome. I know that it is the fashion to
say that George has got the temper of the family; but I assure you that
Alan’s nervous moods and fancies are much more difficult to live with.”

That was on the morning—a Friday it was—of the last day which we were to
spend alone. The guests were to arrive soon after tea; and I think that
with the knowledge of their approach Alan and I prolonged our ride that
afternoon beyond its usual limits. We were on our way home, and it was
already dusk, when a turn of the path brought us face to face with the
old ruined tower, of which I have already spoken as standing at the head
of the valley. I had not been close up to it yet during this visit at
Mervyn. It had been a very favorite haunt of ours as children, and partly
on that account, partly perhaps in order to defer the dreaded close of
our ride to the last possible moment, I proposed an inspection of it. The
only portion of the old building left standing in any kind of entirety
was two rooms, one above the other. The tower room, level with the bottom
of the moat, was dark and damp, and it was the upper one, reached by a
little outside staircase, which had been our rendezvous of old. Alan
showed no disposition to enter, and said that he would stay outside and
hold my horse, so I dismounted and ran up alone.

The room seemed in no way changed. A mere stone shell, littered with
fragments of wood and mortar. There was the rough wooden block on which
Alan used to sit while he first frightened us with bogey-stories, and
then calmed our excited nerves by rapid sallies of wild nonsense. There
was the plank from behind which, erected as a barrier across the doorway,
he would defend the castle against our united assault, pelting us with
fir cones and sods of earth. This and many a bygone scene thronged on
me as I stood there, and the room filled again with the memories of
childish mirth. And following close came those of childish terrors.
Horrors which had oppressed me then, wholly imagined or dimly apprehended
from half-heard traditions, and never thought of since, flitted around
me in the gathering dusk. And with them it seemed to me as if there came
other memories too,—memories which had never been my own, of scenes whose
actors had long been with the dead, but which, immortal as the spirit
before whose eyes they had dwelt, still lingered in the spot where their
victim had first learnt to shudder at their presence. Once the ghastly
notion came to me, it seized on my imagination with irresistible force.
It seemed as if from the darkened corners of the room vague, ill-defined
shapes were actually peering out at me. When night came they would show
themselves in that form, livid and terrible, in which they had been burnt
into the brain and heart of the long ago dead.

I turned and glanced towards where I had left Alan. I could see his
figure framed in by the window, a black shadow against the gray twilight
of the sky behind. Erect and perfectly motionless he sat, so motionless
as to look almost lifeless, gazing before him down the valley into the
illimitable distance beyond. There was something in that stern immobility
of look and attitude which struck me with a curious sense of congruity.
It was right that he should be thus—right that he should be no longer
the laughing boy who a moment before had been in my memory. The haunting
horrors of that place seemed to demand it, and for the first time I
felt that I understood the change. With an effort I shook myself free
from these fancies, and turned to go. As I did so, my eye fell upon a
queer-shaped painted board, leaning up against the wall, which I well
recollected in old times. Many a discussion had we had about the legend
inscribed upon it, which in our wisdom we had finally pronounced to be
German, chiefly because it was illegible. Though I had loudly professed
my faith in this theory at the time, I had always had uneasy doubts on
the subject, and now half smiling I bent down to verify or remove them.
The language was English, not German; but the badly painted, faded Gothic
letters in which it was written made the mistake excusable. In the dim
light I had difficulty even now in deciphering the words, and felt when
I had done so that neither the information conveyed nor the style of the
composition was sufficient reward for the trouble I had taken. This is
what I read:

    “Where the woman sinned the maid shall win;
    But God help the maid that sleeps within.”

What the lines could refer to I neither had any notion nor did I pause
then even in my own mind to inquire. I only remember vaguely wondering
whether they were intended for a tombstone or for a doorway. Then,
continuing my way, I rapidly descended the steps and remounted my horse,
glad to find myself once again in the open air and by my cousin’s side.

The train of thought into which he had sunk during my absence was
apparently an absorbing one, for to my first question as to the painted
board he could hardly rouse himself to answer.

“A board with a legend written on it? Yes, he remembered something of the
kind there. It had always been there, he thought. He knew nothing about
it,”—and so the subject was not continued.

The weird feelings which had haunted me in the tower still oppressed me,
and I proceeded to ask Alan about that old Dame Alice whom the traditions
of my childhood represented as the last occupant of the ruined building.
Alan roused himself now, but did not seem anxious to impart information
on the subject. She had lived there, he admitted, and no one had lived
there since. “Had she not,” I inquired, “something to do with the
mysterious cabinet at the house? I remember hearing it spoken of as ‘Dame
Alice’s cabinet.’”

“So they say,” he assented; “she and an Italian artificer who was in her
service, and who, chiefly I imagine on account of his skill, shared with
her the honor of reputed witchcraft.”

“She was the mother of Hugh Mervyn, the man who was murdered by his wife,
was she not?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Alan, briefly.

“And had she not something to do with the curse?” I inquired after a
short pause, and nervously I remembered my father’s experience on that
subject, and I had never before dared to allude to it in the presence
of any member of the family. My nervousness was fully warranted. The
gloom on Alan’s brow deepened, and after a very short “They say so” he
turned full upon me, and inquired with some asperity why on earth I had
developed this sudden curiosity about his ancestress.

I hesitated a moment, for I was a little ashamed of my fancies; but the
darkness gave me courage, and besides I was not afraid of telling Alan—he
would understand. I told him of the strange sensations I had had while
in the tower—sensations which had struck me with all that force and
clearness which we usually associate with a direct experience of fact.
“Of course it was a trick of imagination,” I commented; “but I could not
get rid of the feeling that the person who had dwelt there last must have
had terrible thoughts for the companions of her life.”

Alan listened in silence, and the silence continued for some time after I
had ceased speaking.

“It is strange,” he said at last; “instincts which we do not understand
form the motive-power of most of our life’s actions, and yet we refuse to
admit them as evidence of any external truth. I suppose it is because we
_must_ act somehow, rightly or wrongly; and there are a great many things
which we need not believe unless we choose. As for this old lady, she
lived long—long enough, like most of us, to do evil; unlike most of us,
long enough to witness some of the results of that evil. To say that, is
to say that the last years of her life must have been weighted heavily
enough with tragic thought.”

I gave a little shudder of repulsion.

“That is a depressing view of life, Alan,” I said. “Does our peace of
mind depend only upon death coming early enough to hide from us the
truth? And, after all, can it? Our spirits do not die. From another world
they may witness the fruits of our lives in this one.”

“If they do,” he answered with sudden violence, “it is absurd to doubt
the existence of a purgatory. There must in such a case be a terrible one
in store for the best among us.”

I was silent. The shadow that lay on his soul did not penetrate to mine,
but it hung round me nevertheless, a cloud which I felt powerless to
disperse.

After a moment he went on,—“Provided that they are distant enough, how
little, after all, do we think of the results of our actions! There are
few men who would deliberately instill into a child a love of drink, or
wilfully deprive him of his reason; and yet a man with drunkenness or
madness in his blood thinks nothing of bringing children into the world
tainted us deeply with the curse as if he had inoculated them with it
directly. There is no responsibility so completely ignored as this one of
marriage and fatherhood, and yet how heavy it is and far-reaching.”

“Well,” I said, smiling, “let us console ourselves with the thought that
we are not all lunatics and drunkards.”

“No,” he answered; “but there are other evils besides these, moral taints
as well as physical, curses which have their roots in worlds beyond our
own,—sins of the fathers which are visited upon the children.”

He had lost all violence and bitterness of tone now; but the weary
dejection which had taken their place communicated itself to my spirit
with more subtle power then his previous mood had owned.

“That is why,” he went on, and his manner seemed to give more purpose to
his speech than hitherto,—“that is why, so far as I am concerned, I mean
to shirk the responsibility and remain unmarried.”

I was hardly surprised at his words. I felt that I had expected them, but
their utterance seemed to intensify the gloom which rested upon us. Alan
was the first to arouse himself from its influence.

“After all,” he said, turning round to me and speaking lightly, “without
looking so far and so deep, I think my resolve is a prudent one. Above
all things, let us take life easily, and you know what St. Paul says
about ‘trouble in the flesh,’—a remark which I am sure is specially
applicable to briefless barristers, even though possessed of a modest
competence of their own. Perhaps one of these days, when I am a fat old
judge, I shall give my cook a chance if she is satisfactory in her clear
soups; but till then I shall expect you, Evie, to work me one pair of
carpet-slippers per annum, as tribute due to a bachelor cousin.”

I don’t quite know what I answered,—my heart was heavy and aching,—but I
tried with true feminine docility to follow the lead he had set me. He
continued for some time in the same vein; but as we approached the house
the effort seemed to become too much for him, and we relapsed again into
silence.

This time I was the first to break it. “I suppose,” I said, drearily,
“all those horrid people will have come by now.”

“Horrid people,” he repeated, with rather an uncertain laugh, and through
the darkness I saw his figure bend forward as he stretched out his
hand to caress my horse’s neck. “Why Evie, I thought you were pining
for gayety, and that it was, in fact, for the purpose of meeting these
‘horrid people’ that you came here.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, wistfully; “but somehow the last week has been so
pleasant that I cannot believe that anything will ever be quite so nice
again.”

We had arrived at the house as I spoke, and the groom was standing at
our horses’ heads. Alan got off and came round to help me to dismount;
but instead of putting up his arm as usual as a support for me to spring
from, he laid his hand on mine. “Yes, Evie,” he said, “it has been indeed
a pleasant time. God bless you for it.” For an instant he stood there
looking up at me, his face full in the light which streamed from the open
door, his gray eyes shining with a radiance which was not wholly from
thence. Then he straightened his arm, I sprang to the ground, and as if
to preclude the possibility of any answer on my part, he turned sharply
on his heel, and began giving some orders to the groom. I went on alone
into the house, feeling, I knew not and cared not to know why, that the
gloom had fled from my spirit, and that the last ride had not after all
been such a melancholy failure as it had bid fair at one time to become.


_III._

In the hall I was met by the housekeeper, who informed me that, owing to
a misunderstanding about dates, a gentleman had arrived whom Lucy had not
expected at that time, and that in consequence my room had been changed.
My things had been put into the East Room,—the haunted room,—the room
of the Closed Cabinet, as I remembered with a certain sense of pleased
importance, though without any surprise. It stood apart from the other
guest-rooms, at the end of the passage from which opened George and
Lucy’s private apartment; and as it was consequently disagreeable to have
a stranger there, it was always used when the house was full for a member
of the family. My father and mother had often slept there: there was a
little room next to it, though not communicating with it, which served
for a dressing-room. Though I had never passed the night there myself, I
knew it as well as any room in the house. I went there at once, and found
Lucy superintending the last arrangements for my comfort.

She was full of apologies for the trouble she was giving me. I told her
that the apologies were due to my maid and to her own servants rather
than to me; “and besides,” I added, glancing round, “I am distinctly a
gainer by the change.”

“You know, of course,” she said, lightly, “that this is the haunted room
of the house, and that you have no right to be here?”

“I know it is the haunted room,” I answered; “but why have I no right to
be here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “There is one of those tiresome Mervyn
traditions against allowing unmarried girls to sleep in this room. I
believe two girls died in it a hundred and fifty years ago, or something
of that sort.”

“But I should think that people, married or unmarried, must have died in
nearly every room in the house,” I objected.

“Oh, yes, of course they have,” said Lucy; “but once you come across a
bit of superstition in this family, it is of no use to ask for reasons.
However, this particular bit is too ridiculous even for George. Owing to
Mr. Leslie having come to-day, we must use every room in the house: it is
intolerable having a stranger here, and you are the only relation staying
with us. I pointed all that out to George, and he agreed that, under the
circumstances, it would be absurd not to put you here.”

“I am quite agreeable,” I answered; “and, indeed, I think I am rather
favored in having a room where the last recorded death appears to have
taken place a hundred and fifty years ago, particularly as I should think
that there can be scarcely anything now left in it which was here then,
except, of course, the cabinet.”

The room had, in fact, been entirely done up and refurnished by my uncle,
and was as bright and modern-looking an apartment as you could wish to
see. It was large, and the walls were covered with one of those white and
gold papers which were fashionable thirty years ago. Opposite us, as we
stood warming our backs before the fire, was the bed—a large double one,
hung with a pretty shade of pale blue. Material of the same color covered
the comfortable modern furniture, and hung from gilded cornices before
the two windows which pierced the side of the room on our left. Between
them stood the toilet-table, all muslin, blue ribbons, and silver. The
carpet was a gray and blue Brussels one. The whole effect was cheerful,
though I fear inartistic, and sadly out of keeping with the character
of the house. The exception to these remarks was, as I had observed,
the famous closed cabinet, to which I have more than once alluded. It
stood against the same wall of the room as that in which the fireplace
was, and on our right—that is, on that side of the fireplace which was
farthest from the windows. As I spoke, I turned to go and look at it
and Lucy followed me. Many an hour as a child had I passed in front of
it, fingering the seven carved brass handles, or rather buttons, which
were ranged down its center. They all slid, twisted, or screwed with the
greatest ease, and apparently like many another ingeniously contrived
lock; but neither I nor any one else had ever yet succeeded in sliding,
twisting, or screwing them after such a fashion as to open the closed
doors of the cabinet. No one yet had robbed them of their secret since
first it was placed there three hundred years ago by the old lady and
her faithful Italian. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, was this
tantalizing cabinet. Carved out of some dark foreign wood, the doors and
panels were richly inlaid with lapis-lazuli, ivory, and mother-of-pearl,
among which were twisted delicately chased threads of gold and silver.
Above the doors, between them and the cornice, lay another mystery, fully
as tormenting as was the first. In a smooth strip of wood about an inch
wide, and extending along the whole breadth of the cabinet, was inlaid
a fine pattern in gold wire. This at first sight seemed to consist of a
legend or motto. On looking closer, however, though the pattern still
looked as if it was formed out of characters of the alphabet curiously
entwined together, you found yourself unable to fix upon any definite
word, or even letter. You looked again and again, and the longer that you
looked the more certain became your belief that you were on the verge of
discovery. If you could approach the mysterious legend from a slightly
different point of view, or look at it from another distance, the clew
to the puzzle would be seized, and the words would stand forth clear and
legible in your sight. But the clew never had been discovered, and the
motto, if there was one, remained unread.

For a few minutes we stood looking at the cabinet in silence, and then
Lucy gave a discontented little sigh. “There’s another tiresome piece of
superstition,” she exclaimed; “by far the handsomest piece of furniture
in the house stuck away here in a bedroom which is hardly ever used.
Again and again have I asked George to let me have it moved downstairs,
but he won’t hear of it.”

“Was it not placed here by Dame Alice herself?” I inquired a little
reproachfully, for I felt that Lucy was not treating the cabinet with the
respect which it really deserved.

“Yes, so they say,” she answered; and the tone of light contempt in
which she spoke was now pierced by a not unnatural pride in the romantic
mysteries of her husband’s family. “She placed it here, and it is said,
you know, that when the closed cabinet is opened, and the mysterious
motto is read, the curse will depart from the Mervyn family.”

“But why don’t they break it open?” I asked, impatiently. “I am sure that
I would never have remained all my life in a house with a thing like
that, and not found out in some way or another what was inside it.”

“Oh, but that would be quite fatal,” answered she. “The curse can only be
removed when the cabinet is opened as Dame Alice intended it to be, in an
orthodox fashion. If you were to force it open, that could never happen,
and the curse would therefore remain forever.”

“And what is the curse?” I asked, with very different feelings to those
with which I had timidly approached the same subject with Alan. Lucy was
not a Mervyn, and not a person to inspire awe under any circumstances. My
instincts were right again, for she turned away with a slight shrug of
her shoulders.

“I have no idea,” she said. “George and Alan always look portentously
solemn and gloomy whenever one mentions the subject, so I don’t. If you
ask me for the truth, I believe it to be a pure invention, devised by
the Mervyns for the purpose of delicately accounting for some of the
disreputable actions of their ancestors. For you know, Evie,” she added,
with a little laugh, “the less said about the character of the family
into which your aunt and I have married the better.”

The remark made me angry, I don’t know why, and I answered stiffly, that
as far as I was acquainted with them, I at least saw nothing to complain
of.

“Oh, as regards the present generation, no,—except for that poor,
wretched Jack,” acquiesced Lucy, with her usual imperturbable good-humor.

“And as regards the next?” I suggested, smiling, and already ashamed of
my little temper.

“The next is perfect, of course,—poor dear boys.” She sighed as she
spoke, and I wondered whether she was really as unconscious as she
generally appeared to be of the strange dissatisfaction with which her
husband seemed to regard his children. Anyhow the mention of them had
evidently changed her mood, and almost directly afterwards, with the
remark that she must go and look after her guests, who had all arrived by
now, she left me to myself.

For some minutes I sat by the bright fire, lost in aimless, wandering
thought, which began with Dame Alice and her cabinet, and which ended
somehow with Alan’s face, as I had last seen it looking up at me in
front of the hall-door. When I had reached that point, I roused myself
to decide that I had dreamt long enough, and that it was quite time to
go down to the guests and to tea. I accordingly donned my best teagown,
arranged my hair, and proceeded towards the drawing-room. My way there
lay through the great central hall. This apartment was approached from
most of the bedrooms in the house through a large, arched doorway at
one end of it, which communicated directly with the great staircase. My
bedroom, however, which, as I have said, lay among the private apartments
of the house, opened into a passage which led into a broad gallery,
or upper chamber, stretching right across the end of the hall. From
this you descended by means of a small staircase in oak, whose carved
balustrade, bending round the corner of the hall, formed one of the
prettiest features of the picturesque old room. The barrier which ran
along the front of the gallery was in solid oak, and of such a height
that, unless standing close up to it, you could neither see nor be seen
by the occupants of the room below. On approaching this gallery I heard
voices in the hall. They were George’s and Alan’s, evidently in hot
discussion. As I issued from the passage, George was speaking, and his
voice had that exasperated tone in which an angry man tries to bring to
a close an argument in which he has lost his temper. “For heaven’s sake
leave it alone, Alan; I neither can nor will interfere. We have enough
to bear from these cursed traditions as it is, without adding one which
has no foundation whatever to justify it—a mere contemptible piece of
superstition.”

“No member of our family has a right to call any tradition contemptible
which is connected with that place, and you know it,” answered Alan; and
though he spoke low, his voice trembled with some strong emotion. A first
impulse of hesitation which I had had I checked, feeling that as I had
heard so much it was fairer to go on, and I advanced to the top of the
staircase. Alan stood by the fireplace facing me, but far too occupied
to see me. His last speech had seemingly aroused George to fury, for the
latter turned on him now with savage passion.

“Damn it all, Alan!” he cried, “can’t you be quiet? I will be master in
my own house. Take care, I tell you; the curse may not be quite fulfilled
yet after all.”

As George uttered these words, Alan lifted his eyes to him with a glance
of awful horror: his face turned ghastly white; his lips trembled for a
moment; and then he answered back with one half-whispered word of supreme
appeal—“George!” There was a long-drawn, unutterable anguish in his tone,
and his voice, though scarcely audible, penetrated to every corner of the
room, and seemed to hang quivering in the air around one after the sound
had ceased. Then there was a terrible stillness. Alan stood trembling in
every limb, incapable apparently of speech or action, and George faced
him, as silent and motionless as he was. For an instant they remained
thus, while I looked breathlessly on. Then George, with a muttered
imprecation, turned on his heel and left the room. Alan followed him
as he went with dull lifeless eyes; and as the door closed he breathed
deeply, with a breath that was almost a groan.

Taking my courage in both hands, I now descended the stairs, and at the
sound of my footfall he glanced up, startled, and then came rapidly to
meet me.

“Evie! you here,” he said; “I did not notice you. How long have you been
here?” He was still quite white, and I noticed that he panted for breath
as he spoke.

“Not long,” I answered, timidly, and rather spasmodically; “I only heard
a sentence or two. You wanted George to do something about some tradition
or other,—and he was angry,—and he said something about the curse.”

While I spoke Alan kept his eyes fixed on mine, reading through them,
as I knew, into my mind. When I had finished he turned his gaze away
satisfied, and answered very quietly, “Yes, that was it.” Then he went
back to the fireplace, rested his arm against the high mantelpiece above
it, and leaning his forehead on his arm, remained silently looking into
the fire. I could see by his bent brow and compressed lips that he was
engaged upon some earnest train of thought or reasoning, and I stood
waiting—worried, puzzled, curious but above all things, pitiful, and oh!
longing so intensely to help him if I could. Presently he straightened
himself a little, and addressed me more in his ordinary tone of voice,
though without looking round. “So I hear they have changed your room.”

“Yes,” I answered. And then, flushing rather, “Is that what you and
George have been quarreling about?” I received no reply, and taking this
silence for assent, I went on deprecatingly, “Because you know, if it
was, I think you are rather foolish, Alan. As I understand, two girls are
said to have died in that room more than a hundred years ago, and for
that reason there is a prejudice against putting a girl to sleep there.
That is all. Merely a vague, unreasonable tradition.”

Alan took a moment to answer.

“Yes,” he said at length, speaking slowly, and as if replying to
arguments in his own mind as much as to those which I had uttered. “Yes,
it is nothing but a tradition after all, and that of the very vaguest and
most unsupported kind.”

“Is there even any proof that girls have not slept there since those two
died?” I asked. I think that the suggestion conveyed in this question was
a relief to him, for after a moment’s pause, as if to search his memory,
he turned round.

“No,” he answered, “I don’t think that there is any such proof; and I
have no doubt that you are right, and that it is a mere prejudice that
makes me dislike your sleeping there.”

“Then,” I said, with a little assumption of sisterly superiority, “I
think George was right, and that you were wrong.”

Alan smiled,—a smile which sat oddly on the still pale face, and in the
wearied, worn-looking eyes. “Very likely,” he said; “I daresay that I
am superstitious. I have had things to make me so.” Then coming nearer
to me, and laying his hands on my shoulders, he went on, smiling more
brightly, “We are a queer-tempered, bad-nerved race, we Mervyns, and you
must not take us too seriously, Evie. The best thing that you can do with
our odd ways is to ignore them.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I answered, laughing, too glad to have won him back
to even temporary brightness, “as long as you and George don’t come
to blows over the question of where I am to sleep; which after all is
chiefly my concern,—and Lucy’s.”

“Well, perhaps it is,” he replied, in the same tone; “and now be off to
the drawing-room, where Lucy is defending the tea-table single-handed all
this time.”

I obeyed, and should have gone more cheerfully had I not turned at the
doorway to look back at him, and caught one glimpse of his face as he
sank heavily down into the large arm-chair by the fireside.

However, by dinner-time he appeared to have dismissed all painful
reflections from his mind, or to have buried them too deep for discovery.
The people staying in the house were, in spite of my sense of grievance
at their arrival, individually pleasant, and after dinner I discovered
them to be socially well assorted. For the first hour or two, indeed,
after their arrival, each glared at the other across those triple
lines of moral fortification behind which every well-bred Briton takes
refuge on appearing at a friend’s country-house. But flags of truce
were interchanged over the soup, an armistice was agreed upon during
the roast, and the terms of a treaty of peace and amity were finally
ratified under the sympathetic influence of George’s best champagne. For
the achievement of this happy result Alan certainly worked hard, and
received therefor many a grateful glance from his sister-in-law. He was
more excited than I had ever seen him before, and talked brilliantly
and well—though perhaps not as exclusively to his neighbors as they may
have wished. His eyes and his attention seemed everywhere at once: one
moment he was throwing remarks across to some despairing couple opposite,
and the next he was breaking an embarrassing pause in the conversation
by some rapid sally of nonsense addressed to the table in general. He
formed a great contrast to his brother, who sat gloomy and dejected,
making little or no response to the advances of the two dowagers between
whom he was placed. After dinner the younger members of the party spent
the evening by Alan’s initiative, and chiefly under his direction, in a
series of lively and rather riotous games such as my nursery days had
delighted in, and my schoolroom ones had disdained. It was a great and
happy surprise to discover that, grown up, I might again enjoy them. I
did so, hugely, and when bedtime came all memories more serious than
those of “musical chairs” or “follow my leader” had vanished from my
mind. I think, from Alan’s glance as he handed me my bed candle, that the
pleasure and excitement must have improved my looks.

“I hope you have enjoyed your first evening of gayety, Evie,” he said.

“I have,” I answered, with happy conviction; “and really I believe that
it is chiefly owing to you, Alan.” He met my smile by another; but I
think that there must have been something in his look which recalled
other thoughts, for as I started up the stairs I threw a mischievous
glance back at him and whispered, “Now for the horrors of the haunted
chamber.”

He laughed rather loudly, and saying “Good-night, and good-luck,” turned
to attend to the other ladies.

His wishes were certainly fulfilled. I got to bed quickly, and—as soon
as my happy excitement was sufficiently calmed to admit of it—to sleep.
The only thing which disturbed me was the wind, which blew fiercely and
loudly all the earlier portion of the night, half arousing me more than
once. I spoke of it at breakfast the next morning; but the rest of the
world seemed to have slept too heavily to have been aware of it.


_IV._

The men went out shooting directly after breakfast, and we women passed
the day in orthodox country-house fashion,—working and eating; walking
and riding; driving and playing croquet; and above, beyond, and through
all things, chattering. Beyond a passing sigh while I was washing my
hands, or a moment of mournful remembrance while I changed my dress, I
had scarcely time even to regret the quiet happiness of the week that
was past. In the evening we danced in the great hall. I had two valses
with Alan. During a pause for breath, I found that we were standing
near the fireplace, on the very spot where he and George had stood on
the previous afternoon. The recollection made me involuntarily glance
up at his face. It looked sad and worried, and the thought suddenly
struck me that his extravagant spirits of the night before, and even his
quieter, careful cheerfulness of to-night, had been but artificial moods
at best. He turned, and finding my eyes fixed on him, at once plunged
into conversation, discussed the peculiarities of one of the guests,
good-humoredly enough, but with so much fun as to make me laugh in spite
of myself. Then we danced again. The plaintive music, the smooth floor,
and the partner were all alike perfect, and I experienced that entire
delight of physical enjoyment which I believe nothing but a valse under
such circumstances can give. When it was over I turned to Alan, and
exclaimed with impulsive appeal, “Oh, I am so happy,—you must be happy
too!” He smiled rather uncertainly, and answered, “Don’t bother yourself
about me, Evie, I am all right. I told you that we Mervyns had bad
nerves; and I am rather tired. That’s all.” I was passionately determined
just then upon happiness, and his was too necessary to mine for me not to
believe that he was speaking the truth.

We kept up the dancing till Lucy discovered with a shock that midnight
had struck, and that Sunday had begun, and we were all sent off to bed. I
was not long in making my nightly preparations, and had scarcely inserted
myself between the sheets when, with a few long moans, the wind began
again, more violently even than the night before. It had been a calm,
fine day, and I made wise reflections as I listened upon the uncertainty
of the north-country climate. What a tempest it was! How it moaned, and
howled, and shrieked! Where had I heard the superstition which now came
to my mind, that borne upon the wind come the spirits of the drowned,
wailing and crying for the sepulture which had been denied them? But
there were other sounds in that wind, too. Evil, murderous thoughts,
perhaps, which had never taken body in deeds, but which, caught up in
the air, now hurled themselves in impotent fury through the world. How I
wished the wind would stop. It seemed full of horrible fancies, and it
kept knocking them into my head, and it wouldn’t leave off. Fancies, or
memories—which?—and my mind reverted with a flash to the fearful thoughts
which had haunted it the day before in Dame Alice’s tower. It was dark
now. Those ghastly intangible shapes must have taken full form and color,
peopling the old ruin with their ageless hideousness. And the storm had
found them there and borne them along with it as it blew through the
creviced walls. That was why the wind’s sound struck so strangely on my
brain. Ah! I could hear them now, those still living memories of dead
horror. Through the window crannies they came shrieking and wailing.
They filled the chimney with spirit sobs, and now they were pressing on,
crowding through the room,—eager, eager to reach their prey. Nearer they
came;—nearer still! They were round my bed now! Through my closed eyelids
I could almost see their dreadful shapes; in all my quivering flesh I
felt their terrors as they bent over me,—lower, lower....

With a start I aroused myself and sat up. Was I asleep or awake? I was
trembling all over still, and it required the greatest effort of courage
I had ever made to enable me to spring from my bed and strike a light.
What a state my nerves or my digestion must be in! From my childhood
the wind had always affected me strangely, and I blamed myself now for
allowing my imagination to run away with me at the first. I found a
novel which I had brought up to my room with me, one of the modern,
Chinese-American school, where human nature is analyzed with the patient,
industrious indifference of the true Celestial. I took the book to bed
with me, and soon under its soothing influences fell asleep. I dreamt a
good deal,—nightmares, the definite recollection of which, as is so often
the case, vanished from my mind as soon as I awoke, leaving only a vague
impression of horror. They had been connected with the wind, of that
alone I was conscious, and I went down to breakfast, maliciously hoping
that others’ rest had been as much disturbed as my own.

To my surprise, however, I found that I had again been the only sufferer.
Indeed, so impressed were most of the party with the quiet in which
their night had been passed, that they boldly declared my storm to have
been the creature of my dreams. There is nothing more annoying when
you feel yourself aggrieved by fate than to be told that your troubles
have originated in your own fancy; so I dropped the subject. Though the
discussion spread for a few minutes round the whole table, Alan took
no part in it. Neither did George, except for what I thought a rather
unnecessarily rough expression of his disbelief in the cause of my
night’s disturbance. As we rose from breakfast I saw Alan glance towards
his brother, and make a movement, evidently with the purpose of speaking
to him. Whether or not George was aware of the look or action, I cannot
say; but at the same moment he made rapidly across the room to where
one of his principal guests was standing, and at once engaged him in
conversation. So earnestly and so volubly was he borne on, that they were
still talking together when we ladies appeared again some minutes later,
prepared for our walk to church. That was not the only occasion during
the day on which I witnessed as I thought the same by-play going on.
Again and again Alan appeared to be making efforts to engage George in
private conversation, and again and again the latter successfully eluded
him.

The church was about a mile away from the house, and as Lucy did not
like having the carriages out on a Sunday, one service a week as a rule
contented the household. In the afternoon we took the usual Sunday walk.
On returning from it, I had just taken off my outdoor things, and was
issuing from my bedroom, when I found myself face to face with Alan.
He was coming out of George’s study, and had succeeded apparently in
obtaining that interview for which he had been all day seeking. One
glance at his face told me what its nature had been. We paused opposite
each other for a moment, and he looked at me earnestly.

“Are you going to church?” he inquired at last, abruptly.

“No,” I answered, with some surprise. “I did not know that any one was
going this evening.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Yes, certainly; if you don’t mind waiting a moment for me to put my
things on.”

“There’s plenty of time,” he answered; “meet me in the hall.”

A few minutes later we started.

It was a calm, cloudless night, and although the moon was not yet
half-full, and already past her meridian, she filled the clear air with
gentle light. Not a word broke our silence. Alan walked hurriedly,
looking straight before him, his head upright, his lips twitching
nervously, while every now and then a half-uttered moan escaped
unconsciously from between them. At last I could bear it no longer, and
burst forth with the first remark which occurred to me. We were passing
a big black, queer-shaped stone standing in rather a lonely uncultivated
spot at one end of the garden. It was an old acquaintance of my
childhood; but my thoughts had been turned towards it now from the fact
that I could see it from my bedroom window, and had been struck afresh by
its uncouth, incongruous appearance.

“Isn’t there some story connected with that stone?” I asked. “I remember
that we always called it the Dead Stone as children.”

Alan cast a quick, sidelong glance in that direction, and his brows
contracted in an irritable frown. “I don’t know,” he answered shortly;
“they say that there is a woman buried beneath it, I believe.”

“A woman buried there!” I exclaimed in surprise; “but who?”

“How should I know? They know nothing whatever about it. The place is
full of stupid traditions of that kind.” Then, looking suspiciously round
at me, “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know; it was just something to say,” I answered plaintively. His
strange mood so worked upon my nerves, that it was all that I could do
to restrain my tears. I think that my tone struck his conscience, for he
made a few feverish attempts at conversation after that. But they were so
entirely abortive that he soon abandoned the effort, and we finished our
walk to church as speechlessly as we had begun it.

The service was bright, and the sermon perhaps a little commonplace,
but sensible as it seemed to me in matter, and adequate in style. The
peaceful evening hymn which followed, the short solemn pause of silence
prayer at the end, soothed and refreshed my spirit. A hasty glance at
my companion’s face as he stood waiting for me in the porch, with the
full light from the church streaming round him, assured me that the same
influence had touched him too. Haggard and sad he still looked, it is
true; but his features were composed, and the expression of actual pain
had left his eyes.

Silent as we had come we started homeward through the waning moonlight,
but this silence was of a very different nature to the other, and after a
minute or two I did not hesitate to break it.

“It was a good sermon?” I observed interrogatively.

“Yes,” he assented, “I suppose you would call it so; but I confess that I
should have found the text more impressive without its exposition.”

“Poor man!”

“But don’t you often find it so?” he asked. “Do you not often wish, to
take this evening’s instance, that clergymen would infuse themselves
with something of St. Paul’s own spirit? Then perhaps they would not
water all the strength out of his words in their efforts to explain them.”

“That is rather a large demand to make upon them, is it not?”

“Is it?” he questioned. “I don’t ask them to be inspired saints. I don’t
expect St. Paul’s breadth and depth of thought. But could they not have
something of his vigorous completeness, something of the intensity of his
feeling and belief? Look at the text of to-night. Did not the preacher’s
examples and applications take something from its awful unqualified
strength?”

“Awful!” I exclaimed, in surprise; “that is hardly the expression I
should have used in connection with those words.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The text is very beautiful, of course, and at times,
when people are tiresome and one ought to be nice to them, it is very
difficult to act up to. But——”

“But you think that ‘awful’ is rather a big adjective to use for so small
a duty,” interposed Alan, and the moonlight showed the flicker of a smile
upon his face. Then he continued, gravely, “I doubt whether you yourself
realize the full import of the words. The precept of charity is not
merely a code of rules by which to order our conduct to our neighbors;
it is the picture of a spiritual condition, and such, where it exists
in us, must by its very nature be roused into activity by anything that
affects us. So with this particular injunction, every circumstance in our
lives is a challenge to it, and in presence of all alike it admits of one
attitude only: ‘Beareth all things, endureth all things.’ I hope it will
be long before that ‘all’ sticks in your gizzard, Evie,—before you come
face to face with things which nature cannot bear, and yet which must be
borne.”

He stopped, his voice quivering; and then after a pause went on again
more calmly, “And throughout it is the same. Moral precepts everywhere,
which will admit of no compromise, no limitation, and yet which are
at war with our strongest passions. If one could only interpose some
‘unless,’ some ‘except,’ even an ‘until,’ which should be short of the
grave. But we cannot. The law is infinite, universal, eternal; there is
no escape, no repose. Resist, strive, endure, that is the recurring cry;
that is existence.”

“And peace,” I exclaimed, appealingly. “Where is there room for peace, if
that be true?”

He sighed for answer, and then in a changed and lower tone added,
“However thickly the clouds mass, however vainly we search for a
coming glimmer in their midst, we never doubt that the sky is still
beyond—beyond and around us, infinite and infinitely restful.”

He raised his eyes as he spoke, and mine followed his. We had entered
the wooded glen. Through the scanty autumn foliage we could see the
stars shining faintly in the dim moonlight, and beyond them the deep
illimitable blue. A dark world it looked, distant and mysterious, and my
young spirit rebelled at the consolation offered me.

“Peace seems a long way off,” I whispered.

“It is for me,” he answered, gently; “not necessarily for you.”

“Oh, but I am worse and weaker than you are. If life is to be all
warfare, I must be beaten. I cannot always be fighting.”

“Cannot you? Evie, what I have been saying is true of every moral law
worth having, of every ideal of life worth striving after, that men have
yet conceived. But it is only half the truth of Christianity. You know
that. We must strive, for the promise is to him that overcometh; but
though our aim be even higher than is that of others, we cannot in the
end fail to reach it. The victory of the Cross is ours. You know that?
You believe that?”

“Yes,” I answered, softly, too surprised to say more. In speaking
of religion he, as a rule, showed to the full the reserve which is
characteristic of his class and country, and this sudden outburst was in
itself astonishing; but the eager anxiety with which he emphasized the
last words of appeal impressed and bewildered me still further. We walked
on for some minutes in silence. Then suddenly Alan stopped, and turning,
took my hand in his. In what direction his mind had been working in the
interval I could not divine; but the moment he began to speak I felt that
he was now for the first time giving utterance to what had been really
at the bottom of his thoughts the whole evening. Even in that dim light
I could see the anxious look upon his face, and his voice shook with
restrained emotion.

“Evie,” he said, “have you ever thought of the world in which our spirits
dwell, as our bodies do in this one of matter and sense, and of how it
may be peopled? I know,” he went on hurriedly, “that it is the fashion
nowadays to laugh at such ideas. I envy those who have never had cause to
be convinced of their reality, and I hope that you may long remain among
the number. But should that not be so, should those unseen influences
ever touch your life, I want you to remember then, that, as one of the
race for whom Christ died, you have as high a citizenship in that spirit
land as any creature there: that you are your own soul’s warden, and that
neither principalities nor powers can rob you of that your birthright.”

I think my face must have shown my bewilderment, for he dropped my hand,
and walked on with an impatient sigh.

“You don’t understand me. Why should you? I daresay that I am talking
nonsense—only—only——”

His voice expressed such an agony of doubt and hesitation that I burst
out—

“I think that I do understand you a little, Alan. You mean that even from
unearthly enemies there is nothing that we need really fear—at least,
that is, I suppose, nothing worse than death. But that is surely enough!”

“Why should you fear death?” he said, abruptly; “your soul will live.”

“Yes, I know that, but still——” I stopped with a shudder.

“What is life after all but one long death?” he went on, with sudden
violence. “Our pleasures, our hopes, our youth are all dying; ambition
dies, and even desire at last; our passions and tastes will die, or will
live only to mourn their dead opportunity. The happiness of love dies
with the loss of the loved, and, worst of all, love itself grows old in
our hearts and dies. Why should we shrink only from the one death which
can free us from all the others?”

“It is not true, Alan!” I cried, hotly. “What you say is not true. There
are many things even here which are living and shall live; and if it were
otherwise, in everything, life that ends in death is better than no life
at all.”

“You say that,” he answered, “because for you these things are yet
living. To leave life now, therefore, while it is full and sweet,
untainted by death, surely that is not a fate to fear. Better, a thousand
times better, to see the cord cut with one blow while it is still whole
and strong, and to launch out straight into the great ocean, than to
sit watching through the slow years, while strand after strand, thread
by thread, loosens and unwinds itself—each with its own separate pang
breaking, bringing the bitterness of death without its release.”

His manner, the despairing ring in his voice, alarmed me even more than
his words. Clinging to his arm with both hands, while the tears sprang to
my eyes—

“Alan,” I cried, “don’t say such things,—don’t talk like that. You are
making me miserable.”

He stopped short at my words, with bent head, his features hidden in the
shadow thus cast upon them,—nothing in his motionless form to show what
was passing within him. Then he looked up, and turned his face to the
moonlight and to me, laying his hand on one of mine.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “it is all right, my little David. You have
driven the evil spirit away.” And lifting my hand, he pressed it gently
to his lips. Then drawing it within his arms, he went on, as he walked
forward, “And even when it was on me at its worst, I was not meditating
suicide, as I think you imagine. I am a very average specimen of
humanity,—neither brave enough to defy the possibilities of eternity nor
cowardly enough to shirk those of time. No, I was only trying idiotically
to persuade a girl of eighteen that life was not worth living; and more
futilely still, myself, that I did not wish her to live. I am afraid that
in my mind philosophy and fact have but small connection with each other;
and though my theorizing for your welfare may be true enough, yet,—I
cannot help it, Evie,—it would go terribly hard with me if anything were
to happen to you.”

His voice trembled as he finished. My fear had gone with his return to
his natural manner, but my bewilderment remained.

“Why _should_ there anything happen to me?” I asked.

“That is just it,” he answered, after a pause, looking straight in front
of him and drawing his hand wearily over his brow. “I know of no reason
why there should.” Then giving a sigh, as if finally to dismiss from his
mind a worrying subject—“I have acted for the best,” he said, “and may
God forgive me if I have done wrong.”

There was a little silence after that, and then he began to talk again,
steadily and quietly. The subject was deep enough still, as deep as
any that we had touched upon, but both voice and sentiment were calm,
bringing peace to my spirit, and soon making me forget the wonder and
fear of a few moments before. Very openly did he talk as we passed on
across the long trunk shadows and through the glades of silver light; and
I saw farther then into the most sacred recesses of his soul than I have
ever done before or since.

When we reached home the moon had already set; but some of her beams
seemed to have been left behind within my heart, so pure and peaceful was
the light which filled it.

The same feeling continued with me all through that evening. After
dinner some of the party played and sang. As it was Sunday, and Lucy was
rigid in her views, the music was of a sacred character. I sat in a low
arm-chair in a dark corner of the room, my mind too dreamy to think, and
too passive to dream. I hardly interchanged three words with Alan, who
remained in a still darker spot, invisible and silent the whole time.
Only as we left the room to go to bed, I heard Lucy ask him if he had a
headache. I did not hear his answer, and before I could see his face he
had turned back again into the drawing-room.


_V._

It was early, and when first I got to my room I felt little inclined for
sleep. I wandered to the window, and drawing aside the curtains, looked
out upon the still, starlit sky. At least I should rest quiet to-night.
The air was very clear, and the sky seemed full of stars. As I stood
there scraps of schoolroom learning came back to my mind. That the stars
were all suns, surrounded perhaps in their turn by worlds as large or
larger than our own. Worlds beyond worlds, and others farther still,
which no man might number or even descry. And about the distance of those
wonderful suns too,—that one, for instance, at which I was looking,—what
was it that I had been told? That our world was not yet peopled, perhaps
not yet formed, when the actual spot of light which now struck my sight
first started from the star’s surface! While it flashed along, itself the
very symbol of speed, the whole of mankind had had time to be born, and
live, and die!

My gaze dropped, and fell upon the dim, half-seen outline of the Dead
Stone. That woman too. While that one ray speeded towards me her life
had been lived and ended, and her body had rotted away into the ground.
How close together we all were! Her life and mine; our joys, sufferings,
deaths—all crowded together into the space of one flash of light! And yet
there was nothing there but a horrible skeleton of dead bones, while I——!

I stopped with a shudder, and turned back into the room. I wished that
Alan had not told me what lay under the stone; I wished that I had never
asked him. It was a ghastly thing to think about, and spoilt all the
beauty of the night to me.

I got quickly into bed, and soon dropped asleep. I do not know how long
I slept; but when I woke it was with the consciousness again of that
haunting wind.

It was worse than ever. The world seemed filled with its din. Hurling
itself passionately against the house, it gathered strength with every
gust, till it seemed as if the old walls must soon crash in ruins round
me. Gust upon gust; blow upon blow; swelling, lessening, never ceasing.
The noise surrounded me; it penetrated my inmost being, as all-pervading
as silence itself, and wrapping me in a solitude even more complete.
There was nothing left in the world but the wind and I, and then a weird
intangible doubt as to my own identity seized me. The wind was real, the
wind with its echoes of passion and misery from the eternal abyss; but
was there anything else? What was, and what had been, the world of sense
and of knowledge, my own consciousness, my very self—all seemed gathered
up and swept away in that one sole-existent fury of sound.

I pulled myself together, and getting out of bed, groped my way to the
table which stood between the bed and the fireplace. The matches were
there, and my half-burnt candle, which I lit. The wind penetrating the
rattling casement circled round the room, and the flame of my candle
bent and flared and shrank before it, throwing strange moving lights and
shadows in every corner. I stood there shivering in my thin nightdress,
half stunned by the cataract of noise beating on the walls outside, and
peered anxiously around me. The room was not the same. Something was
changed. What was it? How the shadows leaped and fell, dancing in time to
the wind’s music. Everything seemed alive. I turned my head slowly to
the left, and then to the right, and then round—and stopped with a sudden
gasp of fear.

The cabinet was open!

I looked away, and back, and again. There was no room for doubt. The
doors were thrown back, and were waving gently in the draught. One of the
lower drawers was pulled out, and in a sudden flare of the candle-light
I could see something glistening at its bottom. Then the light dwindled
again, the candle was almost out, and the cabinet showed a dim black
mass in the darkness. Up and down went the flame, and each returning
brightness flashed back at me from the thing inside the drawer. I stood
fascinated, my eyes fixed upon the spot, waiting for the fitful glitter
as it came and went. What was there? I knew that I must go and see, but I
did not want to. If only the cabinet would close again before I looked,
before I knew what was inside it. But it stood open, and the glittering
thing lay there, dragging me towards itself.

Slowly at last, and with infinite reluctance, I went. The drawer was
lined with soft white satin, and upon the satin lay a long, slender
knife, hilted and sheathed in antique silver, richly set with jewels. I
took it up and turned back to the table to examine it. It was Italian
in workmanship, and I knew that the carving and chasing of the silver
were more precious even than the jewels which studded it, and whose
rough setting gave so firm a grasp to my hand. Was the blade as fair as
the covering, I wondered? A little resistance at first, and then the
long thin steel slid easily out. Sharp, and bright, and finely tempered
it looked with its deadly, tapering point. Stains, dull and irregular,
crossed the fine engraving on its surface and dimmed its polish. I bent
to examine them more closely, and as I did so a sudden stronger gust
of wind blew out the candle. I shuddered a little at the darkness and
looked up. But it did not matter: the curtain was still drawn away from
the window opposite my bedside, and through it a flood of moonlight was
pouring in upon floor and bed.

Putting the sheath down upon the table, I walked to the window to examine
the knife more closely by that pale light. How gloriously brilliant it
was, darkened now and again by the quickly passing shadows of wind-driven
clouds! At least so I thought, and I glanced up and out of the window
to see them. A black world met my gaze. Neither moon was there nor
moonlight. The broad silver beam in which I stood stretched no farther
than the window. I caught my breath, my limbs stiffened as I looked. No
moon, no cloud, no movement in the clear, calm starlit sky; while still
the ghastly light stretched round me, and the spectral shadows drifted
across the room.

But it was not all dark outside. One spot caught my eye, bright with a
livid unearthly brightness—the Dead Stone shining out into the night
like an ember from hell’s furnace! There was a horrid semblance of life
in the light—a palpitating, breathing glow—and my pulses beat in time to
it, till I seemed to be drawing it into my veins. It had no warmth, and
as it entered my blood my heart grew colder, and my muscles more rigid.
My fingers clutched the dagger-hilt till its jeweled roughness pressed
painfully into my palm. All the strength of my strained powers seemed
gathered in that grasp, and the more tightly I held the more vividly did
the rock gleam and quiver with infernal life. The dead woman! The dead
woman! What had I to do with her? Let her bones rest in the filth of
their own decay, out there under the accursed stone.

And now the noise of the wind lessens in my ears. Let it go on—yes,
louder and wilder, drowning my senses in its tumult. What is there with
me in the room—the great empty room behind me? Nothing; only the cabinet
with its waving doors. They are waving to and fro, to and fro—I know it.
But there is no other life in the room but that—no, no; no other life in
the room but that.

Oh! don’t let the wind stop. I can’t hear anything while it goes on—but
if it stops! Ah! the gusts grow weaker, struggling, forced into rest.
Now—now—they have ceased.

Silence!

A fearful pause.

What is that I hear? There, behind me in the room?

Do I hear it? Is there anything?

The throbbing of my own blood in my ears.

No, no! There is something as well—something outside myself.

What is it?

Low; heavy; regular.

God! it is—it is the breath of a living creature! A living creature
here—close to me—alone with me!

The numbness of terror conquers me. I can neither stir nor speak. Only my
whole soul strains at my ears to listen.

Where does the sound come from?

Close behind me—close.

Ah-h!

It is from there—from the bed where I was lying a moment ago!...

I try to shriek, but the sound gurgles unuttered in my throat. I clutch
the stone mullions of the window, and press myself against the panes. If
I could but throw myself out—anywhere, anywhere—away from that dreadful
sound—from that thing close behind me in the bed! But I can do nothing.
The wind has broken forth again now; the storm crashes round me. And
still through it all I hear the ghastly breathing—even, low, scarcely
audible—but I hear it. I shall hear it as long as I live!...

Is the thing moving?

Is it coming nearer?

No, no; not that—that was but a fancy to freeze me dead.

But to stand here, with that creature behind me, listening, waiting for
the warm horror of its breath to touch my neck! Ah! I cannot. I will
look. I will see it face to face. Better any agony than this one.

Slowly, with held breath, and eyes aching in their stretched fixity, I
turn. There it is? Clear in the moonlight I see the monstrous form within
the bed—the dark coverlet rises and falls with its heaving breath.... Ah!
heaven have mercy! Is there none to help, none to save me from this awful
presence?...

And the knife-hilt draws my fingers round it, while my flesh quivers,
and my soul grows sick with loathing. The wind howls, the shadows chase
through the room, hunting with fearful darkness more fearful light; and I
stand looking ... listening....

       *       *       *       *       *

I must not stand here forever; I must be up and doing. What a noise the
wind makes, and the rattling of the windows and the doors. If he sleeps
through this he will sleep through all. Noiselessly my bare feet tread
the carpet as I approach the bed; noiselessly my left arm raises the
heavy curtain. What does it hide? Do I not know? The bestial features,
half-hidden in coarse, black growth; the muddy, blotched skin, oozing
foulness at every pore. Oh, I know them too well! What a monster it is!
How the rank breath gurgles through his throat in his drunken sleep. The
eyes are closed now, but I know them too; their odious leer, and the
venomous hatred with which they can glare at me from their bloodshot
setting. But the time has come at last. Never again shall their passion
insult me, or their fury degrade me in slavish terror. There he lies;
there at my mercy, the man who for fifteen years has made God’s light
a shame to me, and His darkness a terror. The end has come at last—the
only end possible, the only end left me. On his head be the blood and the
crime! God almighty, I am not guilty! The end has come; I can bear my
burden no farther.

“Beareth all things, endureth all things.”

Where have I heard those words? They are in the Bible; the precept of
charity. What has that to do with me? Nothing. I heard the words in
my dreams somewhere. A white-faced man said them, a white-faced man
with pure eyes. To me—no, no, not to me; to a girl it was—an ignorant,
innocent girl, and she accepted them as an eternal, unqualified law. Let
her bear but half that I have borne, let her endure but one-tenth of what
I have endured, and then if she dare let her speak in judgment against me.

Softly now; I must draw the heavy coverings away, and bare his breast
to the stroke—the stroke that shall free me. I know well where to plant
it; I have learned that from the old lady’s Italian. Did he guess why
I questioned him so closely of the surest, straightest road to a man’s
heart? No matter, he cannot hinder me now. Gently! Ah! I have disturbed
him. He moves, mutters in his sleep, throws out his arm. Down; down;
crouching behind the curtain. Heavens! if he wakes and sees me, he will
kill me! No, alas, if only he would. I would kiss the hand that he struck
me with; but he is too cruel for that. He will imagine some new and
more hellish torture to punish me with. But the knife! I have got that;
he shall never touch me living again.... He is quieter now. I hear his
breath, hoarse and heavy as a wild beast’s panting. He draws it more
evenly, more deeply. The danger is past. Thank God!

God! What have I to do with Him? A God of Judgment. Ha, ha! Hell cannot
frighten me; it will not be worse than earth. Only he will be there too.
Not with him, not with him—send me to the lowest circle of torment, but
not with him. There, his breast is bare now. Is the knife sharp? Yes; and
the blade is strong enough. Now let me strike—myself afterwards if need
be, but him first. Is it the devil that prompts me? Then the devil is my
friend, and the friend of the world. No, God is a God of love. He cannot
wish such a man to live. He made him, but the devil spoilt him; and let
the devil have his handiwork back again. It has served him long enough
here; and its last service shall be to make me a murderess.

How the moonlight gleams from the blade as my arm swings up and back:
with how close a grasp the rough hilt draws my fingers round it. Now.

A murderess?

Wait a moment. A moment may make me free; a moment may make me—that!

Wait. Hand and dagger droop again. His life has dragged its slime over my
soul; shall his death poison it with a fouler corruption still?

“My own soul’s warden.”

What was that? Dream memories again.

“Resist, strive, endure.”

Easy words. What do they mean for me? To creep back now to bed by his
side, and to begin living again tomorrow the life which I have lived
today? No, no; I cannot do it. Heaven cannot ask it of me. And there is
no other way. That or this; this or that. Which shall it be? Ah! I have
striven, God knows. I have endured so long that I hoped even to do so
to the end. But today! Oh! the torment and the outrage: body and soul
still bear the stain of it. I thought that my heart and my pride were
dead together, but he has stung them again into aching, shameful life.
Yesterday I might have spared him, to save my own cold soul from sin; but
now it is cold no longer. It burns, it burns and the fire must be slaked.

Ay, I will kill him, and have done with it. Why should I pause any
longer? The knife drags my hand back for the stroke. Only the dream
surrounds me; the pure man’s face is there, white, beseeching, and God’s
voice rings in my heart—

“To him that overcometh.”

But I cannot overcome. Evil has governed my life, and evil is stronger
than I am. What shall I do? What shall I do? God, if Thou art stronger
than evil, fight for me.

“The victory of the Cross is ours.”

Yes, I know it. It is true, it is true. But the knife? I cannot loose the
knife if I would. How to wrench it from my own hold? Thou God of Victory
be with me! Christ help me!

I seize the blade with my left hand; the two-edged steel slides through
my grasp; a sharp pain in my fingers and palm; and then nothing....


_VI._

When I again became conscious, I found myself half kneeling, half lying
across the bed, my arms stretched out in front of me, my face buried
in the clothes. Body and mind were alike numbed. A smarting pain in
my left hand, a dreadful terror in my heart, were at first the only
sensations of which I was aware. Slowly, very slowly, sense and memory
returned to me, and with them a more vivid intensity of mental anguish,
as detail by detail I recalled the weird horror of the night. Had it
really happened—was the thing still there—or was it all a ghastly
nightmare? It was some minutes before I dared either to move or look
up, and then fearfully I raised my head. Before me stretched the smooth
white coverlet, faintly bright with yellow sunshine. Weak and giddy, I
struggled to my feet, and, steadying myself against the foot of the bed,
with clenched teeth and bursting heart, forced my gaze round to the other
end. The pillow lay there, bare and unmarked save for what might well
have been the pressure of my own head. My breath came more freely, and I
turned to the window. The sun had just risen, the golden tree-tops were
touched with light, faint threads of mist hung here and there across the
sky, and the twittering of birds sounded clearly through the crisp autumn
air.

It was nothing but a bad dream then, after all, this horror which still
hung round me, leaving me incapable of effort, almost of thought. I
remembered the cabinet, and looked swiftly in that direction. There it
stood, closed as usual, closed as it had been the evening before, as it
had been for the last three hundred years, except in my dreams.

Yes, that was it; nothing but a dream—a gruesome, haunting dream. With
an instinct of wiping out the dreadful memory, I raised my hand wearily
to my forehead. As I did so, I became conscious again of how it hurt me.
I looked at it. It was covered with half-dried blood, and two straight
clean cuts appeared, one across the palm and one across the inside of the
fingers just below the knuckles. I looked again towards the bed, and, in
the place where my hand had rested during my faint, a small patch of red
blood was to be seen.

Then it was true! Then it had all happened! With a low shuddering sob I
threw myself down upon the couch at the foot of the bed, and lay there
for some minutes, my limbs trembling, and my soul shrinking within me.
A mist of evil, fearful and loathsome, had descended upon my girlhood’s
life, sullying its ignorant innocence, saddening its brightness, as I
felt, forever. I lay there till my teeth began to chatter, and I realized
that I was bitterly cold. To return to that accursed bed was impossible,
so I pulled a rug which hung at one end of the sofa over me, and, utterly
worn out in mind and body, fell uneasily asleep.

I was roused by the entrance of my maid. I stopped her exclamations and
questions by shortly stating that I had had a bad night, had been unable
to rest in bed, and had had an accident with my hand—without further
specifying of what description.

“I didn’t know that you had been feeling unwell when you went to bed last
night, miss,” she said.

“When I went to bed last night? Unwell? What do you mean?”

“Only Mr. Alan has just asked me to let him know how you find yourself
this morning,” she answered.

Then he expected something, dreaded something. Ah! why had he yielded and
allowed me to sleep here, I asked myself bitterly, as the incidents of
the day before flashed through my mind.

“Tell him,” I said, “what I have told you; and say that I wish to speak
to him directly after breakfast.” I could not confide my story to any one
else, but speak of it I must to some one or go mad.

Every moment passed in that place was an added misery. Much to my maid’s
surprise I said that I would dress in her room—the little one which,
as I have said, was close to my own. I felt better there; but my utter
fatigue and my wounded hand combined to make my toilet slow, and I
found that most of the party had finished breakfast when I reached the
dining room. I was glad of this, for even as it was I found it difficult
enough to give coherent answers to the questions which my white face and
bandaged hand called forth. Alan helped me by giving a resolute turn to
the conversation. Once only our eyes met across the table. He looked
as haggard and worn as I did. I learned afterwards that he had passed
most of that fearful night pacing the passage outside my door, though he
listened in vain for any indication of what was going on within the room.

The moment I had finished breakfast he was by my side. “You wish to speak
to me now?” he asked in a low tone.

“Yes; now,” I answered, breathlessly, and without raising my eyes from
the ground.

“Where shall we go? Outside? It is a bright day, and we shall be freer
there from interruption.”

I assented and then looking up at him appealingly, “Will you fetch my
things for me? I cannot go up to that room again.”

He seemed to understand me, nodded, and was gone. A few minutes later we
left the house, and made our way in silence towards a grassy spot on
the side of the ravine where we had already indulged in more than one
friendly talk.

As we went, the Dead Stone came for a moment into view. I seized Alan’s
arm in an almost convulsive grip. “Tell me,” I whispered—“you refused to
tell me yesterday, but you must know—who is buried beneath that rock?”

There was now neither timidity nor embarrassment in my tone. The horrors
of that house had become part of my life forever, and their secrets were
mine by right. Alan, after a moment’s pause, a questioning glance at my
face, tacitly accepted the position.

“I told you the truth,” he replied, “when I said that I did not know; but
I can tell you the popular tradition on the subject, if you like. They
say that Margaret Mervyn, the woman who murdered her husband, is buried
there, and that Dame Alice had the rock placed over her grave—whether to
save it from insult or to mark it out for opprobrium, I never heard. The
poor people about here do not care to go near the place after dark, and
among the older ones there are still some, I believe, who spit at the
suicide’s grave as they pass.”

“Poor woman, poor woman!” I exclaimed, in a burst of uncontrollable
compassion.

“Why should you pity her?” demanded he with sudden sternness; “she
was a suicide and a murderess too. It would be better for the public
conscience, I believe, if such were still hung in chains, or buried at
the cross-roads with a stake through their bodies.”

“Hush, Alan, hush!” I cried hysterically, as I clung to him; “don’t speak
harshly of her. You do not know, you cannot tell, how terribly she was
tempted. How can you?”

He looked down at me in bewildered surprise. “How can I?” he repeated.
“You speak as if you could. What do you mean?”

“Don’t ask me,” I answered, turning towards him my face—white, quivering,
tear-stained. “Don’t ask me. Not now. You must answer my questions first,
and after that I will tell you. But I cannot talk of it now. Not yet.”

We had reached the place we were in search of as I spoke. There, where
the spreading roots of a great beech tree formed a natural resting place
upon the steep side of the ravine, I took my seat, and Alan stretched
himself upon the grass beside me. Then looking up at me—“I do not know
what questions you would ask,” he said quietly; “but I will answer them,
whatever they may be.”

But I did not ask them yet. I sat instead with my hands clasping my knee,
looking opposite at the glory of harmonious color, or down the glen at
the vista of far-off, dream-like loveliness, on which it opened out. The
yellow autumn sunshine made everything golden, the fresh autumn breezes
filled the air with life; but to me a loathsome shadow seemed to rest
upon all, and to stretch itself out far beyond where my eyes could reach,
befouling the beauty of the whole wide world. At last I spoke. “You have
known of it all, I suppose; of this curse that is in the world—sin and
suffering, and what such words mean.”

“Yea,” he said, looking at me with wondering pity, “I am afraid so.”

“But have you known them as they are known to some—agonized, hopeless
suffering, and sin that is all but inevitable? Some time in your life
probably you have realized that such things are: it has come home to
you, and to every one else, no doubt, except a few ignorant girls such
as I was yesterday. But there are some—yes, thousands and thousands—who
even now, at this moment, are feeling sorrow like that, are sinking
deep, deeper into the bottomless pit of their soul’s degradation. And
yet men who know this, who have seen it, laugh, talk, are happy, amuse
themselves—how can they, how can they?” I stopped with a catch in my
voice, and then stretching out my arms in front of me—“And it is not only
men. Look how beautiful the earth is, and God has made it, and lets the
sun crown it every day with a new glory, while this horror of evil broods
over and poisons it all. Oh, why is it so? I cannot understand it.”

My arms drooped again as I finished, and my eyes sought Alan’s. His were
full of tears, but there was almost a smile quivering at the corners of
his lips as he replied: “When you have found an answer to that question,
Evie, come and tell me and mankind at large. It will be news to us all.”
Then he continued—“But, after all, the earth is beautiful, and the sun
does shine. We have our own happiness to rejoice in, our own sorrows to
bear, the suffering that is near to us to grapple with. For the rest, for
this blackness of evil which surrounds us, and which we can do nothing to
lighten, it will soon, thank God, become vague and far off to you as it
is to others. Your feeling of it will be dulled, and, except at moments,
you too will forget.”

“But that is horrible,” I exclaimed, passionately; “the evil will be
there all the same, whether I feel it or not. Men and women will be
struggling in their misery and sin, only I shall be too selfish to care.”

“We cannot go outside the limits of our own nature,” he replied; “our
knowledge is shallow and our spiritual insight dark, and God in His mercy
has made our hearts shallow too, and our imagination dull. If, knowing
and trusting only as men do, we were to feel as angels feel, earth would
be hell indeed.”

It was cold comfort, but at that moment anything warmer or brighter
would have been unreal and utterly repellent to me. I hardly took in the
meaning of his words, but it was as if a hand had been stretched out to
me, struggling in the deep mire, by one who himself felt solid ground
beneath him. Where he stood I also might some day stand, and that thought
seemed to make patience possible.

It was he who first broke the silence which followed. “You were saying
that you had questions to ask me. I am impatient to put mine in return,
so please go on.”

It had been a relief to me to turn even to generalizations of despair
from the actual horror which had inspired them, and to which my mind
was thus recalled. With an effort I replied, “Yes, I want to ask you
about that room—the room in which I slept, and—and the murder which was
committed there.” In spite of all that I could do, my voice sank almost
to a whisper as I concluded, and I was trembling from head to foot.

“Who told you that a murder was committed there?” Something in my face
as he asked the question made him add quickly, “Never mind. You are
right. That is the room in which Hugh Mervyn was murdered by his wife.
I was surprised at your question, for I did not know that anyone but
my brothers and myself were aware of the fact. The subject is never
mentioned. It is closely connected with one intensely painful to our
family, and besides, if spoken of, there would be inconveniences arising
from the superstitious terrors of servants, and the natural dislike of
guests to sleep in a room where such a thing had happened. Indeed it
was largely with the view of wiping out the last memory of the crime’s
locality, that my father renewed the interior of the room some twenty
years ago. The only tradition which has been adhered to in connection
with it is the one which has now been violated in your person—the one
which precludes any unmarried woman from sleeping there. Except for that,
the room has, as you know, lost all sinister reputation, and its title of
‘haunted’ has become purely conventional. Nevertheless, as I said, you
are right—that is undoubtedly the room in which the murder was committed.”

He stopped and looked up at me, waiting for more.

“Go on; tell me about it, and what followed.” My lips formed the words;
my heart beat faintly for my breath to utter them.

“About the murder itself there is not much to tell. The man, I believe,
was an inhuman scoundrel, and the woman first killed him in desperation,
and afterwards herself in despair. The only detail connected with
the actual crime of which I have ever heard, was the gale that was
blowing that night—the fiercest known to this countryside in that
generation; and it has always been said since that any misfortune to the
Mervyns—especially any misfortune connected with the curse—comes with a
storm of wind. That was why I so disliked your story of the imaginary
tempests which have disturbed your nights since you slept there. As to
what followed,”—he gave a sigh—“that story is long enough and full of
incident. On the morning after the murder, so runs the tale, Dame Alice
came down to the Grange from the tower to which she had retired when
her son’s wickedness had driven her from his house, and there in the
presence of the two corpses she foretold the curse which should rest upon
their descendants for generations to come. A clergyman who was present,
horrified, it is said at her words, adjured her by the mercy of Heaven to
place some term to the doom which she had pronounced. She replied that no
mortal might reckon the fruit of a plant which drew its life from hell;
that a term there should be, but as it passed the wisdom of man to fix
it, so it should pass the wit of man to discover it. She then placed in
the room this cabinet, constructed by herself and her Italian follower,
and said that the curse should not depart from the family until the day
when its doors were unlocked and its legend read.

“Such is the story. I tell it to you as it was told to me. One thing only
is certain, that the doom thus traditionally foretold has been only too
amply fulfilled.”

“And what was the doom?”

Alan hesitated a little, and when he spoke his voice was almost awful in
its passionless sternness, in its despairing finality; it seemed to echo
the irrevocable judgment which his words pronounced: “That the crimes
against God and each other which had destroyed the parents’ life should
enter into the children’s blood, and that never thereafter should there
fail a Mervyn to bring shame or death upon one generation of his father’s
house.

“There were two sons of that ill-fated marriage,” he went on after a
pause, “boys at the time of their parents’ death. When they grew up
they both fell in love with the same woman, and one killed the other in
a duel. The story of the next generation was a peculiarly sad one. Two
brothers took opposite sides during the civil troubles; but so fearful
were they of the curse which lay upon the family, that they chiefly
made use of their mutual position in order to protect and guard each
other. After the wars were over, the younger brother, while traveling
upon some parliamentary commission, stopped a night at the Grange.
There, through a mistake, he exchanged the report which he was bringing
to London for a packet of papers implicating his brother and several
besides in a royalist plot. He only discovered his error as he handed
the papers to his superior, and was but just able to warn his brother
in time for him to save his life by flight. The other men involved were
taken and executed, and as it was known by what means information had
reached the Government, the elder Mervyn was universally charged with
the vilest treachery. It is said that when after the Restoration his
return home was rumored the neighboring gentry assembled, armed with
riding whips, to flog him out of the country if he should dare to show
his face there. He died abroad, shame-stricken and broken-hearted. It was
his son, brought up by his uncle in the sternest tenets of Puritanism,
who, coming home after a lengthened journey, found that during his
absence his sister had been shamefully seduced. He turned her out of
doors, then and there, in the midst of a bitter January night, and the
next morning her dead body and that of her new-born infant were found
half buried in the fresh-fallen snow on the top of the wolds. The ‘white
lady’ is still supposed by the villagers to haunt that side of the glen.
And so it went on. A beautiful, heartless Mervyn in Queen Anne’s time
enticed away the affections of her sister’s betrothed, and on the day
of her own wedding with him, her forsaken sister was found drowned by
her own act in the pond at the bottom of the garden. Two brothers were
soldiers together in some Continental war, and one was involuntarily the
means of discovering and exposing the treason of the other. A girl was
betrayed into a false marriage, and her life ruined by a man who came
into the house as her brother’s friend, and whose infamous designs were
forwarded and finally accomplished by that same brother’s active though
unsuspecting assistance. Generation after generation, men or women,
guilty or innocent, through the action of their own will or in spite of
it, the curse has never yet failed of its victims.”

“Never yet? But surely in our own time—your father?” I did not dare to
put the question which was burning my lips.

“Have you never heard of the tragic end of my poor young uncles?” he
replied. “They were several years older than my father. When boys of
fourteen and fifteen they were sent out with the keeper for their first
shooting lesson, and the elder shot his brother through the heart. He
himself was delicate, and they say that he never entirely recovered from
the shock. He died before he was twenty, and my father, then a child
of seven years old, became the heir. It was partly, no doubt, owing to
this calamity having thus occurred before he was old enough to feel it,
that his comparative skepticism on the whole subject was due. To that,
I suppose, and to the fact that he grew up in an age of railways and
liberal culture.”

“He didn’t believe, then, in the curse?”

“Well, rather, he thought nothing about it. Until, that is, the time came
when it took effect, to break his heart and end his life.”

“How do you mean?”

There was silence for a little. Alan had turned away his head, so that I
could not see his face. Then—

“I suppose you have never been told the true story of why Jack left the
country?”

“No. Was he—is he——?”

“He is one victim of the curse in this generation, and I, God help me, am
the other, and perhaps more wretched one.”

His voice trembled and broke, and for the first time that day I almost
forgot the mysterious horror of the night before, in my pity for the
actual, tangible suffering before me. I stretched out my hand to his, and
his fingers closed on mine with a sudden, painful grip. Then quietly—

“I will tell you the story,” he said, “though since that miserable time I
have spoken of it to no one.”

There was a pause before he began. He lay there by my side, his gaze
turned across me up the sunbright, autumn-tinted glen, but his eyes
shadowed by the memories which he was striving to recall and arrange in
due order in his mind. And when he did speak it was not directly to begin
the promised recital.

“You never knew Jack,” he said, abruptly.

“Hardly,” I acquiesced. “I remember thinking him very handsome.”

“There could not be two opinions as to that,” he answered. “And a man who
could have done anything he liked with life, had things gone differently.
His abilities were fine, but his strength lay above all in his character:
he was strong—strong in his likes and in his dislikes, resolute,
fearless, incapable of half measures—a man, every inch of him. He was not
generally popular—stiff, hard, unsympathetic, people called him. From
one point of view, and one only, he perhaps deserved the epithets. If a
woman lost his respect she seemed to lose his pity too. Like a mediaeval
monk, he looked upon such rather as the cause than the result of male
depravity, and his contempt for them mingled with anger, almost, as I
sometimes thought, with hatred. And this attitude was, I have no doubt,
resented by the men of his own class and set, who shared neither his
faults nor his virtues. But in other ways he was not hard. He could love;
I, at least, have cause to know it. If you would hear his story rightly
from my lips, Evie, you must try and see him with my eyes. The friend who
loved me, and whom I loved with the passion which, if not the strongest,
is certainly, I believe, the most enduring of which men are capable—that
perfect brother’s love, which so grows into our being that when it is at
peace we are scarcely conscious of its existence, and when it is wounded
our very life-blood seems to flow at the stroke. Brothers do not always
love like that: I can only wish that we had not done so.


_VII._

“Well, about five years ago, before I had taken my degree, I became
acquainted with a woman whom I will call ‘Delia,’—it is near enough
to the name by which she went. She was a few years older than myself,
very beautiful, and I believed her to be what she described herself—the
innocent victim of circumstance and false appearance, a helpless prey
to the vile calumnies of worldlings. In sober fact, I am afraid that
whatever her life may have been actually at the time that I knew her—a
subject which I have never cared to investigate—her past had been not
only bad enough irretrievably to fix her position in society, but bad
enough to leave her without an ideal in the world, though still retaining
within her heart the possibilities of a passion which, from the moment
that it came to life, was strong enough to turn her whole existence
into one desperate reckless straining after an object hopelessly beyond
her reach. That was the woman with whom, at the age of twenty, I
fancied myself in love. She wanted to get a husband, and she thought
me—rightly—ass enough to accept the post. I was very young then even for
my years,—a student, an idealist, with an imagination highly developed,
and no knowledge whatever of the world as it actually is. Anyhow, before
I had known her a month, I had determined to make her my wife. My parents
were abroad at the time, George and Lucy here, so that it was to Jack
that I imparted the news of my resolve. As you may imagine, he did
all that he could to shake it. But I was immovable. I disbelieved his
facts, and despised his contempt from the standpoint of my own superior
morality. This state of things continued for several weeks, during the
greater part of which time I was at Oxford. I only knew that while I was
there, Jack had made Delia’s acquaintance, and was apparently cultivating
it assiduously.

“One day, during the Easter vacation, I got a note from her asking me to
supper at her house. Jack was invited too. We lodged together while my
people were away.

“There is no need to dwell upon that supper. There were two or three
women there of her own sort, or worse, and a dozen men from among the
most profligate in London. The conversation was, I should think, bad even
for that class; and she, the goddess of my idolatry, outstripped them all
by the foul, coarse shamelessness of her language and behavior. Before
the entertainment was half over, I rose and took my leave, accompanied
by Jack and another man—Legard was his name—who I presume was bored.
Just as we had passed through into the anteroom, which lay beyond the
one in which we had been eating, Delia followed us, and laying her hand
on Jack’s arm, said that she must speak with him. Legard and I went into
the outer hall, and we had not been there more than a minute when the
door from the anteroom opened, and we heard Delia’s voice. I remember the
words well—that was not the only occasion on which I was to hear them. ‘I
will keep the ring as a record of my love,’ she said, ‘and understand,
that though you may forget, I never shall.’ Jack came through, the door
closed, and as we went out I glanced towards his left hand, and saw, as
I expected to see, the absence of the ring which he usually wore there.
It contained a gem which my mother had picked up in the East, and I knew
that he valued it quite peculiarly. We always called it Jack’s talisman.

“A miserable time followed, a time for me of agonizing wonder and doubt,
during which regret for my dead illusion was entirely swallowed up in the
terrible dread of my brother’s degradation. Then came the announcement
of his engagement to Lady Sylvia Grey; and a week later, the very day
after I had finally returned to London from Oxford, I received a summons
from Delia to come and see her. Curiosity, and the haunting fear about
Jack, which still hung round me, induced me to consent to what otherwise
would have been intolerably repellent to me, and I went. I found her
in a mad passion of fury. Jack had refused to see her or to answer her
letters, and she had sent for me, that I might give him her message—tell
him that he belonged to her and her only and that he never should marry
another woman. Angry at my interference, Jack disdained even to repudiate
her claims, only sending back a threat of appealing to the police if
she ventured upon any further annoyance. I wrote as she told me, and
she emphasized my silence on the subject by writing back to me a more
definite and explicit assertion of her rights. Beyond that for some
weeks she made no sign. I have no doubt that she had means of keeping
watch upon both his movements and mine; and during that time, as she
relinquished gradually all hopes of inducing him to abandon his purpose,
she was being driven to her last despairing resolve.

“Later, when all was over, Jack told me the story of that spring and
summer. He told me how, when he found me immovable on the subject, he
had resolved to stop the marriage somehow through Delia herself. He had
made her acquaintance, and sought her society frequently. She had taken
a fancy to him, and he admitted that he had availed himself of this fact
to increase his intimacy with her, and, as he hoped ultimately, his power
over her, but he was not conscious of ever having varied in his manner
towards her of contemptuous indifference. This contradictory behavior—his
being constantly near her, yet always beyond her reach—was probably the
very thing which excited her fancy into passion, and the one strong
passion of the poor woman’s life. Then came his deliberate demand that
she should by her own act unmask herself in my sight. The unfortunate
woman tried to bargain for some proof of affection in return, and on this
occasion had first openly declared her feelings towards him. He did not
believe her; he refused her terms; but when as her payment she asked for
the ring which was so especially associated with himself, he agreed to
give it to her. Otherwise hoping, no doubt against hope, dreading above
all things a quarrel and final separation, she submitted unconditionally.
And from the time of that evening, when Legard and I had overheard
her parting words, Jack never saw her again until the last and final
catastrophe.

“It was in July. My parents had returned to England, but had come
straight on here. Jack and I were dining together with Lady Sylvia at her
father’s house—her brother, young Grey, making the fourth at dinner. I
had arranged to go to a party with your mother, and I told the servants
that a lady would call for me early in the evening. The house stood in
Park Lane, and after dinner we all went out on to the broad balcony which
opened from the drawing-room. There was a strong wind blowing that night,
and I remember well the vague, disquieted feeling of unreality that
possessed me—sweeping through me, as it were, with each gust of wind.
Then, suddenly, a servant stood behind me, saying that the lady had come
for me, and was in the drawing-room. Shocked that my aunt should have
troubled herself to come so far, I turned quickly, stepped back into the
room, and found myself face to face with Delia. She was fully dressed for
the evening, with a long silk opera-cloak over her shoulders, her face
as white as her gown, her splendid eyes strangely wide open and shining.
I don’t know what I said or did. I tried to get her away, but it was too
late. The others had heard us, and appeared at the open window. Jack came
forward at once, speaking rapidly, fiercely; telling her to leave the
house at once; promising desperately that he would see her in his own
rooms on the morrow. Well I remember how her answer rang out—

“‘Neither tomorrow nor another day. I will never leave you again while I
live.’

“At the same instant she drew something swiftly from under her cloak,
there was the sound of a pistol shot and she lay dead at our feet, her
blood splashing upon Jack’s shirt and hands as she fell.”

Alan paused in his recital. He was trembling from head to foot; but he
kept his eyes turned steadily downwards, and both face and voice were
cold—almost expressionless.

“Of course there was an inquest,” he resumed, “which, as usual, exercised
its very ill-defined powers in inquiring into all possible motives for
the suicide. Young Grey, who had stepped into the room just before the
shot had been fired, swore to the last words Delia had uttered; Legard
to those he had overheard the night of that dreadful supper. There
were scores of men to bear witness to the intimate relations which had
existed between her and Jack during the whole of the previous spring. I
had to give evidence. A skillful lawyer had been retained by one of her
sisters, and had been instructed by her on points which no doubt she
had originally learnt from Delia herself. In his hands, I had not only
to corroborate Grey and Legard, and to give full details of that last
interview, but also to swear to the peculiar value which Jack attached to
the talisman ring which he had given Delia; to the language she had held
when I saw her after my return from Oxford; to her subsequent letter,
and Jack’s fatal silence on the occasion. The story by which Jack and I
strove to account for the facts was laughed at as a clumsy invention, and
my undisguised reluctance in giving evidence added greatly to its weight
against my brother’s character.

“The jury returned a verdict of suicide while of unsound mind, the
result of desertion by her lover. You may imagine how that verdict was
commented upon by every Radical newspaper in the kingdom, and for once
society more than corroborated the opinions of the press. The larger
public regarded the story as an extreme case of the innocent victim and
the cowardly society villain. It was only among a comparatively small set
that Delia’s reputation was known, and there, in view of Jack’s notorious
and peculiar intimacy, his repudiation of all relations with her was
received with contemptuous incredulity. That he should have first entered
upon such relations at the very time when he was already courting Lady
Sylvia was regarded even in those circles as a ‘strong order,’ and they
looked upon his present attitude with great indignation, as a cowardly
attempt to save his own character by casting upon the dead woman’s memory
all the odium of a false accusation. With an entire absence of logic,
too, he was made responsible for the suicide having taken place in Lady
Sylvia’s presence. She had broken off the engagement the day after the
catastrophe, and her family, a clan powerful in the London world, furious
at the mud through which her name had been dragged, did all that they
could to intensify the feeling already existing against Jack.

“Not a voice was raised in his defense. He was advised to leave the
army; he was requested to withdraw from some of his clubs, turned out of
others, avoided by his fast acquaintances, cut by his respectable ones.
It was enough to kill a weaker man.

“He showed no resentment at the measure thus dealt out to him. Indeed,
at the first, except for Sylvia’s desertion of him, he seemed dully
indifferent to it all. It was as if his soul had been stunned, from the
moment that that wretched woman’s blood had splashed upon his fingers,
and her dead eyes had looked into his own.

“But it was not long before he realized the full extent of the social
damnation which had been inflicted upon him, and he then resolved to
leave the country and go to America. The night before he started he came
down here to take leave. I was here looking after my parents—George,
whose mind was almost unhinged by the family disgrace, having gone
abroad with his wife. My mother at the first news of what had happened
had taken to her bed, never to leave it again; and thus it was in my
presence alone, up there in my father’s little study, that Jack gave him
that night the whole story. He told it quietly enough; but when he had
finished, with a sudden outburst of feeling he turned upon me. It was I
who had been the cause of it all. My insensate folly had induced him to
make the unhappy woman’s acquaintance, to allow and even encourage her
fatal love, to commit all the blunders and sins which had brought about
her miserable ending and his final overthrow. It was by means of me that
she had obtained access to him on that dreadful night; my evidence which
most utterly damned him in public opinion; through me he had lost his
reputation, his friends, his career, his country, the woman he loved,
his hopes for the future; through me, above all, that the burden of that
horrible death would lie forever on his soul. He was lashing himself to
fury with his own words as he spoke; and I stood leaning against the
wall opposite to him cold, dumb, unresisting, when suddenly my father
interrupted. I think that both Jack and I had forgotten his presence;
but at the sound of his voice, changed from what we had ever heard it,
we turned to him, and I then for the first time saw in his face the
death-look which never afterwards quitted it.

“‘Stop, Jack,’ he said; ‘Alan is not to blame; and if it had not been in
this way, it would have been in some other. I only am guilty, who brought
you both into existence with my own hell-stained blood in your veins. If
you wish to curse anyone, curse your family, your name, me if you will,
and may God forgive me that you were ever born into the world!’”

Alan stopped with a shudder, and then continued, dully, “It was when I
heard those words, the most terrible that a father could have uttered,
that I first understood all that that old sixteenth-century tale might
mean to me and mine—I have realized it vividly enough since. Early the
next morning, when the dawn was just breaking, Jack came to the door of
my room to bid me good-by. All his passion was gone. His looks and tones
seemed part and parcel of the dim gray morning light. He freely withdrew
all the charges he had made against me the night before; forgave me all
the share that I had had in his misfortunes; and then begged that I would
never come near him, or let him hear from me again. ‘The curse is heavy
upon us both,’ he said, ‘and it is the only favor which you can do me.’ I
have never seen him since.”

“But you have heard of him!” I exclaimed; “what has become of him?”

Alan raised himself to a sitting posture. “The last that I heard,” he
said, with a catch in his voice, “was that in his misery and hopelessness
he was taking to drink. George writes to him, and does what he can; but
I—I dare not say a word, for fear it should turn to poison on my lips—I
dare not lift a hand to help him, for fear it should have power to strike
him to the ground. The worst may be yet to come; I am still living, still
living. There are depths of shame to which he has not sunk. And oh, Evie,
Evie, he is my own, my best-loved brother!”

All his composure was gone now. His voice rose to a kind of wail with
the last words, and folding his arms on his raised knee, he let his
head fall upon them, while his figure quivered with scarcely restrained
emotion. There was a silence for some moments while he sat thus, I
looking on in wretched helplessness beside him. Then he raised his head,
and, without looking round at me, went on in a low tone: “And what is
in the future? I pray that death instead of shame may be the portion of
the next generation, and I look at George’s boys only to wonder which of
them is the happy one who shall some day lie dead at his brother’s feet.
Are you surprised at my resolution never to marry? The fatal prophecy is
rich in its fulfillment; none of our name and blood are safe; and the day
might come when I too should have to call upon my children to curse me
for their birth,—should have to watch while the burden which I could no
longer bear alone pressed the life from their mother’s heart.”

Through the tragedy of this speech I was conscious of a faint suggestion
of comfort, a far-off glimmer, as of unseen home-lights on a midnight
sky. I was in no mood then to understand, or to seek to understand, what
it was; but I know now that his words had removed the weight of helpless
banishment from my spirit—that his heart, speaking through them to my
own, had made me for life the sharer of his grief.


_VIII._

Presently he drew his shoulders together with a slight determined
jerk, threw himself back upon the grass, and turning to me, with that
tremulous, haggard smile upon his lips which I knew so well, but which
had never before struck me with such infinite pathos, “Luckily,” he said,
“there are other things to do in life besides being happy. Only perhaps
you understand now what I meant last night when I spoke of things which
flesh and blood cannot bear, and yet which must be borne.”

Suddenly and sharply his words roused again into activity the loathsome
memory which my interest in his story had partially deadened. He noticed
the quick involuntary contraction of my muscles, and read it aright.
“That reminds me,” he went on; “I must claim your promise. I have told
you my story. Now, tell me yours.”

I told him; not as I have set it down here, though perhaps even in
greater detail, but incoherently, bit by bit, while he helped me out with
gentle questions, quickly comprehending gestures, and patient waiting
during the pauses of exhaustion which perforce interposed themselves. As
my story approached its climax, his agitation grew almost equal to my
own, and he listened to the close, his teeth clenched, his brows bent,
as if passing again with me through that awful conflict. When I had
finished, it was some moments before either of us could speak; and then
he burst forth into bitter self-reproach for having so far yielded to his
brother’s angry obstinacy as to allow me to sleep the third night in that
fatal room.

“It was cowardice,” he said, “sheer cowardice! After all that has
happened, I dared not have a quarrel with one of my own blood. And yet if
I had not hardened my heart, I had reason to know what I was risking.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Those other two girls who slept there,” he said, breathlessly; “it was
in each case after the third night there that they were found dead—dead,
Evie, so runs the story, with a mark upon their necks similar in shape
and position to the death-wound which Margaret Mervyn inflicted upon
herself.”

I could not speak, but I clutched his hand with an almost convulsive grip.

“And I knew the story,—I knew it!” he cried. “As boys we were not allowed
to hear much of our family traditions, but this one I knew. When my
father redid the interior of the east room, he removed at the same time
a board from above the doorway outside, on which had been written—it
is said by Dame Alice herself—a warning upon this very subject. I
happened to be present when our old housekeeper, who had been his nurse,
remonstrated with him warmly upon this act; and I asked her afterwards
what the board was, and why she cared about it so much. In her excitement
she told me the story of those unhappy girls, repeating again and again
that, if the warning were taken away, evil would come of it.”

“And she was right,” I said, dully. “Oh, if only your father had left it
there!”

“I suppose,” he answered, speaking more quietly, “that he was impatient
of traditions which, as I told you, he at that time more than half
despised. Indeed he altered the shape of the doorway, raising it, and
making it flat and square, so that the old inscription could not have
been replaced, even had it been wished. I remember it was fitted round
the low Tudor arch which was previously there.”

My mind, too worn with many emotions for deliberate thought, wandered on
languidly, and as it were mechanically, upon these last trivial words.
The doorway presented itself to my view as it had originally stood, with
the discarded warning above it; and then, by a spontaneous comparison of
mental vision, I recalled the painted board which I had noticed three
days before in Dame Alice’s tower. I suggested to Alan that it might have
been the identical one—its shape was as he described. “Very likely,” he
answered, absently. “Do you remember what the words were?”

“Yes, I think so,” I replied. “Let me see.” And I repeated them slowly,
dragging them out as it were one by one from my memory:

    “Where the woman sinned the maid shall win;
    But God help the maid that sleeps within.”

“You see,” I said, turning towards him slowly, “the last line is a
warning such as you spoke of.”

But to my surprise Alan had sprung to his feet, and was looking down at
me, his whole body quivering with excitement. “Yes, Evie,” he cried, “and
the first line is a prophecy;—where the woman sinned the maid _has_ won.”
He seized the hand which I instinctively reached out to him. “We have
not seen the end of this yet,” he went on, speaking rapidly, and as if
articulation had become difficult to him. “Come, Evie, we must go back to
the house and look at the cabinet—now, at once.”

I had risen to my feet by this time, but I shrank away at those words,
“To that room? Oh, Alan—no, I cannot.”

He had hold of my hand still, and he tightened his grasp upon it. “I
shall be with you; you will not be afraid with me,” he said. “Come.” His
eyes were burning, his face flushed and paled in rapid alternation, and
his hand held mine like a vice of iron.

I turned with him, and we walked back to the Grange, Alan quickening his
pace as he went, till I almost had to run by his side. As we approached
the dreaded room my sense of repulsion became almost unbearable; but I
was now infected by his excitement, though I but dimly comprehended its
cause. We met no one on our way, and in a moment he had hurried me into
the house, up the stairs, and along the narrow passage, and I was once
more in the east room, and in the presence of all the memories of that
accursed night. For an instant I stood strengthless, helpless, on the
threshold, my gaze fixed panic-stricken on the spot where I had taken
such awful part in that phantom tragedy of evil; then Alan threw his
arm round me, and drew me hastily on in front of the cabinet. Without
a pause, giving himself time neither to speak nor think, he stretched
out his left hand and moved the buttons one after another. How or in
what direction he moved them I know not; but as the last turned with a
click, the doors, which no mortal hand had unclosed for three hundred
years, flew back, and the cabinet stood open. I gave a little gasp of
fear. Alan pressed his lips closely together, and turned to me with eager
questioning in his eyes. I pointed in answer tremblingly at the drawer
which I had seen open the night before. He drew it out, and there on its
satin bed lay the dagger in its silver sheath. Still without a word he
took it up, and reaching his right hand round me, for I could not now
have stood had he withdrawn his support, with a swift strong jerk he
unsheathed the blade. There in the clear autumn sunshine I could see the
same dull stains I had marked in the flickering candle-light, and over
them, still ruddy and moist, were the drops of my own half-dried blood.
I grasped the lapel of his coat with both my hands, and clung to him
like a child in terror, while the eyes of both of us remained fixed as
if fascinated upon the knife-blade. Then, with a sudden start of memory,
Alan raised his to the cornice of the cabinet, and mine followed. No
change that I could detect had taken place in that twisted goldwork; but
there, clear in the sight of us both, stood forth the words of the magic
motto:

    “Pure blood shed by the blood-stained knife
    Ends Mervyn shame, heals Mervyn strife.”

In low steady tones Alan read out the lines, and then there was
silence—on my part of stunned bewilderment, the bewilderment of a spirit
overwhelmed beyond the power of comprehension by rushing, conflicting
emotions. Alan pressed me closer to him, while the silence seemed to
throb with the beating of his heart and the panting of his breath. But
except for that he remained motionless, gazing at the golden message
before him. At length I felt a movement, and looking up saw his face
turned down towards mine, the lips quivering, the cheeks flushed, the
eyes soft with passionate feeling. “We are saved, my darling,” he
whispered; “saved, and through you.” Then he bent his head lower, and
there in that room of horror, I received the first long lover’s kiss from
my own dear husband’s lips.

       *       *       *       *       *

My husband, yes; but not till some time after that. Alan’s first act,
when he had once fully realized that the curse was indeed removed,
was—throwing his budding practice to the winds—to set sail for America.
There he sought out Jack, and labored hard to impart to him some of his
own newfound hope. It was slow work, but he succeeded at last; and only
left him when, two years later, he had handed him over to the charge
of a bright-eyed Western girl, to whom the whole story had been told,
and who showed herself ready and anxious to help in building up again
the broken life of her English lover. To judge from the letters that we
have since received, she has shown herself well fitted for the task.
Among other things she has money, and Jack’s worldly affairs have so
prospered that George declares that he can well afford now to waste some
of his superfluous cash upon farming a few of his elder brother’s acres.
The idea seems to smile upon Jack, and I have every hope this winter of
being able to institute an actual comparison between our small boy, his
namesake, and his own three-year-old Alan. The comparison, by the way,
will have to be conditional, for Jacket—the name by which my son and heir
is familiarly known—is but a little more than two.

I turn my eyes for a moment, and they fall upon the northern corner of
the East Room, which shows round the edge of the house. Then the skeleton
leaps from the cupboard of my memory; the icy hand which lies ever near
my soul grips it suddenly with a chill shudder. Not for nothing was that
wretched woman’s life interwoven with my own, if only for an hour; not
for nothing did my spirit harbor a conflict and an agony, which, thank
God, are far from its own story. Though Margaret Mervyn’s dagger failed
to pierce my flesh, the wound in my soul may never wholly be healed. I
know that that is so; and yet as I turn to start through the sunshine
to the cedar shade and its laughing occupants, I whisper to myself with
fervent conviction, “It was worth it.”




THE EYRIE


It’s a strange thing. We can’t understand it. In last month’s Eyrie we
mentioned the enormous flood of manuscripts that daily inundates us,
and now we’re going to dwell briefly on a singular phase of this sea of
words—a peculiar circumstance that might profitably be studied by your
sedulous student of psychology.

These manuscripts come from all parts of the civilized world, and they
come from all sorts of people—lawyers, truck drivers, doctors, farmers’
wives, university professors, carpenters, high school girls, convicts,
society women, drug fiends, ministers, policemen, novelists, hotel clerks
and professional tramps—and one, therefore, would naturally expect
their stories to possess corresponding diversity. But not so. With rare
exceptions, all these stories, written by all these different kinds of
people, are almost exactly alike!

Not only do they contain the same general plots and themes—one might
understand that—but practically all are written in the same style; all
have the same grammatical blunders, the same misspelled words, the same
errors in punctuation, the same eccentric quirks of phraseology. After
plowing through fifty or so of these stories (and we often read that many
in an evening), a man acquires the dazed impression that all are written
by the same person. It’s baffling! Why do the minds of these various
types of people, living in different parts of the world and moving in
dissimilar walks of life, slide comfortably into the same well-worn
groove whenever they put their thoughts on paper? We give it up.

And now that we have that off our chest, we’ll talk of something less
inexplicable and more delightful—namely, the Success of WEIRD TALES.
That WEIRD TALES _is_ a success there seems no gainsaying now. When we
made our bow with the first issue we were hopeful, yet not certain,
of a cordial reception. With the second issue, our uncertainty began
to vanish. And now, with this the third number of WEIRD TALES, we can
happily announce that we’re here to stay. WEIRD TALES has “caught on”
even more quickly than we hoped it would. The reaction of the public
indicates that a vast multitude of people had long been waiting for just
this sort of magazine.

We find a like indication in the enormous number of letters from
delighted readers. We expected some such response, but we scarcely hoped
for this multiplicity! We’re fairly deluged with these encomiums—and a
little bewildered, too, and not quite sure which ones to choose for The
Eyrie and which to leave out. Perhaps, then, we’d best shut our eyes and
grab a handful at random....

We open our eyes and discover this:

    “Dear Sir and Friend: Many times in the past I have been
    tempted to write different editors, telling them how I enjoyed
    certain stories. But always something restrained me. As I read
    almost every fiction magazine published in America, you will
    understand how often I have wanted to compliment them.

    “Last night I saw a copy of your new magazine and bought one.
    Although I had an early rehearsal at the theatre this morning,
    I started at the first story AND NEVER LAID IT DOWN UNTIL I HAD
    READ THE LAST LINE OF THE LAST STORY!

    “I can truthfully say I never dreamed a magazine could contain
    what I call 100 per cent stories. The thing that is worrying
    me now is the long wait until next month and the arrival of
    the next issue. Dear Mr. Editor, why not a weekly? It is the
    ONE magazine I wish were a daily! I am going to boost it
    to all my friends, as I am sure they will be glad I called
    their attention to it.... I feel you have undertaken a brave
    proposition, and there must be many thousands of others who
    will await its arrival just as anxiously as I.

    “In conclusion, let me thank you for your dauntless courage
    and express the sincere hope that you may never weaken. Always
    count me as one of your very best boosters for this absolutely
    wonderful magazine, and always believe me to be

    “One who admires courage and determination,

                                                 “L. William Pitzer,

    “Director, Girard Avenue Theatre Co., Philadelphia.”

That serves very neatly for a starter, does it not? In fact, we doubt
if the Editor himself could have written a more fervid panegyric! Mr.
Pitzer, we gather, is even more feverishly absorbed in WEIRD TALES than
we are—and we thought we were rather interested in it. What he says about
publishing it every week is interesting, but as for a _daily_—Heaven help
us! The man doesn’t live who could do it!

Of compelling charm is the following communication, postmarked Vera Cruz,
Mexico, from Charles M. Boone, Third Officer of the Steamship _Yumuri_:

    “Editor, WEIRD TALES: I, acting on a ‘hunch,’ purchased your
    March issue in Brooklyn, along with other reading matter for
    sea use, and your publication was so far in advance of the
    others that I could not resist a letter to you expressing my
    appreciation and wishing WEIRD TALES a long and prosperous
    voyage on the sea of literature, and with just such precious
    cargo as is carried in the March issue.

    “I work and live on the Yumuri, a tramp steamer out of New
    Orleans. New Orleans, as you know, was requisitioned by you
    people ‘up there,’ some years ago, to fasten the other end of
    the I. C. R. R. to, and now New Orleans requisitions us to
    carry your freight away as rapidly as possible so that you
    can’t push her overboard into the Gulf by using said railroad
    as a handspike. You can gather from this that at present I have
    no fixed address for mailing purposes, such as I would need to
    have you mail WEIRD TALES to me regularly, but I am enclosing
    price of April number, and if you will kindly have same mailed
    to me at address given I’ll feel greatly obliged, and can
    arrange with some newsdealer in New Orleans to save an issue
    for me each month.

    “Your magazine (the only copy on board) is slowly making the
    rounds of the ship. So far, everybody is favorably impressed,
    except the cat and the goat, and those who have not read it are
    lined up awaiting their turn. At present the Old Man (skipper)
    is locked in his cabin, submerged in ‘A Dead Man’s Tale,’ and
    he swears he will shoot anyone that interrupts him. As he is a
    veteran of four wars, has a .45 Colts, a bad ‘rep,’ and is able
    to swear in every known (and several unknown) tongues, it is a
    pretty safe bet that he won’t be disturbed, and that you will
    have another ‘fan’ as soon as he comes up for air.

    “It has given the first officer, Mr. Henkleman, the ‘jimmies.’
    Mr. Weeks, the second officer, joins me in expressing his
    appreciation of your efforts, and wishes me to say to you
    that he will gladly do anything in his power to further the
    interests of your publication.... Our mess boy says you ought
    to be arrested. You see, he stole some time off to read Mr.
    Rud’s yarn. He was supposed to be on duty, but was found by the
    steward (his immediate superior) in an unused state room (where
    he thought he would be safe from discovery) while deep in the
    story. The steward threw the door open suddenly—just as the
    boy reached the climax—and I guess he thought one of Mr. Rud’s
    monsters had him!

    “WEIRD TALES is doing good on board, too. We have had a little
    trouble in getting one hombre to respond quickly to fire and
    boat drill signal. Today the alarm was sounded while he was in
    the midst of a yarn, and, although his quarters are far removed
    from Assembly, he beat every mother’s son to the lifeboats. We
    have a cargo of gunpowder and dynamite on board, consigned to
    Vera Cruz, where this letter will be mailed, and that may have
    helped some, but I believe that your magazine was the prime
    impulse....”

There is a good deal more to the foregoing letter, but at least we’ve
quoted enough to show that all on board the _Yumuri_, except the goat
and cat, seem to be enjoying WEIRD TALES—and when the crew and officers
are through with it they’ll probably throw it at the cat or feed it to
the goat. Seafaring men, as a rule, are excellent judges of fiction;
wherefore the praise of Third Officer Boone pleases us immensely.

Here’s a breezy digest of the March issue from George F. Morgan, 680
North Vine Street, Hazleton, Pennsylvania:

    “Dear Editor of Hair-Exercising Tales: The other evening,
    while looking over some magazines at my favorite book store,
    I happened to notice your March issue of WEIRD TALES, and the
    title at once seemed to strike me as being something different,
    so I immediately bade a genuine American quarter good-by and
    took a copy along home with me. I wish to state right now that
    I got two-dimes-and-a-nickel’s worth of well-balanced thrills
    out of that issue and would be willing to pay the war tax on it
    also.

    “‘The Dead Man’s Tale’ was real interesting, and it is only
    too true that stories of that type are nearly as scarce as
    the guinea pig’s tail. The terrible creature in ‘Ooze’ was as
    horrible if not worse than some of the snakes in home-made
    Booze. Dad lost two nights’ sleep trying to figure out what
    ‘The Thing of a Thousand Shapes’ could really be. Guess he’ll
    have to wait till April, like the rest of us poor guessers.

    “‘The Mystery of Black Jean’ sure was a bear of a story, but it
    is sad that the notorious hero should end up in a lime factory.
    Uncle Mart (who works in the coal mines) read ‘The Grave,’ and
    it sure must have scared him, because he is now working outside
    in the weather. Baby let the rattle fall while Ma was reading
    ‘Hark! The Rattle!’ and it took all the smelling salts on hand
    to bring her to.

    “It’s a good idea to have lots of lamps in the room before
    beginning a story like ‘The Ghost Guard,’ and be sure they
    are filled with a good grade of oil, ’cause if they should go
    out in the middle of such a story Lord only knows what would
    happen! Stories like ‘The Ghoul and the Corpse’ have the same
    effect on your back as twenty below zero. Ma read ‘Weaving
    Shadows’ out loud, and sister’s beau went home at ten-thirty.
    Sister wondered why he didn’t stay till twelve, as was his
    custom.

    “Dad gave our copy of WEIRD TALES to the neighbor’s kids, and
    Mrs. Murphy is still wondering why they get the evening supply
    of coal up from the cellar so early.”

Quite a family affair, we’ll say; and (assuming that George isn’t kidding
us) isn’t it amazing how much disturbance a single copy of W. T. can
create in a peaceful neighborhood?

Especially gratifying to the business office (likewise to your Ed.) are
letters such as this:

    “Dear sir: The other day, as I stopped at a nearby newsstand, I
    noticed a copy of the March issue of WEIRD TALES. As I am much
    interested in the type of story which this magazine presents,
    and continually on the lookout for new magazines of all kinds,
    I immediately bought one.

    “‘Do you know,’ said the dealer, ‘it is surprising how that
    magazine has sold. I took six copies this morning, wondering if
    they would sell. You have just bought the sixth. Next time I
    can judge my order better.’

    “I have read the issue, and I wish to congratulate you on your
    initiative in putting before the reading public stories such
    as it is almost impossible to obtain elsewhere. Several of my
    friends, who have picked up the copy, after reading some of
    the stories, have expressed their approval and wishes for a
    continued success.

                                “James P. Marshall,
                                “409 Marlboro Street, Boston, Mass.”

Thanks! If there is any one thing that pleases us more than printing
exceptional stories in WEIRD TALES it is the news that a dealer is
selling _all_ his quota. It wounds us grievously to see unsold copies
returned.

Earl L. Bell of Augusta, Georgia, writes us:

    “Dear Mr. Baird: Just a few lines to tell you how I enjoyed
    the natal issue of WEIRD TALES. For years I have been looking
    for just such a periodical. I’m tired of reading magazines
    that cater to the type of stuff that milady likes to read as
    she lies in bed, holds the periodical with one hand and feeds
    chocolates to a poodle with the other.

    “I have often remarked that Poe’s stories, if written today
    instead of many years ago, would be dubbed pure rot by most of
    the American magazines. The editors admit that Poe’s horror
    tales are among the most gripping stories ever penned. Then why
    is it they taboo such stories today?

    “I think you have the right trail. Especially thrilling and
    well-written were ‘The Ghoul and the Corpse’ and ‘The Young
    Man Who Wanted to Die.’ For sheer imagery, word-pictures and
    mastery of style, both stories reached perihelion.”

We, too, have often wondered why other magazines shun the sort of stories
that we gladly accept; and it is not unlikely that if Poe were living
today he would find no market for his work except in WEIRD TALES. The
reason for this we do not know (and we don’t know that we care a damn),
but we do know this: In editing WEIRD TALES we follow no precedent, bow
to no custom, honor no tradition. When we took this job we chucked all
those things in the waste-basket and told the janitor to dump them in the
rubbish heap. We started out to blaze a new path in magazine literature,
and we’re going to do it, or die in the effort.

And while we’re on this topic we must quote a few lines in a letter from
Professor George W. Crane of the Department of Psychology at Northwestern
University:

    “Dear sir: I am writing to express my keen appreciation of
    WEIRD TALES. I read some months ago that it was to be published
    soon, and I looked forward with great interest toward reading
    the first number. It answers a definite lack in modern magazine
    fiction, and one which is wholesome.

    “The type of story which you feature is not immoral, but is
    very stimulating, and forms a pleasing diversion to me from
    heavier and more abstract material. Mr. Rud’s tale, ‘Ooze,’ is
    extremely bizarre, and I am recommending it to my colleague in
    the faculty of the Department of Zoology. I will predict, from
    the analysis of human interests, that WEIRD TALES will have a
    tremendous success.”

We need only add that Professor Crane is a gifted prophet; for his
prediction is rapidly being fulfilled.

Equally germane to the subject we’re discussing is the following letter
from Edward Schultz, 335 Delaware Avenue, Buffalo, New York:

    “Dear sir: I have had the pleasure of very recently discovering
    your delightful publication, WEIRD TALES. I do not know whether
    it is the first issue or not, but I do know that I shall never
    miss a future issue if the March number is any standard of
    those to follow. Of about twenty or more periodicals to which I
    subscribe, WEIRD TALES is the only one that I somehow find time
    to read from cover to cover.

    “Being a great admirer of the late Edgar Allen Poe, whose
    works I have read many times over, I was more than agreeably
    surprised to find his matchless style abound in WEIRD TALES.

    “Allow me to congratulate you on your innovation, which I shall
    heartily recommend to my friends. But please keep it as it
    is—keep out plain and overworked stuff about detectives, wild
    west, etc. There are a great number of us who want weirdness to
    the nth power in our recreational reading. I shall eagerly look
    forward to the April issue.”

       *       *       *       *       *

We’ve just grabbed another fistful of letters, and the first one we open
is this:

    “Dear sir: At last a fiction magazine that is different!
    Congratulations! You are correct—people do like to read this
    kind of fiction.

    “You asked us to mention the stories we liked and those we
    didn’t like so well. I enjoyed, in their order, ‘The Thing of a
    Thousand Shapes,’ which still has me in suspense, ‘The Place of
    Madness,’ ‘The Weaving Shadows,’ ‘The Grave,’ ‘The Skull,’ ‘The
    Extraordinary Experiment of Dr. Calgroni.’

    “‘The Basket,’ I thought rather pointless. The plot of ‘Ooze’
    excellent, but just a trifle above the average reader to
    understand in detail. ‘The Chain’ was too long drawn out.

    “And do give us less of unfaithful wives and husbands. I may
    seem too critical, perhaps, but let me say that I wish the
    magazine were published twice a month, for how refreshing to
    find that interesting stories can be written without ‘love
    interest.’ Please leave that to the movies and to the countless
    other magazines.”—S. A. N.

And the next is from Richard P. Israel, 620 Riverside Drive, New York
City:

    “Dear Sir: Have just finished reading your new magazine, WEIRD
    TALES, and would like to say it’s a peach. It is just the kind
    that wakes a man up after he has put in a hard day’s work....
    Could you possibly run some snappy, spooky baseball stories? I
    am sure that almost everybody will like them, baseball being
    our national game.”

We don’t remember ever seeing anything spooky in baseball; and yet—who
knows?—perhaps Mr. Israel can tell us something about the ghosts that
haunt the Cubs.

A. L. Richard, 9234 Cottage Grove Avenue, Chicago, knows what he likes
and doesn’t like, and he doesn’t hesitate to speak right out in meeting.
As witness:

    “Dear Mr. Baird: May I congratulate you as a delighted reader
    of your excellent magazine? You can not wish more for its
    success than I do, for I have long felt the need of such a
    periodical. So much of the mental feed given us by other
    editors is fit only for infants. We red-blooded men want
    something that stirs the sterner emotions. We want to be scared
    stiff. Too many of us think nothing can make us afraid; your
    stories will fill us with terror. Some of us are too lazy and
    sleep more than we should; your tales will keep us awake more
    of the time and thus give us more pep and vim, and makes our
    lives worth living.

    “Most of the stories in your first number are excellent; some
    few rather indifferent. To my mind the best were ‘The Dead
    Man’s Tale,’ ‘Ooze,’ ‘The Extraordinary Experiment of Dr.
    Calgroni’ (although the transferring of a brain from one person
    to another was done some time ago in another story) and ‘The
    Skull.’ ‘Hark! the Rattle!’ I thought a trifle too rhetorical
    and exclamatory; ‘Nimba, the Cave Girl’ not properly a weird
    tale; ‘The Ghost Guard’ not quite convincing; and ‘The Sequel’
    no improvement on Poe.

    “But these are my own personal likes and dislikes; I have no
    doubt that many others of your readers preferred the very
    tales that did not impress me. On the whole, you are to be
    felicitated on your venture, and I hope that WEIRD TALES will
    enjoy enormous sales. If most people think as I do, it will.”

Analytical, too, is Miss Violet Olive Johnson, who writes to us from
Portland, Oregon:

    “I think ‘The Accusing Voice’ is of the best, because the
    denouement is so unexpected, yet so logical. I liked ‘Hark! the
    Rattle’ on account of its touch of fantasy. ‘The Dead Man’s
    Tale’ was a masterpiece, I thought. And it’s right in line with
    modern spiritualism, too. It conveys quite a definite lesson in
    regeneration, even if it does deal with a disembodied spirit. I
    agree with Anthony M. Rud, in The Eyrie, that such a magazine
    as WEIRD TALES is not only clean, but contains the ingredients
    of wholesome, moral lessons. And it certainly is unique and
    hair-raising. I didn’t experience a dull moment!”

At the risk of emulating the talented authors of patent medicine almanacs
and overlapping the space vouchsafed The Eyrie, we must quote a few brief
excerpts from a few of the letters we got in that second grab:

    “... Some of the tales made me shiver when I read them here
    alone at night.... Two things in particular I like about your
    magazine: the very large number of short stories and the fact
    that there is only one serial.... But there is one thing I
    don’t favor: the sensational, blood-and-thunder titles of some
    of the stories. Something like ‘The Accusing Voice,’ ‘The
    Place of Madness,’ ‘The Weaving Shadows,’ is ‘woolly’ enough
    for most of us, I should say. ‘The Skull,’ ‘The Ghoul and the
    Corpse,’ ‘The Grave,’ are all too—you see what I mean?”—F. L.
    K., Indianapolis.

    “I have just finished the first installment of ‘The Thing of
    a Thousand Shapes.’ It is fine, and any one who has a good
    imagination should not ‘start it late at night.’ I want to
    congratulate you on your fine magazine.”—Victor Wilson, Hazen,
    Pa.

    “... Just finished reading the first number, and I agree with
    Mr. Anthony M. Rud that this magazine should be welcomed by
    the public. I have often wondered why it was that the ordinary
    magazine would not publish out-of-the-ordinary stories—that is,
    stories of the occult or weird.... One thing I know: the name
    of Edgar Allen Poe will live long after the names of some of
    the writers of commonplace fiction are forgotten.”—J. O. O’C.,
    Raleigh, N. C.

    “... May I add my congratulations on the success of your work
    which resulted in that first number of WEIRD TALES? To choose
    a name for a new magazine and then live up to that name so
    thoroughly is hardly ever done so well. I shall look for future
    numbers of the magazine with interest.”—R. M., St. Petersburg,
    Fla.

    “... Truly, I never read such weird tales before, and I am
    anxious to read more....”—Harry M. Worth, Brooklyn, N. Y.

    “... It offers the utmost in thrilling fiction and a
    pleasurable excursion from this land of realism. I wish you the
    greatest success and am looking forward anxiously to your next
    copy.”—Mrs. Glenn Thompson Cummings, Lansing, Mich.

    “I am a lover of all fiction that deals with the
    supernatural.... I eagerly devoured your March issue from
    cover to cover.... The story that impressed me the most
    was ‘The Ghost Guard,’ as it was a combination of the
    practical and supernatural, blended together in an exciting
    narrative....”—Dean Smith.

    “... I am a soldier in the Coast Artillery and am stationed on
    an island twenty-five miles from land.... The news company
    that furnishes our post exchange with magazines sent one copy
    of your magazine, and I bought it right away.... I think it is
    the best book I ever read.... You have made a wonderful start,
    and if they are all as good each month you may be sure I will
    never miss a copy....”—Private R. S. Bray, 133d Co. Detachment,
    Fort Terry, N. Y.

When we began writing the copy for this month’s Eyrie we thought we’d
end it with some pertinent remarks on a matter that has aroused our
curiosity—to-wit: the preponderance of cats and Chinamen in weird
literature—but we’ll have to let it go. No space. You’ll find it in The
Eyrie for June, however.

You will also find, in the June WEIRD TALES, some of the most amazing
short stories and novelettes that ever swam into our ken. Three of them
in particular we earnestly recommend. They are more startling than any
we’ve ever published—and we can’t say more than that.

                                                               THE EDITOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

Finding “The Fountain of Youth”

_A Long-Sought Secret, Vital to Happiness, Has Been Discovered._

_By H. M. Stunz_

    _Alas! that spring should vanish with the rose!_
    _That youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close!_
                                         —OMAR KHAYYAM.

A secret vital to human happiness has been discovered. An ancient problem
which, sooner or later, affects the welfare of virtually every man and
woman, has been solved. As this problem undoubtedly will come to you
eventually, if it has not come already, I urge you to read this article
carefully. It may give you information of a value beyond all price.

This newly-revealed secret is not a new “philosophy” of financial
success. It is not a political panacea. It has to do with something of
far greater moment to the individual—success and happiness in love and
marriage—and there is nothing theoretical, imaginative or fantastic
about it, because it comes from the coldly exact realms of science and
its value has been proved. It “works.” And because it does work—surely,
speedily and most delightfully—it is one of the most important
discoveries made in many years. Thousands already bless it for having
rescued them from lives of disappointment and misery. Millions will
rejoice because of it in years to come.

The peculiar value of this discovery is that it removes physical
handicaps which, in the past, have been considered inevitable and
irremediable. I refer to the loss of youthful animation and a
waning of the vital forces. These difficulties have caused untold
unhappiness—failures, shattered romances, mysterious divorces. True
happiness does not depend on wealth, position or fame. Primarily, it is
a matter of health. Not the inefficient, “half-alive” condition which
ordinarily passes as “health,” but the abundant, vibrant, magnetic
vitality of superb manhood and womanhood.

[Illustration]

Unfortunately, this kind of health is rare. Our civilization, with its
wear and tear, rapidly depletes the organism and, in a physical sense,
old age comes on when life should be at its prime.

But this is not a tragedy of our era alone. Ages ago a Persian poet,
in the world’s most melodious epic of pessimism, voiced humanity’s
immemorial complaint that “spring should vanish with the rose” and the
song of youth too soon come to an end. And for centuries before Omar
Khayyam wrote his immortal verses, science had searched—and in the
centuries that have passed since then has continued to search—without
halt, for the fabled “fountain of youth,” an infallible method of
renewing energy lost or depleted by disease, overwork, worry, excesses or
advancing age.

Now the long search has been rewarded. A “fountain of youth” has been
found! Science announces unconditionally that youthful vigor can be
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by the sunlight of health and joy. Old age, in a sense, can be kept at
bay and youth made more glorious than ever. And the discovery which makes
these amazing results possible is something any man or woman, young or
old, can easily use in the privacy of the home, unknown to relative,
friend or acquaintance.

The discovery had its origin in famous European laboratories. Brought to
America, it was developed into a product that has given most remarkable
results in thousands of cases, many of which had defied all other
treatments. In scientific circles the discovery has been known and used
for several years and has caused unbounded amazement by its quick,
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name of Korex compound, it is available to the general public.

Any one who finds the youthful stamina ebbing, life losing its charm
and color or the feebleness of old age coming on too soon, can obtain
a double-strength treatment of this compound, sufficient for ordinary
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only $2 if it produces prompt and gratifying results. In average cases,
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forty-eight hours.

Simply write in confidence to the Melton Laboratories, 833 Massachusetts
Bldg., Kansas City, Mo., and this wonder restorative will be mailed to
you in a plain wrapper. You may enclose $2 or, if you prefer, just send
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Korex compound has not given satisfactory results, your money will be
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thoroughly reliable. Moreover, their offer is fully guaranteed, so no
one need hesitate to accept it. If you need this remarkable scientific
rejuvenator, write for it today.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

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(SIZE 28 × 3)

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10,000 MILES

Here’s your opportunity—if you act at once. This is a special lot
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_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.
charge, or by Parcel Post after payment of C. O. D. charge. Examine tires
on arrival, and if not absolutely 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-E, Chicago, Ill.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

Cord Tires at Cut Prices

$6.95 30 × 3½

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SEND NO MONEY

All GEM CORDS shipped C. O. D. Take tire home and examine it; if it isn’t
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    Size     Cords  Tubes
    30 × 3   $6.15  $1.05
    30 × 3½   6.95   1.25
    32 × 3½   8.95   1.55
    31 × 4    9.95   1.65
    32 × 4   10.75   1.75
    33 × 4   11.25   1.90
    34 × 4   11.95   1.95
    32 × 4½  13.75   2.00
    33 × 4½  14.45   2.10
    34 × 4½  14.95   2.25
    35 × 4½  15.45   2.50
    36 × 4½  15.95   2.50

_Do Not Delay. Order your season’s cord tires now at these Bargain
Prices. 5% discount for cash with order._

                   GEM RUBBER CO., 1315 S. Oakley Blvd.
                        Dept. 56 Chicago, Illinois

       *       *       *       *       *

GENUINE GERMAN MAUSER

Half pre-war prices

[Illustration]

PERFECT SAFETY DEVICE

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25 cal. Pocket Automatic; 25 cal. Blue Steel Army Automatic $8.45; 32
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             Universal Sales Co. 165 B’way Desk 234 New York

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

CATARRH

TREATED FREE 10 DAYS to prove quick relief. Dr. Coffee had catarrh,
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Thousands used it successfully. Want you to try it free. Write

                             Dr. W. O. COFFEE
                       Dept. 1726 Davenport, Iowa.

       *       *       *       *       *

_How My Wife Learned to Play the Piano in 90 Days_

A husband’s story of the fulfillment of a life-long wish—by a new, easy,
spare-time method which has brought the joy of music into thousands of
silent homes.

[Illustration]

From boyhood, I vowed that if ever I had a home of my own there would
be music in it. No wife for me unless she could play some instrument,
and play it well. My new home must have no dull, bored evenings, no
monotonous Sunday afternoons. I wanted the gaiety, the mental and
physical stimulus, the whole-hearted, genuine joy of music. No girl could
capture me without the lure of musical skill.

But one day Beth came along knowing not one note from another, yet with a
merry, humming tune forever on her lips, and a song in her heart for me.
And Beth is Mrs. Taylor today. A piano graced our new home, but somehow
the old vow was forgotten, and stayed forgotten until Jimmy Jr., and Beth
No. 2 were quite some youngsters.

Then along about the time the novelty of parenthood began to wear off a
bit, the old vow came back. And one evening I spoke out with a suddenness
that surprised me, “Beth, I’d give a hundred dollars if you could play
something—a piano, violin, banjo, ukulele—something, _anything_.” Beth
looked so hurt I was immediately ashamed of myself, so I said no more,
and the matter dropped, as I thought regretfully, forever.

About three months later I got home early one night, and I heard the
old dead piano come to life—sounded good, too, first a little jazzy
piece, then a sweet plantation melody. “Company to supper; I wonder
who?” I thought; and I crept to the parlor door to see. There at the
piano was _Beth_ playing, and the two kiddies beating time. She saw me,
and stopped, “Oh,” she cried, “I’m so sorry!” “Believe me, I’m not,” I
shouted, and I grabbed the whole family up in my arms.

“But, Jim, I wanted to wait and surprise you when I could really play.
I’m learning fast, but it’s only three months since I found out”—“Found
out what?” I said. Beth began to cry. “I know!” Jimmy, Jr., piped up,
“Mother found out the way to learn music just like I am learning to read
in school—only lots easier.”

Well, that little musical party lasted all the evening. It was a howling
success. When the kiddies had gone singing to bed, my wife showed me the
marvelous new method by which she had learned to play in three months’
spare time.

Jimmy Jr. had told the truth; the method was so simple and easy that any
one at all from 8 years up could learn by it. By this method the U. S.
School of Music, the largest in the world, has already trained over three
hundred thousand people, teaching the playing of any musical instrument
almost in the same way a school-child learns to read. But very much
faster because older children and grown people have better trained minds,
and know how to study and think.

When first learning to read you look at every letter separately and spell
out every word, c-a-t, m-a-n. Later you do not see the letters; you see
the words as units, “cat,” “man.” By and by longer words become units
to you, and you find that whole _expressions_, like “up the steps,”
“on the train,” no longer are seen as separate words, but immediately,
at one instant, without spelling, without thinking words, you see each
expression in the unit form.

This skill in seeing in units develops until you see and know as units
hundreds of long familiar phrases; and it is even entirely possible,
if you wish, to easily increase your reading speed four or five times
the average, grasping paragraph thoughts complete, sensing a whole page
instantly, recognizing every part, registering and remembering all, with
your pleasure exactly the same as the slower reader.

The same easy understanding and complete enjoyment is similarly a part of
the new way. The alphabet of music follows the alphabet of language. Each
note is a letter, and playing is practically spelling the notes together
correctly. The first note on the staff above is F. Whether you sing or
play, it is always F. The four notes shown above are F-A-C-E, easy to
remember because they spell “face.” Certain strings on mandolin, certain
keys on piano, certain parts of all instruments, are these same notes.
Once you learn them, playing melodies is a matter of _acting_ what you
_see_.

And here is where “familiar phrases” come in—the “big secret.” It is so
simple you probably have already guessed it. The “familiar phrases” of
music are its harmonies. Just as you instantly recognize the countless
phrases of speech, so the relatively few of music are quickly a habit
with you. You play almost before you realize it—and every step is real
fun, fascinating, simple, interesting, almost too good to be true.

Remember, neither my wife nor most of the 300,000 other musicians trained
by this method knew anything about music. Beth mastered the piano; she
could just as easily have mastered anything else. Jimmy, Jr., is now
taking up violin, and my daughter is learning singing. Right at home,
no costly teacher, no classes at inconvenient hours, no useless study
and practice. No numbers, no tricks, no makeshifts. But instead a sound
musical education learning by notes. The intricacies of music reduced to
a most amazing simplicity able to develop the inborn talent, which is a
part of every person on this earth.

When I told Beth I was writing this out to put in a magazine she told
me to be sure and say that the school will gladly send a free book
explaining everything, called “Music Lessons in Your Own Home,” and that
right now there is a special short time Reduced Price Offer being made to
music lovers. The book is free; asking for it obligates you not at all,
but you should send for it right away before all copies may be gone.

                                                          JAMES W. TAYLOR.

SUCCESS

“Since I’ve been taking your lessons I’ve made over $200 with my violin.
Your lessons surely are fine.”—Melvin Freeland, Macopin, N. J.

“When I started with you I knew nothing about the Cornet or music, but
now I can play almost any piece of music.”—Kasson Swan, Denmark, Col.
Co., Nova Scotia.

“I want to extend the heartiest approval of your Piano Course. It has
done more for me than years of other lessons.”—Moxie N. Lewis, 319
Jefferson, Neosho, Mo.

WHICH INSTRUMENT

do you want to learn how to play the new, quick way? Courses for
beginners or advanced pupils.

    Piano
    Organ
    Violin
    Banjo
    Clarinet
    Flute
    Harp
    Cornet
    Cello
    Guitar
    Hawaiian
    Mandolin
    Drums and Traps
    Harmony and Composition
    Sight Singing
    Ukulele
    Piccolo
    Trombone
    Saxophone
    Steel Guitar
    Voice and Speech Culture
    Automatic Finger Control

Mr. Taylor is enthusiastic. He has a right to be. Yet when you read the
facts in our book you will appreciate that his opinion is _conservative_.
You, too, can learn your favorite instrument or to sing.

Mail the coupon below to the U. S. School of Music, 405 Brunswick
Building, New York City. Or send a postcard. But act at once. Do not
delay.

Please write name and address plainly so that there will be no difficulty
in booklet reaching you.

                         U. S. School of Music,
                   405 Brunswick Bldg., New York City

    Please send your free book, “Music Lessons in Your Own Home,”
    and particulars of your special offer. I am interested in the
    following course:

    ______________________________
    Name of Instrument or Course

    Name _________________________
    Please write plainly

    Address ______________________

    City___________ State_________

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WANTED—for murder!]

$1,000 Reward

In a dirty, forlorn shack by the river’s edge they found the mutilated
body of Genevieve Martin. Her pretty face was swollen and distorted.
Marks on the slender throat showed that the girl had been brutally choked
to death. Who had committed this ghastly crime? No one had seen the girl
and her assailant enter the cottage. No one had seen the murderer depart.
How could he be brought to justice.

Crimes like this have been solved—are being solved every day by Finger
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                      University of Applied Science
             1920 Sunnyside Ave., Dept. 13-95, Chicago, Ill.

Course in Secret Service FREE

              University of Applied Science, Dept. 13-95,
                1920 Sunnyside Avenue, Chicago, Illinois

    Please send me full information on your course in Finger
    Print Identification and about FREE Course in Secret Service
    Intelligence. I understand that there is no obligation of any
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CORNELIUS PRINTING COMPANY, INDIANAPOLIS