by Sax Rohmer
The Master of Hollow Grange
I
Jack Dillon came to Hollow Grange on a thunderous black evening when anebony cloud crested the hill-top above, and, catching the upflung raysof sunset, glowed redly like the pall of Avalon in the torchlight.Through the dense ranks of firs cloaking the slopes a breeze, presagingthe coming storm, whispered evilly, and here in the hollow the birdswere still.
The man who had driven him from the station glanced at him, with acuriosity thinly veiled.
"What about your things, sir?" he inquired.
Dillon stared rather blankly at the ivy-covered lodge, which, ifappearances were to be trusted, was unoccupied.
"Wait a moment; I will ring," he said curtly; for this furtivecuriosity, so ill concealed, had manifested itself in the manner of thetaxi-driver from the moment that Dillon had directed him to drive toHollow Grange.
He pushed open the gate and tugged at the iron ring which was suspendedfrom the wall of the lodge. A discordant clangour rewarded his efforts,the cracked note of a bell that spoke from somewhere high up in thebuilding, that seemed to be buffeted to and fro from fir to fir, untilit died away, mournfully, in some place of shadows far up the slope. Inthe voice of the bell there was something furtive, something akin to thehalf-veiled curiosity in the eyes of the man who stood watching him;something fearful, too, in both, as though man and bell would whisper:"Return! Beware of disturbing the dwellers in this place."
But Dillon angrily recalled himself to the realities. He felt thatthese ghostly imaginings were born of the Boche-maltreated flesh, wereproducts of lowered tone; that he would have perceived no query in theglance of the taxi-driver and heard no monkish whisper in the clang ofthe bell had he been fit, had he been fully recovered from the effectsof his wound. Monkish whisper? Yes, that was it--his mind had supplied,automatically, an aptly descriptive term: the cracked bell spoke withthe voice of ancient monasteries, had in it the hush of cloisters andthe sigh of renunciation.
"Hang it all!" muttered Dillon. "This won't do."
A second time he awoke the ghostly bell-voice, but nothing responded toits call; man, bird, and beast had seemingly deserted Hollow Grange. Hewas conscious of a sudden nervous irritation, as he turned brusquely andmet the inquiring glance of the taxi-man.
"I have arrived before I was expected," he said. "If you will put mythings in the porch here I will go up to the house and get a servant tofetch them. They will be safe enough in the meantime."
His own words increased his irritability; for were they not in thenature of an apology on behalf of his silent and unseen host? Were theynot a concession to that nameless query in the man's stare? Moreover,deep within his own consciousness, some vague thing was stirring; sothat, the man dismissed and promptly departing, Dillon stood glancingfrom the little stack of baggage in the lodge porch up the gloomy,narrow, and over-arched drive, indignantly aware that he also carrieda question in his eyes.
The throb of the motor mounting the steep, winding lane grew dim andmore dim until it was borne away entirely upon the fitful breeze.Faintly he detected the lowing of cattle in some distant pasture; theranks of firs whispered secretly one to another, and the pall above thehills grew blacker and began to extend over the valley.
Amid that ominous stillness of nature he began to ascend the cone-strewnpath. Evidently enough, the extensive grounds had been neglected foryears, and that few pedestrians, and fewer vehicles, ever sought HollowGrange was demonstrated by the presence of luxuriant weeds in thecarriage way. Having proceeded for some distance, until the sheerhillside seemed to loom over him like the wall of a tower, Dillonpaused, peering about in the ever-growing darkness. He was aware ofa physical chill; certainly no ray of sunlight ever penetrated tothis tunnel through the firs. Could he have mistaken the path and beproceeding, not toward the house, but away from it and into the midnightof the woods mantling the hills?
There was something uncomfortable in that reflection; momentarilyhe knew a childish fear of the darkening woods, and walked forwardrapidly, self-assertively. Ten paces brought him to one of the manybends in the winding road--and there, far ahead, as though out of somecavern in the very hillside, a yellow light shone.
He pressed on with greater assurance until the house became visible. Nowhe perceived that he had indeed strayed from the carriage-sweep in someway, for the path that he was following terminated at the foot of ashort flight of moss-covered brick steps. He mounted the steps and foundhimself at the bottom of a terrace. The main entrance was far to hisleft and separated from the terrace by a neglected lawn. That portionof the place was Hanoverian and ugly, whilst the wing nearest to himwas Tudor and picturesque. Excepting the yellow light shining out froma sunken window almost at his feet, no illuminations were visible aboutthe house, although the brewing storm had already plunged the hollowinto premature night.
Indeed, there was no sign of occupancy about the strange-lookingmansion, which might have hidden forgotten for centuries in thehorseshoe of the hills. He had sought for rest and quiet; here he shouldfind them. The stillness of the place was of that sort which almostseems to be palpable; that can be seen and felt. A humid chill aroseapparently from the terrace, with its stone pavings outlined in moss,crept up from the wilderness below and down from the fir-woods above.
A thought struggled to assume form in his mind. There was somethingreminiscent about this house of the woods, this silent house whichstruck no chord of human companionship, in which was no warmth of lifeor love. Suddenly, the thought leapt into complete being.
This was the palace of the sleeping beauty to which he had penetrated.It was the fairy-tale dear to childhood which had been struggling forexpression in his mind ever since he had emerged from the trees on tothe desolate terrace. With the departure of the station cab had gone thelast link with to-day, and now he was translated to the goblin realm offable.
He had crossed the terrace and the lawn, and stood looking through anopen French window into a room that evidently adjoined the hall. Agreat still darkness had come, and on a little table in the room areading-lamp was burning. It had a quaint, mosaic shade which shut inmuch of the light, but threw a luminous patch directly on a heap ofcushions strewn upon the floor. Face downward in this silken nest, herchin resting upon her hands and her elfin curly brown hair tousledbewitchingly, lay a girl so audaciously pretty that Dillon hesitated toaccept the evidence of his eyes.
The crunching of a piece of gravel beneath his foot led to the awakeningof the sleeping beauty. She raised her head quickly and then startedupright, a lithe, divinely petite figure in a green velvet dress, havingshort fur-trimmed sleeves that displayed her pretty arms. For an instantit was a startled nymph that confronted him; then a distracting dimpleappeared in one fair cheek, and:
"Oh! how you frightened me!" said the girl, speaking with a slightFrench accent which the visitor found wholly entrancing. "You must beJack Dillon? I am Phryne."
Dillon bowed.
"How I envy Hyperides!" he said.
A blush quickly stained the lovely face of Phryne, and the roguish eyeswere lowered, whereby the penitent Dillon, who had jested in the notuncommon belief that a pretty girl is necessarily brainless, knew thatthe story of the wonder-woman of Thespiae was familiar to her modernnamesake.
"I am afraid," declared Phryne, with a return of her mischievouscomposure, "that you are very wicked."
Dillon, who counted himself a man of the world, was temporarily at aloss for a suitable rejoinder. The cause of his hesitancy was twofold.In the first place he had reached the age of disillusionment, whereat aman ceases to believe that a perfectly lovely woman exists in the flesh,and in the second place he had found such a fabulous being in a house ofgloom and silence to which, a few moments ago, he had deeply regrettedhaving come.
His father, who had accepted the invitation from an old college friendon his son's behalf, had made no mention of a Phryne, whereas Phryneclearly took herself for granted and evidently knew all about JackDillon. The latter exper
ienced a volcanic change of sentiment; HollowGrange was metamorphosed, and assumed magically the guise of a GoldenHouse, an Emperor's pleasure palace, a fair, old-world casket holdingthis lovely jewel. But who was she?--and in what spirit should hereceive her bewildering coquetries?
"I trust," he said, looking into the laughing eyes, "that you will learnto know me better."
Phryne curtsied mockingly.
"You have either too much confidence in your own character or not enoughin my wisdom," she said.
Dillon stepped into the room, and, stooping, took up a book which layopen upon the floor. It was a French edition of _The Golden Ass_ ofApuleius.
The hollow was illuminated by a blinding flash of lightning, andPhryne's musical laughter was drowned in the thunder that boomed andcrashed in deepening peals over the hills. In a sudden tropical torrentthe rain descended, as Dr. Kassimere entered the room.
II
Jack Dillon leant from his open window and looked out over the valley towhere a dull red glow crowned the hill-top. There was a fire somewherein the neighbourhood of the distant town; probably a building had beenstruck by lightning. The storm had passed, although thunder was stillaudible dimly, like the roll of muffled drums or a remote bombardment.Stillness had reclaimed Hollow Grange.
He was restless, uneasy; he sought to collate his impressions of theplace and its master. Twelve years had elapsed since his one previousmeeting with Dr. Kassimere, and little or no memory of the man hadremained. So much had intervened; the war--and Phryne. Now that he wasalone and could collect his ideas he knew of what Dr. Kassimere's gaunt,wide-eyed face had reminded him: it was of Thoth, the Ibis-headed godwhose figure he had seen on the walls of the temples during his servicein Egypt.
"Kassimere was always a queer fish, Jack," his father had said; "butmost of his eccentricities were due to his passion for study. The Grangeis the very place Sir Francis" (the specialist) "would have chosen foryour convalescence, and you'll find nothing dangerously exciting inKassimere's atmosphere!"
Yet there was that about Dr. Kassimere which he did not and could notlike; his quietly cordial welcome, his courteous regret that his guest'sarrival by an earlier train (a circumstance due to reduced service) hadled to his not being met at the station; the charming simplicity withwhich he confessed to the smallness of his household, and to thepleasure which it afforded him to have the son of an old chum beneathhis roof--all these kindly overtures had left the bird-like eyes cold,hard, watchful, calculating. The voice was the voice of a friend and agentleman, but the face was the face of Thoth.
The mystery of Phryne was solved in a measure. She was Dr. Kassimere'sadopted daughter and the orphaned child of Louis Devant, the famousParis cartoonist, who had died penniless in 1911, at the height of hissuccess. In his selection of a name for her, the brilliant and dissoluteartist had exhibited a breadth of mind which Phryne inherited in analmost embarrassing degree.
Her mental equipment was bewildering: the erudition of an Oxford donspiced with more than a dash of Boul' Mich', which made for complexity.Her curious learning was doubtless due to the setting of a receptivemind amid such environment, but how she had retained her piquantvivacity in Hollow Grange was less comprehensible. The servantsformed a small and saturnine company, only two--the housekeeper, Mrs.Harman, a black and forbidding figure, and Madame Charny, a Frenchcompanion--sleeping in the house. Gawly, a surly creature who neglectedthe gardens and muttered savagely over other duties, together with hiswife, who cooked, resided at the lodge. There were two maids, who livedin the village....
The glow from the distant fire seemed to be reflected upon the firsbordering the terrace below; then Dillon, watching the dull, red light,remembered that Dr. Kassimere's laboratory adjoined the tiny chapel, andthat, though midnight drew near, the doctor was still at work there.
Owls and other night birds hooted and shrieked among the trees andmany bats were in flight. He found himself thinking of the pyramidbats of Egypt, and of the ibis-headed Thoth who was the scribe of theunder-world.
Dr. Kassimere had made himself medically responsible for his case, andhad read attentively the letters which Dillon had brought from his ownphysician. He was to prescribe on the following day, and to-night thevisitor found Morpheus a treacherous god. Furtive activities disturbedthe house, or so it seemed to the sleepless man tossing on his bed;alert intelligences within Hollow Grange responded to the night-life ofthe owls without, and he seemed to lie in the shadow of a watchfulnessthat never slumbered.
III
"There's many a fine walk hereabouts," said the old man seated in thearm-chair in the corner of the _Threshers' Inn_ bar-parlour.
Dillon nodded encouragingly.
"There's Ganton-on-the-Hill," continued the ancient. "You can see thesea from there in clear weather; and many's the time I've heard the gunsin France from Upper Crobury of a still night. Then, four mile away,there's the haunted Grange, though nobody's allowed past the gate. Notas nobody wants to be," he added, reflectively.
"The haunted Grange?" questioned Dillon. "Where is that?"
"Hollow Grange?" said the old man. "Why, it lies----"
"Oh, Hollow Grange--yes! I know where Hollow Grange is, but I wasunaware that it was reputed to be haunted."
"Ah," replied the other, pityingly, "you're new to these parts; I seethat the minute I set eyes on you. Maybe you was wounded in France, andyou're down here to get well, like?"
"Quite so. Your deductive reasoning is admirable."
"Ah," said the sage, chuckling with self-appreciation, "I ain't lived inthese here parts for nigh on seventy-five years without learning to usemy eyes, I ain't. For seventy-four years and seven months," he addedproudly, "I ain't been outside this here county where I was born, andI can use my eyes, I can; I know a thing I do, when I see it. Maybe itwas providence, as you might say, what brought you to the _Threshers_to-day."
"Quite possibly," Dillon admitted.
"He was just such another as you," continued the old man with apparentirrelevance. "You don't happen to be stopping at Hainingham Vicarage?"
"No," replied Dillon.
"Ah! he was stopping at Hainingham Vicarage and he'd been wounded inFrance. How he got to know Dr. Kassimere I can't tell you; not atparson's, anyway. Parson won't never speak to him. Only last Sunday weekhe preached agin him; not in so many words, but I could see his drift.He spoke about them heathen women livin' on an island--sort of femaleRobinson Crusoes, I make 'em out, I do--as saves poor shipwreckedsailors from the sea and strangles of 'em ashore."
Dillon glanced hard at the voluble old man.
"The sirens?" he suggested, conscious of a sudden hot surging about hisheart.
"Ah, that's the women I mean."
"But where is the connection?"
"Ah, you're new to these parts, you are. That Dr. Kassimere he keeps asiren down in Hollow Grange. They see her--these here strangers (same asthe shipwrecked sailors parson told about)--and it's all up with 'em."
Dillon stifled a laugh, in which anger would have mingled with contempt.To think that in the twentieth century a man of science was like to meetwith the fate of Dr. Dee in the days of Elizabeth! Truly there were darkspots in England. But could he credit the statement of this benightedelder that a modern clergyman had actually drawn an analogy betweenPhryne Devant and the sirens? It was unbelievable.
"What was the unhappy fate," he asked, masking his intolerance, "of theyoung man staying at the Vicarage?"
"The same as them afore him," came the startling reply; "for he warn'tthe first, and maybe"--with a shrewd glance of the rheumy old eyes--"hewon't be the last. Them sirens has the powers of darkness. I know,'cause I've seen one--her at the Grange; and though I'm an old man, nighon seventy-five, I'll never forget her face, I won't, and the way shesmiled at me!"
"But," persisted Dillon, patiently, "what became of this particularyoung man, the one who was staying at the Vicarage?"
The ancient sage leant forward in his chair and tapped the speaker uponth
e knee with the stem of his clay pipe.
"Ask them as knows," he said, with impressive solemnity. "Nobody elsecan tell you!"
And, having permitted an indiscreet laugh to escape him, not anotherword on the subject could Dillon induce the old man to utter, hestrictly confining himself, in his ruffled dignity, to the climaticconditions and the crops.
When Dillon, finally, set out upon the four-mile walk back to theGrange, he realised, with annoyance, that the senile imaginings of hisbar-parlour acquaintance lingered in his mind. That Dr. Kassimere dweltoutside the social life of the county he had speedily learnt; but forthis he had been prepared. That he might possibly be, not a recluse, buta pariah, was a new point of view. Trivial things, to which hitherto hehad paid scant attention, began to marshal themselves as evidence. Thetwo village "helpers," he knew, received extravagant wages, because, asPhryne had confessed, they had "found it almost impossible to get girlsto stay." Why?
Of the earlier guest, or guests, who had succumbed to the siren lure ofPhryne, he had heard no mention. Why? Save at meal-times he rarely sawhis host, who frankly left him to the society of Phryne. Again--why? Dr.Kassimere, in his jealously locked laboratory, was at work day and nightupon his experiments. What were these experiments? What was the natureof the doctor's studies?
He had now been for nearly three weeks at Hollow Grange, and never hadDr. Kassimere spoken of his work. And Phryne? The sudden, new thought ofPhryne was so strange, so wonderful and overwhelming, that it reactedphysically; and he pulled up short in the middle of a field-path, asthough some palpable obstacle blocked the way.
Why had he set out alone that day, when all other days had been spentin the girl's company? He had deliberately sought solitude--becauseof Phryne; because he wanted to think calmly, judicially, to arraignhimself before his own judgment, remote from the witchery of herpresence. He had tried to render his mind a void, wherein should lingernot one fragrant memory of her delicate beauty and charm, so that hemight return unbiased to his judgment. He had returned; he was judged.
He loved Phryne madly, insanely. His future, his life, lay in the hollowof her hands.
IV
"Yes," admitted Phryne, "it is true. There were two of them."
"And"--Dillon hesitated--"were they in love with you?"
"Of course," said Phryne, naively.
"But you----"
Phryne shook her curly head.
"I rather liked the French boy, but I do not believe anything that aFrenchman says to a girl; and Harry, the other, was handsome, but sosilly...."
"So you did not love either of them?"
"Of course not."
"But," said Dillon, and impulsively he swept her into his arms, "you aregoing to love me."
One quick upward glance she gave, but instantly lowered her eyes andwithheld her bewitching face from him.
"Am I?" she whispered. "You are so conceited."
But as she spoke the words he kissed her, and she surrendered sweetly,nestling her head against his shoulder for a moment. Then, leaping back,bright-eyed and blushing, she turned and ran like a startled fawn acrossthe terrace and into the house.
He saw no more of her until dinner-time, and spent the interval in akind of suspended consciousness that was new and perturbing. Within himlife pulsed at delirious speed, but the universe seemed to have slowedupon its course so that each hour became as two. Throughout dinner,Phryne was deliciously shy to the point of embarrassment; and Dillon,who several times surprised the bird-eyes of Dr. Kassimere studying thegirl's face, detained his host, and being a young man of orderly mind,formally asked his consent to an engagement.
The doctor's joy was seemingly so unfeigned that Dillon almost liked himfor a moment. He placed no obstacle in the path of the suitor for hisadopted daughter's hand, graciously expressing every confidence in thefuture. His joy was genuine enough, Dillon determined; but from whatsource did it actually spring? The Thoth-like eyes were exultant, andall the old mistrust poured back in a wave upon the younger man. Wasthis distrust becoming an obsession? Why should he eternally be seekingan ulterior motive for every act in this man's life?
He went to look for Phryne, and found her in the spot where he had firstseen her, prone in a nest of cushions. She sprang up as he entered theroom, and glanced at him in that new way which set his heart leaping....
And because of the magic of her presence, it was not until later, whenhe stood alone in his own room, that he could order the facts gleanedfrom her.
There was some grain of truth in the story of the ancient gossip atthe _Threshers_ after all. A young French lieutenant of artillery hadreceived an invitation to spend a leave at Hollow Grange. His Gallicsoul had been fired by Phryne's beauty, and although his advances hadbeen met with rebuff, he had asked Dr. Kassimere's permission to pay hiscourt to the girl. On the same evening he had departed hurriedly, andPhryne had supposed, since the doctor never referred to him again, thathe had been sent about his business. Then came a strange letter, whichPhryne had shown to Dillon. Its tone throughout was of passionate anger,and one passage recurred again and again to Dillon's mind. "I would givemy life for you gladly," it read, "but my soul belongs to God...."
Phryne had counted him demented and Dr. Kassimere had agreed with her.But there was Harry Waynwright, the nephew of the vicar of St. Peter'sat Hainingham. An accidental meeting with Phryne had led to a courtesycall--and the inevitable. It had all the seeming of a case oflove-sickness, and the unhappy youth grew seriously ill. From pesteringher daily he changed his tactics to studiously avoiding her, until,meeting her in the village one morning, he greeted her with, "I can't doit, Phryne! tell him I can't do it. He can rely upon my word; but I'mgoing away to try to forget!"
Dr. Kassimere had professed entire ignorance of the meaning of thewords. A faint shadow had crossed Phryne's face as she spoke of thesematters, but, as a result of her extraordinary beauty, she was somewhatcallous where languishing admirers were concerned, and she had dismissedthe gloomy twain with a shrug of her charming shoulders.
"Mad!" she had said. "It seems my fate always to meet mad-men!"
The night silence had descended again upon Hollow Grange, disturbed onlyby the mournful cry of the owl and the almost imperceptible note of thebat. But to the nervous alertness of Dillon, a deep unrest seemed tostir within the house; yet--an unrest not physical but spiritual; it wasas the shadow of a sleepless watcher--a shadow creeping over his soul.
What was the explanation lying at the back of it all? Vainly he soughtfor a theory, however wild, however improbable, that should embrace allthe facts known to him and serve either to banish his black doubts or tofocus them. Upon one thing he had determined: There was some thing orsome one in Hollow Grange that he _feared_, some centre from whence fearradiated.
Phryne, for one fleeting moment, had revealed to him that she, too, hadknown this formless dread, but only latterly; probably from lack of amore definite date, she had spoken of this fear as first visiting her atabout the time of the Frenchman's advent.
"Slowly, he has changed towards me," she had whispered, referring to Dr.Kassimere. "He watches me, sometimes, in a strange way. Oh, he has beenso good, so very kind and good, but--I shall be glad when----"
Could some part of the mystery be explained away by the doctor'sincreasing absorption in his studies, which led him to regard the chargeof a ward, and a wayward one at that, as unduly onerous and disturbing?Might it not fairly be supposed that ignorant superstition and theravings of unrequited passion accounted for the rest?
At the nature of Dr. Kassimere's studies he could not even guess. Thegreater number of the works in the library related to mysticism in oneform or another, although there was a sprinkling of exact science toleaven the whole.
"He can rely upon my word," Waynwright had said. Regarding what, orregarding whom, had he given his word?
The cry of a night-hawk came, as if in answer; the hoot of an owl, as ifin mockery. Out beyond the terrace a dull red light showed from Dr.Kassime
re's laboratory.
V
Enlightenment came about in this fashion--seeking to quench a feverishthirst, Dillon discovered that no glass had been left in his room. Hedetermined to fetch one from the buffet cupboard downstairs. Softly, inslippered feet, he descended the stairs and was crossing the hallwaywhen he kicked something--a small book, he thought--that lay there uponthe floor. Groping, he found it, slipped it into the pocket of hisdressing-gown, and entered the dining-room. He found a tumbler withoutdifficulty, in the dark, noted the presence of a heavy, oppressiveodour, and returned upstairs. Now he made another discovery. He hadforgotten the nightly draught of medicine prescribed by Dr. Kassimere;a new unopened phial stood upon the dressing-table.
He mixed himself a mild whisky and soda from the decanter and siphonwhich his host's hospitality caused nightly to be placed in his room,and then, seized by a sudden thought, took out the little book which hehad found in the hall.
It was a faded manuscript, in monkish Latin; a copy of an unpublishedwork of Paracelsus. Many passages had been rendered into English, andthe translations, in Dr. Kassimere's minute, cramped writing, wereinterposed between the bound pages. In these again were interpolatedmarginal notes, some in the shape of unintelligible symbols, others inthat of chemical formulae. Several passages were marked in red ink.And, having perused the first of these which he chanced upon, a clammymoisture broke out upon his skin, accompanied by so marked a nervoustrembling that he was forced to seat himself upon the bed.
The secret of this man's ghastly life-work was in his hands; he knew,now, what bargain Dr. Kassimere had proposed to the Frenchman and tothe other; he knew why he had adopted the lovely daughter of LouisDevant--and he knew why he, Jack Dillon, had been invited to HollowGrange. That such a ghoul in human shape could live and have his beingamid ordinary mankind was a stupendous improbability which, ten minutesearlier, he would have laughed to scorn.
"My God!" he whispered. "My God!"
His glance fell upon the unopened phial on his dressing-table, and fromhis soul a silent thanksgiving rose to heaven that he had left thatpotion untasted. He realised that his own case differed from those ofhis predecessors in two particulars: He was actually in residence underDr. Kassimere's roof and receiving treatment from the man's hands. Nooption was to be offered to _him_; the great experiment, the _MagnumOpus_, was to be performed without his consent!
And Phryne!--Phryne, the other innocent victim of this fiend's lustfor knowledge! The thought restored his courage. More than life itselfdepended upon his coolness and address; he must act, at once. Themonstrous possibility hinted at by von Hohenheim--in his earliestpublished work, _Practica D. Theophrasti Paracelsi_, printed at Augsburgin 1529, was, in this hideous pamphlet, elaborated and brought withinthe bounds of practical experiment.
He crept to the door, opened it, and stood listening intently. Thatsilence which seemed like a palpable cloud--a cloud masking the presenceof one who watched--lay over the house. Slowly he descended to thehall and dropped the horror which the evil genius of von Hohenheim hadconceived, upon the spot where it had lain when his foot had discoveredit.
A creaking sound warned him of some one's approach, and he had barelytime to slip behind some draperies ere a cowled figure bearing a lanterncame out into the hall. It was Dr. Kassimere, wearing a loose gownhaving a monkish hood--and he was searching for something.
Nothing in his experience--not the blood-lust seen in the eyes of menin battle--had prepared him for that which transfigured the face ofDr. Kassimere. The strange semblance of Thoth was there no more; it hadgiven place to another, more active malevolence, to a sort of Satanic_eagerness_ indescribably terrifying; it was the face of one possessed.
Like some bird of prey he pounced upon the book, thrust it into thepocket of his gown, and began furtively to retrace his steps. As heentered the big dining-room, Dillon was close upon his heels.
Dr. Kassimere passed into the small room beyond and turned from thenceinto the library. Dillon, observing every precaution, followed. From thelibrary the doctor entered the short, narrow passage leading to thatquaint relic of bygone days and ways--the tiny chapel. At the entranceDillon paused, watchful. Once, the man in the monkish robe turned, onthe time-worn step of the altar, and looked back over his shoulder,revealing a face that might well have been that of Asmodeus himself.
On the left of the altar was the cupboard wherein, no doubt, in pastages, the priest had kept his vestments. The oppressive odour whichDillon had first observed in the dining-room was very perceptible in thechapel; and as Dr. Kassimere opened the door of the cupboard and steppedwithin, an explanation of the presence of this deathly smell in thehouse occurred to Dillon's mind. The laboratory adjoined the Grange onthis side; here was a private entrance known to, and used by, Dr.Kassimere alone.
His surmise proved to be correct. Occasioning scarcely a sound, thesecret door opened, and a fiery glow leapt out across the altar steps,accompanied by a wave of heated air laden with the nauseous, unnameablesmell. Within the redly lighted doorway, Dr. Kassimere paused, andglanced at a watch which he wore upon his wrist. Then for a moment hedisappeared, to reappear carrying a small squat bottle and a contrivanceof wire and gauze the sight of which created in Dillon a sense ofphysical nausea. It was a chloroform-mask! Both he placed upon a vaguelyseen table and again approached the door.
Weakly, Dillon fell back, pressing himself, closely against the chapelwall, as the doctor, this time leaving the secret entrance open--with apurpose in view which the watcher shudderingly recognized--recrossed thechapel and went off, softly treading, in the direction of the library.
All his courage, moral and physical, was called upon now, and knowing,by some intuition of love, what and whom he should find there, hestepped unsteadily into Dr. Kassimere's laboratory....
That there were horrors--monstrosities that may not be described,whose names may not be written--in the place, he realised, in somesubconscious fashion; but--prone upon a low, metal couch of most curiousworkmanship lay Phryne, in her night-robe, still--white; perfect in herpale beauty as her namesake who posed for Praxiteles.
Dillon reeled, steadied himself, and sank upon his knees by the couch.
"Phryne!" he whispered, locking his arms about her--"my Phryne!..."
Then he remembered the gauze mask and even detected the sickly, sweetsmell of the anaesthetic. Anger gave him new strength; he raised thegirl in his arms and turned towards the door communicating with thechapel.
Framed in the opening was the hooded figure of Dr. Kassimere,confronting him. His face was immobile again, with the immobility ofibis-headed Thoth; his eyes were hard, his voice was cold.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" he demanded sternly. "Phryne hasbeen taken suddenly ill; an immediate operation may be necessary----"
"Out of my way!" said Dillon, advancing past a huge glass jar filledwith reddish liquid that stood upon a pedestal between the couch and thedoor.
"Be careful, you fool!" shrieked Dr. Kassimere, frenziedly, his calmdropping from him like a cloak and a new and dreadful light coming intothe staring eyes.
But he was too late. Dillon's foot had caught the pedestal. With aresounding crash the thing overturned; as Dr. Kassimere sprang forward,he slipped in the slimy stream that was pouring over the laboratoryfloor--and fell....
Laying Phryne upon the altar, her head resting against the age-worncommunion rails, Dillon turned and closed the secret door dividing thehouse of God from the house of Satan. One glimpse, in the red furnaceglow, he had of Dr. Kassimere, writhing upon the slimy floor, shrieking,blaspheming--and fighting, fighting madly, as a man fights for life andmore than life....
He had not yet carried the unconscious girl beyond the dining-room,when, above that other smell, he detected the odour of burning wood. Afire had broken out in the laboratory.
* * * * *
Mrs. Jack Dillon mourns her guardian (no trace of whom was ever found inthe charred remains of Hollow Grange)
to this day; for she retains nomemory of the night of the great fire, but believes that, overcome bythe fumes, she was rescued and carried insensible from the house, byher lover. In the latter's bosom the grim secret is locked, with thememory of a demoniac figure, fighting, fighting....
