CREEP SHADOW - 2

CREEP SHADOW

ABRAHAM MERRITT

( INSTALMENT 2 )

CHAPTER IX

IN DAHUT'S TOWER—YS

Hurricane roaring and clamor of the sea dwindled into the ordered beat of great waves breaking against some barrier. I was standing at a window in some high place looking out over a white-capped, stormy sea. The sunset was red and sullen. It made a wide path of blood across the waters. I leaned out the window, eyes straining to the right to find something that ought still to be visible in the gathering dusk. I found it. A vast plain covered with immense upright stones, hundreds of them, marching from every side to a squat, rock-built temple like the hub of a gigantic wheel of which the monoliths were the spokes. They were so far away that they looked like boulders, then suddenly by some trick of mirage they quivered and swam close. The rays of the dying sun painted them and they seemed splashed with blood and the squat temple to drip blood.

I knew that this was Carnac, of which I was the Lord. And that the squat temple was the Alkar-Az where the Gatherer in the Cairn came at the evocation of Dahut the White and the evil priests.

And that I was in ancient Ys.

Then the mirage quivered again and was gone. The dusk blotted out Carnac. I looked down upon Cyclopean walls against which long combers broke, shouting. They were enormously thick and high here, these walls; jutting into the ocean like the prow of some ship of stone; they lessened as they fell back toward the mainland through shallows which were bare sands when the tides ebbed.

I knew the city well. A fair city. Temples and palaces of sculptured stone with tiled and painted roofs red and orange and blue and green adorned it, and dwellings of lacquered wood utterly unlike the rude homes of my clan. It was filled with hidden gardens where fountains whispered and strange flowers bloomed. It was clustered, this city, between the wave-beaten walls as though the land upon which it stood was a deck of a ship and the walls the bulwarks. They had built it on a peninsula that stretched far out into the sea. The sea menaced it always, and always was held at bay by the walls, and by the sorcery of Ys. Out of the city ran a wide road, straight over the sands to the mainland, and straight to the evil heart of the circling monoliths—where my people were sacrificed.

They who had built Ys were not my people. But it was not they who had raised the stones of Carnac. Our grandmothers had said their grandmothers had told that long and long ago the people who built Ys had come sailing in strangely shaped ships, fortified the neck of the peninsula and settled there; and now we were in thrall to them; and they had taken Carnac and on the trunk of its dark ritual had grafted branches that bore the fruit of unnameable evil. I had come to Ys to lop those branches. And if I lived thereafter to put ax to trunk.

Bitterly did I hate these people of Ys, sorcerers and sorceresses all, and I had a plan to destroy them, one and all; to end the dreadful rites of the Alkar-Az and rid the temple forever of That which came in the wake of torment and death to my own people at the summoning of Dahut and the priests of Ys. I thought all that while knowing at one and the same time I was the Lord of Carnac and also Alan Caranac who had allowed himself to be caught by the wiles of the Demoiselle de Keradel, and was seeing only what she was willing him to see. At least, Alan Caranac knew that, but the Lord of Carnac did not.

I heard the sweetness of a lute touched lightly; heard laughter like little heartless waves, and a voice—the voice of Dahut!

"Lord of Carnac, the dusk hides your lands. And have you not looked long enough on the sea, beloved? Her arms are cold—mine are warm."

I turned from the window, and for a moment ancient Carnac and ancient Ys seemed fantastic dream. For I was still in that tower from which I had thought the dancing shadows had thrust me. It was the same room; rose-lighted, octagonal, hung with the same tapestries in which green shadows waxed and waned; and upon a low stool sat Dahut, lute in hand, draped in the same sea-green web, her braids falling between her breasts.

I said:

"You are true a witch, Dahut—to trap me like that again." And turned to the window to look upon the familiar lights of New York.

But that was not what I said, nor did I turn. I found myself walking straight toward her, and instead of the words I had thought to speak, I heard myself saying:

"You are of the sea, Dahut ... and if your arms are warmer, your heart is as merciless."

And suddenly I knew that whether dream or illusion, this was Ys, and while the part of me that was Alan Caranac could see through the eyes, hear with the ears, and read the thought of this other part of me which was Lord of Carnac, I was powerless to control him and he was unaware of me. Yet I must abide by what he did. Something like an actor watching himself go through a play—but with the quite important difference that I knew neither the lines nor the situations. A most disturbing condition. I had a swift thought that Dahut ought either to have laced me under better hypnotic control or passed me up entirely. I felt a faint disappointment in her. That idea shot out of my mind like a rocket.

She looked up at me, and her eyes were wet. She loosed her braids and covered her face with her hair and she wept behind its curtain. I said, coldly:

"Many women have wept as you do ... for men you have slain, Dahut."

She said:

"Since you rode into Ys from Carnac a month ago, I have had no peace. There is a flame in my heart that eats it. What to me or to you are the lovers who have gone before, since until you came never did I know love? I kill no more—I have banished my shadows."

I asked, grimly:

"What if they do not accept their banishment?"

She threw back her hair; looked at me, sharply:

"What do you mean by that?"

I answered:

"I make serfs. I train them to serve me well and to acknowledge no other master. I feed and house them. Suppose, then, I feed them no longer, deny them shelter. Banish them. What will my hungry, homeless serfs do, Dahut?"

She said, incredulously:

"You mean my shadows may rebel against me?" She laughed, then her eyes narrowed, calculatingly: "Still there is something in what you say. And what I have made, I can unmake."

I thought that a sighing went round the room, and that for an instant the hues in the tapestries shifted more rapidly. If so, Dahut paid no heed, sat pensive. She said, musingly:

"After all, they do not love me—my shadows. They do my bidding—but they do not love me ... who made them. No!"

I who was Alan Caranac smiled at this, but then I reflected that the I who was Lord of Carnac, quite evidently took these shadows seriously, disconcertingly, as matter-of-fact ... as Dick had!

She stood up, threw white arms around my neck, and the fragrance of her that was like some secret flower of the sea rocked me, and at her touch desire flamed through me. She said, languorously:

"Beloved who have swept my heart clean of all other loves ... who have awakened me to love ... why will you not love me?"

I said, thickly:

"I do love you, Dahut—but I do not trust you. How can I know your love will last ... or that the time may not come when I, too, become a shadow ... as did those others who loved you?"

She answered, lips close to mine:

"I have told you. I loved none of them."

I said: "There was one you loved."

She swayed back, looked deep into my eyes, her own sparkling:

"You mean the child; you are jealous, Alain—and therefore I know you love me! I will send away the child. Nay—if you desire, she shall be slain."

And now I felt cold fury stifle all desire for this woman who held life so lightly against passion that she would turn her hand even against the daughter she had borne. Ah, but that was no secret, even in Carnac. I had seen the little Dahut, violet-eyed, milk-white with the moonfire in her veins—no mistaking who had given her birth, even had her mother denied her. But I mastered the fury—after all, it was but what I had expected, and it steeled me in my determination.

"No," I shook my head. "What would that mean but that you had tired of her—as you tired of her father—as you tired of all your lovers?"

She whispered, desperately, and if I ever saw true madness of love in a woman's face it was there in hers: "What can I do! Alain—what can I do to gain your trust!"

I said: "When the moon wanes, then is the feast of the Alkar-Az. Then you will summon the Gatherer in the Cairn—and then will many of my people die under the mauls of the priests and many more be swallowed by the Blackness. Promise me you will not summon It. Then I will trust you."

She shrank away, lips white; she whispered: "I cannot do that. It would mean the end of Ys. It would mean the end of me. The Gatherer would summon me ... Ask anything else, beloved ... but that I cannot do."

Well, I had expected her refusal; had hoped for it. I said:

"Then give me the keys to the sea-gates."

She stiffened; I read doubt, suspicion, in her eyes; and when she spoke, softness had gone from her voice. She said, slowly:

"Now why do you ask for them, Lord of Carnac? They are the very sign and symbol of Ys. They are Ys. They were forged by the sea-god who led my forefathers here long and long and long ago. Never have they been in any hands except those of the Kings of Ys. Never may they be in any hands except those of a King of Ys. Why do you ask for them?"

Ah—but this was the crisis. This was the moment toward which for long I had been working. I caught her up in my arms, tall woman that she was, and held her cupped in them. I pressed my lips to hers, and I felt her quiver and her arms lock round my neck and her teeth bruise my mouth. I threw back my head. I roared laughter. I said:

"You yourself have said it, Dahut. I ask because they are the symbol of Ys. Because they are—you. Perhaps because I would hold them against any change of heart of yours, White Witch. Perhaps as a shield against your shadows. Double your guards at the sea-gates, if you will, Dahut. But—" again I held her close and set my mouth against hers "—I kiss you never again until those keys are in my hands."

She said, falteringly:

"Hold me so another moment, Alain ... and you shall have the keys ... Hold me ... it is as though my soul were loosed from bondage ... You shall have the keys ... "

She bent her head and I felt her lips upon my breast, over my heart. And black hate of her and red lust for her fought within me.

She said: "Put me down."

And when I had done this she looked at me long with soft and misty eyes; and she said again:

"You shall have the keys, beloved. But I must wait until my father is asleep. I shall see to it that he goes early to sleep. And the keys of Ys shall be in the hands of a King of Ys—for King of Ys you shall be, my own dear Lord. Now wait here for me—"

She was gone.

I walked to the window and looked out upon the sea. The storm had broken, was rising to tempest strength and the long combers were battering, battering at the stone prow of Ys, and I could feel the tower tremble in the blast. Blast and sea matched the exultation in my heart.

I knew that hours had passed, and that I had eaten and had drunk. There was confused memory of a great hall where I had sat among gay people close to a dais where was the old King of Ys, and at his right Dahut, and at his left a white-robed, yellow-eyed priest around whose forehead was a narrow band of gold and at whose girdle the sacred maul with which the breasts of my own people were beaten in before the Alkar-Az. He had watched me, malevolently. And the King had grown sleepy, nodding ... nodding ...

But now I was in Dahut's tower. The storm was stronger and so were the surge and beat of waves on the stone prow of Ys. The rosy light was dim, and the shadows in the green hangings were motionless. Yet I thought that they were closer to the surface; were watching me.

In my hands were three slender bars of sea-green metal, strangely notched and serrated; upon each the symbol of the trident. The longest was three times the space between my index finger and wrist, the shortest the length of my hand.

They hung from a bracelet, a thin band of silver in which was set a black stone bearing in crimson the trident symbol that was the summoning name of the seagod. They were the keys of Ys, given by the sea-god to those who had built Ys.

The keys to the sea-gates!

And Dahut stood before me. She was like a girl in her robe of white, her slender feet bare, hair of silvery gold flowing over exquisite shoulders and the rosy light weaving a little aureole around her head. I who was Alan Caranac thought: She looks like a saint. But I who was Lord of Carnac knew nothing of saints, and only thought: How can I kill this woman, evil as I know her to be!

She said, simply: "Now can you trust, Lord of me?"

I dropped the keys and set my hands on her shoulders: "Yes."

She raised her lips to me, like a child. I felt pity, against all my knowledge of what she truly was and I against my will I felt pity for her. So I lied. I said: "Let the keys stay where they are, white flower. In the morning, before your father awakens, you shall take them back to him. It was but a test, sweet white flame."

She looked at me, gravely:

"If you wish it, so shall it be done. But there is no need. Tomorrow you shall be King of Ys."

I felt a little shock go through me, and pity fled. If that promise meant anything it meant that she was going to kill her father as remorselessly as she had offered to kill her child. She said, dreamily:

"He grows old. And he is weary. He will be glad to go. And with these keys—I give you all of myself. With them—I lock behind me all life that I have lived. I come to you—virgin. Those I have slain I forget, as you will forget. And their shadows shall—cease to be."

Again I heard that sighing whisper go round the room, but she did not—or if she did, she gave it no heed.

And suddenly she clasped me in her arms, and her lips clung to mine ... nor were they virginal ... and the desire of her swept like wild-fire through me ...

I had not been asleep. Knowing what I must do, I had not dared to sleep though sleep pressed heavy on my eyes. I had lain, listening to the breathing of Dahut, waiting for her to sink into deepest slumber. Yet I must have dozed, for suddenly I became conscious of a whispering close to my ear, and I knew that the whisper had not just begun.

I lifted my head. The rosy light was dim. Beside me was Dahut, one white arm and breast uncovered, hair a silken net upon her pillow.

The whispering continued; grew more urgent. I looked about the room. It was thronged with shadowy shapes that swayed and shifted like shadows in the waves. Upon the floor where I had thrown them lay the keys of Ys, the black pebble glimmering.

I looked again at Dahut—and looked and looked again. For over her eyes was a shadow as though of a hand, and over her lips another such shadow, and upon her breast was a shadow like a hand upon her heart, and around knees and ankles were other shadowy hands, clasping them like fetters.

I slipped from the bed; dressed swiftly and threw my cloak over my shoulders. I picked up the keys.

One last look I took at Dahut—and almost my resolution broke. Witch or not—she was too fair to kill ...

The whispering grew fiercer; it threatened; it urged me on, implacably. I looked at Dahut no more—I could not. I passed out of her chamber—and I felt the shadows go with me, wavering before and around and after me.

I knew the way to the sea-gates. It led through the palace, thence underground to the vault at the end of the prow of stone against which the waves were thundering.

I could not think clearly—my thoughts were shadows—I was a shadow walking with shadows ...

The shadows were hurrying me, whispering ... what were they whispering? That nothing could harm me ... nothing stop me ... but I must hurry ... hurry.

The shadows were like a cloak, covering me.

I came upon a guard. He stood beside the passage I must take from the palace into the underground way. He stood there, as in dream, staring vacantly, staring through me, as though I, too, were but a shadow. The shadows whispered—"Kill." I thrust dagger through him, and went on.

I came out of that passage into the ante-room of the vault of the gates. There was a man there, coming out of the vault. It was the white-robed priest with the yellow eyes. To him, at least, I was no shadow.

He stared at me and at the keys I held as though I were a demon. Then he rushed toward me, maul upraised, lifting a golden whistle to his lips to summon aid. The shadows swept me forward, and before it could touch his lips I had thrust my dagger through his heart.

And now the gate of the vault was before me. I took the smallest key, and at its touch in the slot that gate drew open. And again the shadows crowded before and around, and pushed me on.

There were two guards there. One I killed before he could draw weapon. I threw myself on the other, throttling him before he could cry alarm.

I thought that as we writhed the shadows wound themselves around him, smotheringly. At any rate, he soon lay dead.

I went on to the sea-gates. They were of the same metal as the keys; immense; ten times my height at the least, twice again as wide; so massive that it did not seem they could have been forged by the hands of men—that they were indeed the gift of the sea-god as the people of Ys had told us.

I found the slits. The shadows were whispering ... first I must thrust in the larger key and turn ... now the smaller and turn ... and now I must cry out the name upon the pebble ... once and twice and thrice ... I cried that name ...

The massive valves shuddered. They began to open inward. A thin sheet of water hissed through the opening striking the opposite side of the vault like a sword.

And now the shadows were whispering to me to flee ... quickly ... quickly ...

Before I could reach the doorway of the vault the split between the opening valves was a roaring cataract. Before I could reach the passage a wave struck me. On its crest was the body of the priest, arms stretched out to me as though in death he was trying to drag me down ... down under the smother ...

And now I was on a horse, racing over the wide road to Carnac through the howling tempest. In my arms was a child, a girl whose violet eyes were open wide, and blank with terror. And on and on I raced, with the waves reaching out for me, clamoring behind me.

Above the tumult of wind and waves, another tumult from Ys—the crashing of its temples and palaces, the rape of its sea-walls and the death-cry of its people blended into one sustained note of despair ...

CHAPTER X

AND OUT OF DAHUT'S TOWER

I lay, eyes shut, but wide awake. I had battled back into this awakening, wrestling for mastery over another self that had stubbornly asserted its right to be. I had won, and the other self had retreated into my memories of Ys. But the memories were vivid and he was as strong as they; he was entrenched among them and he would live as long as they lived; waiting his chance. I was as spent as though that fight had been physical; and in my mind the Lord of Carnac and Alan Caranac and Dahut of ancient Ys and the Demoiselle de Keradel danced a witches' dance, passing in and out of each other, shifting from one to another—like the girls in the "House of the Heart's Desire."

Time had passed between the moment of awakening and the moment when the death cry of Ys had smitten me in my flight over the sands. I knew that. But whether it had been minutes or millenniums I did not know. And other things had happened which I did not like remembering.

I opened my eyes. I had thought that I had been lying on a soft bed. I was not. I was standing fully dressed beside a window in a room of dim rosy light; a room like a turret ... with octagonal walls covered by sea-green tapestries in which furtive shadows moved. And suddenly that other self became alert, and I heard a far off clamor of waves racing toward me ...

I turned my head quickly and looked out of the window. There was no stormy sea, no spurning combers beating upon great walls. I looked down upon bridge-bound East River and the lights of New York; looked and fed upon them, drawing strength and sanity from them.

Slowly I turned from the window. Upon the bed was Dahut. She was asleep, one white arm and breast uncovered and her hair a silken net upon her pillow. She lay there, straight as a sword, and in her sleep she smiled.

No shadowy hands held her. Around her wrist was the bracelet, and the black stone was like an unwinking eye, watching me. I wondered whether her eyes under the long curling lashes were also watching me. Her breasts rose and fell, like the slow lift and fall of waves in a slumbering sea. Her mouth, with the kiss of the archaic upon her lips, was peaceful. She was like a soul of the sea over which tempest had passed, leaving it sleeping. She was very lovely ... and there was desire for her in my heart, and there was fear of her. I took a step toward her ... to kill her now while she lay asleep and helpless ... to set my hands around her throat and choke the black life out of the white witch ... to kill her, ruthlessly, as she had killed ...

I could not do that. Nor could I awaken her. The fear of her stood like a barrier against awakening. The desire for her stood like another barrier against the urge to slay her. I drew back, through the window and out upon the terrace.

I waited there for a moment, considering, watching Dahut's chamber for any movement. Witchcraft might be superstition—but what Dahut had twice done to me measured up fully to any definition of it. And I thought of what had happened to Dick—and of her calm confession about that. She had told the truth there, whether she had brought his death about by suggestion or by actual shadow. My own experiences had been too similar to doubt that. She had killed Dick Ralston, and those other three. And how many more only she knew.

I gave up any idea of slinking through her turret and trying to find the hidden door to the great room from whence had come the shadowy singing. Maybe the shadows wouldn't be as helpful as they had been back in ancient Ys. Also, there was the ante-chamber of the elevators.

The truth was that the cold fear I felt of the Demoiselle seemed to paralyze all trust in myself. I was too vulnerable to her on her own picked field. And if I killed her, what possible reason could I offer? Ralston's death, shadows, witchcraft? The best I could expect was the madhouse. How could I prove such absurdities? And if I awakened her and demanded release—well, I couldn't see that working either. New York and ancient Ys were still too close together in my mind—and something whispered that the way I had taken in Ys was still the best way. And that was to go while she slept. I walked to the edge of the terrace and looked over its coping. The next terrace was twenty feet below. I didn't dare risk the drop. I examined the wall. It had bricks jutting out here and there that I thought I could manage. I took off my shoes and hung them around my neck by the laces. I slid over the coping and with an occasional slip or two I landed on the lower terrace. Its windows were open and there was the sound of heavy sleeping from within. A clock rang two and the breathing stopped. A singularly formidable woman came to the casements, looked out, and slammed them shut. It occurred to me that this was no place for a hatless, coatless, shoeless fugitive to ask sanctuary. So I did the same crawl down to the next terrace, and that was all boarded up.

I climbed to the next, and that too was boarded. By this time my shirt was a wreck, my trousers ripped here and there, and my feet bare. I realized that I was rapidly getting in such shape that it would take all my eloquence to get away no matter what lucky break might come. I hastily slipped over the coping and half-slid, half-fell upon the next terrace.

There was a brilliantly lighted room. Four men were playing poker at a table liberally loaded with bottles. I had overturned a big potted bush. I saw the men stare, at the window. There was nothing to do but walk in and take a chance. I did so.

The man at the head of the table was fat, with twinkling little blue eyes and a cigar sticking up out of the corner of his mouth; next to him was one who might have been an old-time banker; a lank and sprawling chap with a humorous mouth, and a melancholy little man with an aspect of indestructible indigestion.

The fat man said: "Do you all see what I do? All voting yes will take a drink."

They all took a drink and the fat man said: "The ayes have it."

The banker said: "If he didn't drop out of an airplane, then he's a human fly."

The fat man asked: "Which was it, stranger?"

I said: "I climbed."

The melancholy man said: "I knew it. I always said this house had no morals."

The lanky man stood up and pointed a warning finger at me: "Which way did you climb? Up or down?"

"Down," I said.

"Well," he said, "if you came down it's all right so far with us."

I asked, puzzled: "What difference does it make?"

He said: "A hell of a lot of difference. We all live underneath here except the fat man, and we're all married."

The melancholy man said: "Let this be a lesson to you, stranger. Put not your trust in the presence of woman nor in the absence of man."

The lanky man said: "A sentiment, James, that deserves another round. Pass the rye, Bill."

The fat man passed it. I suddenly realized what a ridiculous figure I must make. I said: "Gentlemen, I can give you my name and credentials, which you can verify by 'phone if necessary. I admit, I prefer not to. But if you will let me get out of this place you will be compounding neither misdemeanor nor felony nor any other crime. And it would be useless to tell you the truth, for you wouldn't believe me."

The lanky man mused: "How often have I heard that plea of not guilty before, and in precisely those phrases. Stand right where you are, stranger, till the jury decides. Let us view the scene of the crime, gentlemen."

They walked out to the terrace, poked at the overturned plant, scanned the front of the building, and returned. They looked at me curiously.

The lanky man said: "Either he has a hell of a nerve to take a climb like that to save the lady's reputation—or Daddy just naturally scared him worse than death."

The melancholy man, James, said bitterly: "There's a way to tell if it's nerve. Let him stack a couple of hands against that God-damned fat pirate."

The fat man, Bill, said, indignantly: "I'll play with no man who wears his shoes around his neck."

The lanky man said: "A worthy sentiment, Bill. Another round on it." They drank.

I slipped on my shoes. This was doing me good. It was about as far as possible from ancient Ys and the Demoiselle. I said:

"Even under a torn shirt, ripped pants and footless socks a fearless heart may beat. Count me in."

The lanky man said: "A peerless sentiment. Gentlemen, a round in which the stranger joins." We drank, and I needed it.

I said: "What I'm playing for is a pair of socks, a clean shirt, a pair of pants, an overcoat, a hat and a free and unquestioned exit."

The melancholy man said: "What we're playing for is your money. And if you lose you get out of here how you can in the clothes you've got on."

I said: "Fair enough."

I opened, and the lanky man wrote something on a blue chip and showed it to me before he tossed it into the pot. I read: "Half a sock." The others solemnly marked their chips and the game was on. I won and lost. There were many worthy sentiments and many rounds. At four o'clock I had won my outfit and release. Bill's clothes were too big for me, but the others went out and came back with what was needful.

They took me down stairs. They put me in a taxi and held their hands over their ears as I told the taxi man where to go. That was a quartette of good scouts if ever there was one. When I was unsteadily undressing at the Club a lot of chips fell out of my pockets. They were marked: "Half a shirt": "One seat of pants": "A pant leg": "One hat brim": and so on and so on.

I steered a wavering nor'-nor'-east course to the bed. I'd forgotten all about Ys and Dahut. Nor did I dream of them.

CHAPTER XI

DAHUT SENDS A SOUVENIR

It was different when I woke up about noon. I was stiff and sore and it took about three pick-me-ups to steady the floor. The memories of the Demoiselle Dahut and of Ys were all too acute, and they had a nightmarish edge to them. That flight from her tower for example. Why hadn't I stayed and fought it out? I hadn't even the excuse of Joseph fleeing from Potiphar's wife. I knew I had been no Joseph. Not that this troubled my conscience particularly, but the facts remained that I had made a most undignified exit and that each time I had met Dahut—with the problematical exception of Ys—she had worsted me. Both facts outraged my pride.

Hell, the plain truth was that I had run away in terror and had let down Bill and let down Helen. At that moment I hated Dahut as much as ever had the Lord of Carnac.

I managed a breakfast and called up Bill. Helen answered. She said with poisonous solicitude: "Why, darling, you must have traveled all night to get back so early. Where did you go?"

I was still pretty edgy and I answered, curtly: "Three thousand miles and five thousand years away."

She said: "How interesting. Not all by yourself, surely."

I thought: Damn all women! and asked: "Where's Bill?"

She said: "Darling, you have a guilty sound. You weren't alone, were you?"

I said: "No. And I didn't like the trip. And if you're thinking what I'm thinking—yes, I'm guilty. And I don't like that either."

When she spoke again, her voice had changed, filled with real concern and a little frightened: "You mean that—about three thousand miles and centuries away?"

I said: "Yes."

Again she was silent; then: "With the Demoiselle?"

"Yes."

She said, furiously: "The damned witch! Oh, if you'd only been with me ... I could have saved you that."

I said: "Maybe. But not on some other night. Sooner or later it had to come, Helen. Why that is true I don't know—yet. But it is true." For suddenly I had remembered that strange thought which had come to me—that I had drunk of the Demoiselle's evil long and long ago—and must drink again, and I knew that it had been a true thought.

I repeated: "It had to be. And it is done."

That I knew was a lie, and so did Helen. She said, a bit piteously:

"It's just begun, Alan."

I had no answer to that. She said: "I'd give my life to help you, Alan—" Her voice broke; then, hurriedly: "Bill said to wait at the Club for him. He'll be there about four." She rang off.

Hardly had she done so than a boy brought me a letter. On the envelope was a tiny imprint of the trident.

I opened it. It was in the Breton:

My elusive friend! Whatever I may be—I am still a woman and therefore curious. Are you as insubstantial as shadows? That doors and walls are nothing to you? You did not seem so—last night. I await you with all eagerness tonight—to learn.

Dahut

There was subtle threat in every line of that. Especially the part about the shadows. My anger rose. I wrote:

Ask your shadows. Perhaps they are no more faithful to you now than they were in Ys. As for tonight—I am otherwise engaged.

I signed it Alan Caranac and sent it off by messenger. Then I waited for Bill. I drew some comfort from the thought that the Demoiselle evidently knew nothing of how I had escaped from her turret. That, at least, meant that her powers, whatever they might be, were limited. Also, if those damned shadows had any reality except in the minds of those who strayed into her web of suggestion, the idea I had planted might bring about some helpful confusion in her menage.

Promptly at four, Bill came in. He looked worried. I laid the whole thing before him from start to finish, not even passing up the poker party. He read the Demoiselle's letter and my reply. He looked up:

"I don't blame you for last night, Alan. But I rather wish you had answered this differently."

"You mean accepted it?"

He nodded: "Yes, you're pretty well forewarned now. You might temporize. Play her along a bit ... make her believe you love her ... pretend you would like to join her and de Keradel ... "

"Sit in on their game?"

He hesitated, then said: "For a little while."

I laughed: "Bill, as for being forewarned, if that dream of Ys she conjured up means anything, it means Dahut is a damned sight better forewarned than I am. Also, much better forearmed. As for temporizing with or playing her—she'd see through me in no time, or her father would. There's nothing to do but fight."

He asked: "How can you fight shadows?"

I said: "It would take me days to tell you all the charms, countercharms, exorcisms and what not that man has devised for that sole purpose Cro-Magnons and without doubt the men before them and perhaps even the half-men before them. Sumerians, Egyptians, Phoenicians, the Greeks and the Romans, the Celts, the Gauls and every race under the sun, known and forgotten, put their minds to it. But there is only one way to defeat the shadow sorcery—and that is not to believe in it."

He said: "Once I would have agreed with you—and not so long ago. Now the idea seems to me to resemble that of getting rid of a cancer by denying you have it."

I said impatiently: "If you had tried a good dose of hypnotism on Dick, counter-suggestion, he'd probably be alive today."

He replied, quietly: "I did. There were reasons I didn't want de Keradel to know it. Nor you. I tried it to the limit, and it did no good."

And as I digested this, he asked, slyly: "You don't believe in them, do you, Alan—in the shadows? I mean in their reality?"

"No," I answered—and wished it were the truth.

"Well," he said, "your incredulity doesn't seem to have helped you much last night!"

I went to the window and looked out. I wanted to tell him that there was another way to stop the shadow sorcery. The only sure way. Kill the witch who did it. But what was the use? I'd had my chance to do that and lost it. And I knew that if I could relive the night, I would not kill her. I said:

"That's true, Bill. But it was because my disbelief was not strong enough. Dahut weakens it. It's why I want to keep away from her."

He laughed: "I'm still reminded of the cancer patient—if he could only have believed strongly enough that he had none, it couldn't have killed him. Well, if you won't go you won't. Now I've some news for you. De Keradel has a big place on Rhode Island. I found out about it yesterday. It's an isolated spot, hell gone from nowhere and right on the ocean. He keeps a yacht—seagoing. He must be almighty rich. De Keradel is up there now, which is why you had it all to yourself with the Demoiselle. Lowell sent yesterday for McCann and McCann is coming in tonight to talk things over. It's Lowell's idea, and mine, too, to have him go up and scout around de Keradel's place. Find out what he can from the people about. Lowell, by the way, has gotten over his panic. He's rather deadly in his hatred for de Keradel and that includes the Demoiselle. I told you he is all wrapped up in Helen. Thinks of her as a daughter. Well, he seems to think that she's in danger."

I said: "But that's a damned good idea, Bill. De Keradel spoke of some experiment he is carrying out. That's undoubtedly where he's working. His laboratory. McCann might find out a lot."

Bill nodded: "Why not come up and sit in?"

I was about to accept when suddenly I had the strongest feeling that I must not. A tingling warning of danger, like some deep hidden alarm going off. I shook my head: "Can't do it, Bill. I've got work to do. You can tell me about it tomorrow."

He got up. "Thinking you might change your mind about that rendezvous with the Demoiselle?"

"No chance," I answered. "Give my love to Helen. And tell her I don't mean maybe. Tell her I'm taking no more journeys. She'll understand."

I did spend that afternoon working; and that night. Now and then I had an uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me. Bill called up next day to say that McCann had gone to Rhode Island. Helen got on the 'phone and said she had received my message and would I come up that night. Her voice was warm and sweet and somehow—cleansing. I wanted to go, but that deep hidden alarm was shrilling, peremptorily. I apologized—rather awkwardly. She asked:

"You haven't it in your stubborn head that you'd carry some witch taint with you, have you?"

I said: "No. But I might carry danger to you."

She said: "I'm not afraid of the Demoiselle. I know how to fight her, Alan."

I asked: "What do you mean by that?"

She said, furiously: "Damn your stupidity!" And hung up before I could speak.

I was puzzled, and I was troubled. The inexplicable warning to keep away from Dr. Lowell's and from Helen was insistent, not to be disregarded. At last I threw my notes into a bag with some clothes and sought shelter in a little hide-away hotel I knew, after having sent Bill a note telling him where he could find me but warning him not to tell Helen. I said I had the strongest reasons for this temporary obscuration. So I had, even though I didn't know what they were. That was Tuesday. On Friday I went back to the Club.

I found two notes from the Demoiselle. One must have come just after I had left for the hide-out. It read:

There was a debt from you to me. In part, you have paid it. There is not nor ever was a debt from me to you. Beloved—come to me tonight.

The other had been delivered the day after. It read:

I go to join my father in his work. When next I call you, see to it that you come. I have sent a souvenir that you may not forget this.

I read and re-read those notes, wondering. In the first there was appeal, longing; the kind of letter any woman might write to some reluctant lover. In the other was menace. Uneasily, I paced the floor; then called up Bill. He said:

"So you're back. I'll be right down."

He was there in half an hour. He seemed a little on edge. I asked:

"Anything new?"

He sat down and said casually, a bit too casually: "Well, yes. She's pinned one on me."

I said, dumbly: "Who's done what?"

He answered: "Dahut. She's pinned one of her shadows on me."

My feet and hands were suddenly cold and I felt a thin cord draw tight around my throat. The letter in which Dahut had spoken of the souvenir she was sending lay open before me, and I folded it. I said:

"Tell me about it, Bill."

He said: "Don't look so panicky, Alan. I'm not like Dick and the others. It won't handle me so easily. But I'm not saying it's exactly—companionable. By the way, do you see something at my right? Something like a bit of dark curtain—fluttering?"

He was keeping his eyes upon mine, but the effort of will he was making to do it was plain. They were a bit bloodshot. I looked, intently, and said: "No, Bill. I don't see a thing."

He said: "I'll just shut my eyes, if you don't mind. Last night I came out of the hospital about eleven. There was a taxi at the curb. The driver was half asleep, hunched over the wheel. I opened the door and was about to get in when I saw someone—something—move in the far corner of the seat. The cab was fairly dark and I could not determine whether it was a man or a woman.

"I said: 'Oh! I beg your pardon. I thought the taxi idle.' And I stepped back.

"The taxi man had awakened. He touched my shoulder. He said: 'O.K. boss, get in. I ain't got anybody.' I said: 'Sure you have.' He flashed on the inside light. The cab was empty. He said: 'I been waitin' here an hour, boss, on a chance. Just dozin'. Nobody got in. You seen a shadow.'

"I stepped into the cab and told him where to take me. We had gone a couple of blocks when I thought someone was sitting beside me. Close to me. I had been looking straight ahead and turned quickly. I caught a glimpse of something dark between me and the window. Then there was nothing, but I distinctly heard a faint rustling. Like a dry leaf being blown along a window in the night. Deliberately, I moved over to that side. We had gone another few blocks when I once more saw the movement at my left, and again there was a thin veil of deeper darkness between me and that window.

"The outline was that of a human body. And again as it flicked out I heard the rustling. And in that instant, Alan, I knew.

"I confess that I had a moment of pure panic. I called to the driver, about to tell him to take me back to the hospital. Then my nerve came back, and I told him to go ahead. I went into the house. I felt the shadow flitting with me as I entered. There was no one up. It companioned me, impalpable, incorporeal, glimpsed only by its movement, until I went to bed. It was with me through the night. I didn't steep much—"

He opened his eyes, and quickly shut them again.

"I thought that like Dick's shadow it would go with the dawn. This one didn't. It was still there when I woke up. I waited until they'd all had breakfast—after all, Alan, a little playmate like that was nothing to introduce to the family, you know." He squinted at me sardonically. "Also—it has other points of difference with Dick's. I gather that Dahut rather favored him in that matter. I wouldn't call my pal—cozy."

I asked: "It's pretty bad then, Bill?"

He said: "I can get along with it—unless it gets worse."

I looked at my watch. It was five o'clock. I said: "Bill, have you got de Keradel's address?"

Bill said: "Yes," and gave it to me. I said: "Bill, don't worry any more. I have an idea. Forget about the shadow as much as you can. If you haven't anything important, go home and go to sleep. Or would you rather sleep here a bit?"

He said: "I'd rather lie down here for a bit. The damned thing doesn't seem to bother me so much here."

Bill lay down on the bed. I unfolded the Demoiselle's last letter and read it again. I called up the telegraph company and found the nearest village to the de Keradel place. I got the telegraph office there on the 'phone and asked them if there was telephone communication with Dr. de Keradel. They said there was, but that it was a private wire. I said that was all right, I only wanted to dictate a telegram to the Demoiselle de Keradel. They asked—"the what?" I answered "Miss de Keradel." I felt ironic amusement at that innocent "Miss." They said they could take it.

I dictated:

Your souvenir most convincing, but embarrassing. Take it back and I surrender unconditionally. I'm at your command at any moment when assured this is done.

I sat down and looked at Bill. He was asleep, but not very happily. I was wide awake but not very happy either. I loved Helen, and I wanted Helen. And I felt that what I had just done had lost Helen to me forever.

The clock struck six. There was a ring on the telephone. It was long distance. The man to whom I had dictated the telegram spoke: "Miss de Keradel got the message O.K. Here's one from her. It reads: 'Souvenir withdrawn but returnable.' You know what it means?"

I answered: "Sure." If he had expected me to go into details, he was disappointed. I hung up the 'phone.

I went over to Bill. He was sleeping more quietly. I sat watching him. In half an hour he was breathing peacefully, his face untroubled. I gave him another hour and then awakened him.

"Time to get up, Bill."

He sat up and looked at me blankly. He looked around the room, and went over to the window. He stood there a minute or two, then turned to me.

"God, Alan! The shadow's gone!"

He said it like a man reprieved from death by torment.

CHAPTER XII

THE VANISHING PAUPERS

Well, I'd expected results, but not quite so soon nor so complete. It gave me a fresh and disconcerting realization of Dahut's powers—whether of remote control by suggestion, as the Christian Scientists term it, or witchcraft. Such control would in itself savor of witchcraft. But certainly something had happened as the result of my message; and by the relief Bill was showing I knew how much he had understated the burden of the shadow upon him.

He looked at me, suspiciously. He asked: "What did you do to me while I was asleep?"

"Not a thing," I said.

"What did you want with de Keradel's address?"

"Oh, just curiosity."

He said: "You're a liar, Alan. If I'd been myself, I'd have asked that before I gave it to you. You've been up to something. Now what was it?"

"Bill," I said, "you're goofy. We've both been goofy over this shadow stuff. You don't even know you had one."

He said, grimly: "Oh, I don't?" And I saw his hands clench.

I said, glibly: "No, you don't. You've been thinking too much about Dick and de Keradel's ravings, and of what I told you of the Demoiselle's pretty little hypnotic experiment on me. Your imagination has gotten infected. Me—I've gone back to hard-headed, safe-and-sane, scientific incredulity. There ain't no shadow. The Demoiselle is one top-notch expert hypnotist and we've been letting her play us—that's all."

He studied me for a moment: "You never were good at lying, Alan."

I laughed. I said: "Bill, I'll tell you the truth. While you were asleep I tried counter-suggestion. Sent you deeper and deeper down until I got to the shadow—and wiped it out. Convinced your subconsciousness you'd never see it again. And you won't."

He said, slowly: "You forget I tried that on Dick, and it didn't work."

"I don't give a damn about that," I said. "It worked on you."

I hoped he'd believe me. It would help build up his resistance if the Demoiselle tried any more of her tricks on him. Not that I was any too sanguine. Bill was a psychiatrist of sorts, knew far more about the quirks and aberrations of the human mind than I did, and if he hadn't been able to convince himself of the hallucinatory aspect of the shadows how could I expect to?

Bill sat quietly for a minute or two, then sighed and shook his head: "That's all you're going to tell me, Alan?"

"That's all I can tell you, Bill. It's all there is to tell." He sighed again, then looked at his watch: "Good God, it's seven o'clock!"

I said: "How about staying here for dinner? Or are you busy tonight?"

Bill brightened. "I'm not. But I'll have to call up Lowell." He took up the telephone. I said: "Wait a minute. Did you tell Lowell about my little party with the Demoiselle?"

He said: "Yes. You don't mind, do you? I thought it might help."

I said: "I'm glad you did. But did you tell Helen?"

He hesitated: "Well—not everything."

I said, cheerfully: "Fine. She knows what you left out. And it saves me the time. Go ahead and 'phone."

I went downstairs to order dinner. I thought both of us were entitled to something extra. When I came back to the room Bill was quite excited. He said:

"McCann is coming tonight to report. He's found out something. He'll be at Lowell's about nine o'clock."

I said: "We'll get dinner and go up. I want to meet McCann."

We had dinner. At nine o'clock we were at Lowell's. Helen wasn't there. She hadn't known I was coming, nor had Lowell told her about McCann. She had gone to the theater. I was glad of that, and sorry. A little after nine McCann came in.

I liked McCann from the start. He was a lanky, drawling Texan. He had been the underworld leader Ricori's trusted bodyguard and handy man; a former cow-puncher; loyal, resourceful and utterly without fear. I had heard much of him when Bill had recounted the story of that incredible adventure of Lowell and Ricori with Mme. Mandilip, the doll-maker, whose lover this de Keradel had been. I had the feeling that McCann took the same instant liking to me. Briggs brought in decanters and glasses. Lowell went over and locked the door. We sat at the table, the four of us. McCann said to Lowell:

"Well, Doc—I reckon we're headed for about the same kind of round-up we was last time. Only mebbe a mite worse. I wish the boss was around ... "

Lowell explained to me: "McCann means Ricori—he's in Italy. I think I told you."

I asked McCann: "How much do you know?" Lowell answered: "Everything that I know. I have the utmost faith in him, Dr. Caranac."

I said: "Fine." McCann grinned at me. He said:

"But the boss ain't around, so I guess you'd better cable him you need some help, Doc. Ask him to cable these fellers—" he thrust a list of half a dozen names to Lowell "-an' tell 'em he wants 'em to report to me an' do what I say. An' ask him to take the next ship over."

Lowell asked, uncertainly: "You think that is justified, McCann?"

McCann said: "Yeah. I'd even go as far as to put in that cable that it's a matter of life an' death, an' that the hag who made dolls was just a nursery figure compared to the people we're up against. I'd send that cable right off, Doc. I'll put my name to it, too."

Lowell asked again: "You're sure, McCann?"

McCann said: "We're going to need the boss. I'm telling you, Doc."

Bill had been writing. He said: "How's this?" He passed the paper to McCann. "You can put in the names of the people you want Ricori to cable."

McCann read:

Ricori. Doll-maker menace renewed worse than before. Have urgent immediate need of you. Ask you return at once. In meantime cable (so-and-so) to report to McCann and follow implicitly his orders. Cable when can expect you.

"That's O.K.," McCann said. "I guess the boss'll read between the lines without the life and death part."

He filled in the missing names and handed it to Dr. Lowell. "I'd get it right off, Doc."

Lowell nodded and wrote an address on it. Bill ran the message off on the typewriter. Lowell unlocked the door and rang for Briggs; he came, and the message to Ricori was on its way.

"I hope to God he gets it quick an' comes," said McCann, and poured himself a stiff drink. "An' now," he said, "I'll begin at the beginning. Let me tell the whole thing my own way an' if you got questions, ask them when I'm through."

He said to Bill: "After you give me the layout, I head for Rhode Island. I got a sort of hunch, so I take along a big roll of bills. Most of 'em is phoney but imposing in the herd. An' I don't aim to dispose of the mavericks—just display 'em. I see by the road map there's a place called Beverly down that locality. It's the nearest place on the map to this de Keradel ranch. On beyond, it's empty country or big estates. So I head the car that way an' give her the spur. I get there about dark. It's a nice little village, old-fashioned, one street running down to the water, some stores, a movie. I see a shack with a sign Beverly House an' figure to bed down there for the night. Far as I can see de Keradel an' his gal have got to ride through here to get to the ranch, an' mebbe they do some buying of their truck here. Anyway, I'm betting that there's talk going 'round, an' if so then the gent that runs this Beverly House knows all of it.

"So I go in an' there's an old galoot who looks like a cross between a goat an' a human question mark at the desk an' I tell him I'm looking for shelter for the night an' maybe a day or so longer. He asks if I'm a tourist, an' I say no, an' hesitate, an' then say I got a piece of business on my mind. He pricks up his ears at that, an' I say where I come from we put our stake on the table before we play, an' pull out the roll. He waggles his ears at that, an' after I've talked him down about two bits on the tariff he's not only plumb curious but got quite a respect for me. Which is the impression I want.

"I go in an' have a darn good meal, and when I'm near through the old goat comes an' asks me how things is an' so on, an' I tell him fine an' to sit down. He does. We talk of this an' that, an' after awhile he gets probing what my business is, an' we have some dam good applejack. I get confidential an' tell him I been nursing cows for years down Texas way, an' they've left me sitting mighty pretty. Tell him my grand-pap came from round these parts an' I've got a yearning to get back.

"He asks me grand-pap's name an' I tell him Partington, an' what I'd hoped to do was buy back the old house, but I was too late learning it was on the market an' I'd found some Frenchman called de Keradel had bought it from the estate an' so I supposed that was out. But mebbe, I say, I could pick up a place near, or mebbe the Frenchman would sell me some of the land. Then I'd wait till mebbe this Frenchman got tired of it an' I could pick the old house up cheap."

Bill explained to me: "This place de Keradel bought had belonged to the Partington family for generations. The last one died about four years ago. I told McCann all that. Go on, McCann."

"He listened to this with a queer look on his face, half-scared," said McCann. "Then he opined my grand-pap must have been Eben Partington who went West after the Civil War, an' I said I guessed so because pap's name was Eben, an' he seemed to hold quite a grudge against the family an' never talked much about 'em, which was mainly what made me want to get hold of the old place. I said I thought buying it back an' living in it might rile the ghosts of them who kicked grand-pap out.

"Well, that was a shot in the dark, but it hit the mark. The old goat gets more talkative. He said I was a grandson of Eben all right, for the Partingtons never forgot a grudge. Then he said he didn't think there was a chance of me getting the old place back because the Frenchman had spent a lot of money on it, but there was a place right close he knew of that I could get an' if I'd put it in his hands he'd get me the lowest price for it. Also, he was sure I couldn't buy in on the Partington ranch, an' with that same queer look said he didn't think I'd like it there if I could. An' he kept staring at me as though he was trying to make up his mind about something.

"I said I'd set my mind on the old homestead, which I always understood was a pretty fairish size for the East though mebbe not so sizeable out West. An' I asked what was the improvements the Frenchman had put in, anyway. Well, the old goat got a map an' showed me the layout. It's a big chunk of land sticking out into the sea. There's a narrow neck about a thousand feet across before the land spreads out. Outside that it spreads a fantail which I figure's got two or three thousand acres in it.

"He tells me the Frenchman's built a twenty foot high wall across that thousand foot neck. There's a gate in the middle. But nobody gets through it. Anything that goes from the village, including the mail, is took in by the guards. Foreigners, he says; funny little dark men who always have the money ready an' say nothing no way. He says they take in a lot of supplies in their boat. Also, they got a truck, farm, an' livestock—cattle an' sheep an' such, an' bosses an' a pack of big dogs. He says: 'Nobody ain't seen the dogs, except one man, an' he—'

"Then he shuts up all of a sudden as though he's saying too much an' that funny, scared look comes on his face. So I file that for reference but don't press him none.

"I ask him if nobody ain't been inside an' knows what it looks like, an' he says: 'Nobody round here has been except the man who-' Then he shuts up again, so I figure he's referring to the man who seen the dogs, an' I get more curious about him.

"I say that with all that coast line I don't see why people can't slip in an' look around a bit without anybody knowing. But he tells me it's all rock, an' only three places where you can land a boat, an' that these three places are guarded like the gate. He looks at me suspicious an' I say: 'Oh, yes, now I remember, pap told me about that.' An' I'm afraid to ask much more on that line.

"I ask casual what other improvements there are, and he says they made a big rockery. I ask what anybody wants making a rockery in a place where nature has been so prodigal with rocks. He takes another drink an' says, this is a different kind of rockery, an', he says, mebbe it ain't a rockery but a cemetery, an' that funny scared look comes on his face plainer than ever.

"We have some more applejack an' he tells me that his name is Ephraim Hopkins, an' he goes on to say about a month after the Frenchman moves in there's a couple of fishermen coming home when their kicker goes bad right off the point where the house stands. The Frenchman's yacht has just dropped her anchor an' she's lightering a lot of men to the house landing. The fishermen drift awhile an' while they're doing it, they figure more'n a hundred men must been landed.

"Well, he says, about a month after that a Beverly man named Jim Taylor is driving along at night when his headlights pick up a feller staggering along the road. This man gives a yelp when he sees the lights, an' tries to run but he falls down. Taylor gets out an' sees he ain't got nothing on but his underclothes an' a pouch tied round his neck. He's fainted. Taylor picks him up an' totes him to this Beverly House. They pour liquor in him an' he comes to, but he's an Eyetalian who don't speak much English, an' he acts like he's scared half to death. All he wants is to get some clothes an' get away. An' he opens the pouch an' shows money. They get out of him that he's run off from this de Keradel place. Got to the water and swum till he figured he was past the wall, then come to land. He says he's a stone-cutter an' one of a big gang brought in on the boat. He says they're putting up a big rockery there, cutting out stones an' standing 'em up like giants' tombstones all in circles around a house they're building in the middle. Says these stones are twenty, thirty, feet high."

I felt something like a cold hand pass through my hair. I said:

"Say that again, McCann!"

He said, patiently: "Better let me go on an' tell this in my own way, Doc."

Bill said: "I know what you're thinking, Alan. But let McCann go on."

McCann said: "The Eyetalian won't tell what scared him. Just jabbers, and shivers, an' keeps crossing himself. They get he's telling 'em the house in the middle of the stones is cursed. Tells 'em it's the Devil's house. They pour more liquor in him an' he says the Devil is taking his toll. Says out of more'n a hundred men that come with him, half have died by stones falling on 'em. Says nobody knows where their bodies went afterwards. Says the gang was recruited from distant cities an' nobody knew each other. Says about fifty more have since been brought in. Says only men without any families were hired.

"Then all of a sudden he gives a screech an' ducks an' covers his head with hands an' runs out the door an' disappears before anybody can foller. And two days after, says the old goat, they find him washed up on the shore about a mile away.

"He tells me they all figure the Eyetalian's drunk or crazy. But I don't believe him. He looks too agitated. It don't take any eagle eye to see there's something queer here. He says, though, that some of the lads cruise around in boats trying to get a look at this rockery. But they can't see nothing. That don't mean it ain't there, because the rocks are steep around the point an' where they ain't there's big trees growing.

"Anyway, they bury the Eyetalian an' pay their taxes to the poor farm with his money. I'm telling you about that poor farm later," said McCann.

"Well, it seems to me that by then the old goat gets the sudden idea what he's been telling me ain't selling talk, for that place he's picked out for me. Anyway, he shuts up and waggles his beard and considers me. So I say that every word he's said only makes me more interested. Tell him there's nothing I like better than a good mystery, an' the more I hear him the more I yearn to settle right down close to a real-life one. We take another drink, an' I say if he can only dig up some more stuff like he's been telling me, I'm as good as sold. Also, I'm paying cash. Also, that tomorrow we'll go an' take a look at this ranch he's got in mind. I feel it's better to let all this sink in, so we have another drink and I go to bed. I notice he's looking at me darned peculiar as I go.

"The next day—that's Wednesday—he's up bright an' early, pert an' panting. We pile into his bus an' start out. After a bit he starts telling me about this feller that seen the dogs. 'Lias Barton, he calls him. He says 'Lias is more curious than ten old maids peeking out behind the curtains at a house with a bride just moved in. Says curiosity is like a disease with 'Lias. Says he'd pull out a plug in Hell for a look in, even if he knew it'd squirt in his face. Well, 'Lias gets brooding and brooding over this wall an' what's behind it. He's been all over the old Partington place dozens of times an' he knows darned well what it's like, but this wall's like his wife putting a veil over her face sudden. He'd know he'd see the same old face but he'd have to lift the veil just the same. An' for the same reason 'Lias just has to look over that wall.

"He knows there ain't a chance by day, but he reconnoiters an' crawls around, an' at last he picks a place down near the water. Eph says there's breasts of rock each end of the wall into which the wall is built an' you can't get over 'em from the water. 'Lias figures he can row down, slip to land and climb the wall. So he picks a night when it's full moon but clouds obscuring the moon frequent. He packs a light ladder an' sculls down cautious. He lands an' puts up his ladder an' when the moon's under a cloud he swarms up. An' there he is on top the wall. He draws up the ladder an' flattens out an' peers round. It's 'Lias's idea to drop the ladder on the other side an' prospect. He waits till the moon comes; he sees it's an open meadow below him out again an' dotted with big bushes. He waits till another cloud comes an' he unslings the ladder an' starts down—

"An' when he gets to this point in his story, Eph shuts up an' heads the bus to the side of the road where we halt. I say: 'Yeah, an' what then?' Eph says: 'Then we pick him up next morning rowing round and 'round the harbor an' crying "keep 'em off me—keep 'em off me!" 'We take him in, he says, an' get him calmed down some an' he tells us what I've told you.'

"An' then," said McCann, "an' then—" He poured himself a drink and gulped it—"An' then the old goat shows he's the best liar or the best actor I ever rode range with. For he says after that 'Lias goes like this an' Eph's eyes roll an' his face twitches an' he sort of screeches—'Hear the piping! Oh, hear the piping like birds! Oh, God—look at 'em running and hiding in the bushes! Hiding and piping! God—they look like men—but they ain't men. Look at 'em run an' hide! ... '

"'What's that? It sounds like a hoss ... a big hoss ... galloping ... galloping! Christ! Look at her ... with her hair streaming ... look at the blue eyes an' white face of her ... on the hoss ... the big black hoss!'

"'Look at 'em run ... an' hear 'em pipe! Hear 'em pipe like birds! In the bushes ... running from bush to bush ... '

"'Look at the dogs ... they ain't dogs ... Christ I keep 'em off me! Christ! keep 'em off me! The hounds of Hell ... dear Jesus ... keep 'em off me!'"

McCann said: "He made me crawl. I'm telling you I'm crawling now.

"Then he started the bus an' went on. I managed to ask: 'Then what?' He says: 'That's all. That's all we can get out of him. Ain't never been the same since. Mebbe he just fell off the wall an' hit his head. Mebbe so—mebbe not. Anyway 'Lias ain't curious no more. Goes round the village sort of wide-eyed an' lonesome. Get him started an' he'll do for you what I just did.' He cackled—'But better.'"

"I said, still crawling: 'If what looked like men wasn't, an' the dogs that looked like dogs wasn't, then what the hell were they?'

"He says: 'You know as much as I do.'

"I say: 'Oh, yeah. Anyway, ain't you got any idea on who was the gal on the big black hoss?'

"He says: 'Oh, her, sure. That was the Frenchman's gal.'"

Again the icy hand ruffled my hair, and my thoughts ran swiftly ... Dahut on the black stallion ... and hunting—what ... and with what? And the upright stones and the men who had died raising them as they did of old ... as of old in Carnac ...

McCann's narrative was going smoothly on. He said: "We ride along quiet after that. I see the old goat is pretty agitated, an' chewing his whiskers. We come to the place he's been telling about. We look around. It's a nice place all right. If I was what I say I was, I'd buy it. Old stone house, lots of room—for East. Furniture in it. We amble around an' after awhile we come in sight of this wall. It's all the old goat said it was. It'd take artillery or TNT to knock it down. Eph mutters not to pay attention to it, except casual. There's big gates across the road that look like steel to me. An' while I don't see nobody I get the idea we're being watched all the time. We stroll here an' stroll there, an' then back to the other place. An' then the old goat asks me anxious what I think of it, an' I say it's all right if the price is, an' what is the price. An' he gives me one that makes me blink. Not because it's high but because it's so low. It gives me the glimmer of another idea. Nursing that idea, I say I'd like to look at some other places. He shows me some, but halfhearted like an' the idea grows.

"It's late when we get back to the village. On the way we run across a man who draws up to talk. He says to the old goat: 'Eph, there's four more gone from the poor farm.'

"The old goat sort of jitters an' asks when. The other man says last night. He says the superintendent's about ready to call in the police. Eph sort of calculates an' says that makes about fifty gone. The other man says, yeah, all of that. They shake their heads an' we go on. I ask what's this about the poor farm, an' Eph tells me that it's about ten miles off an' that in the last three months the paupers have been vanishing an' vanishing. He's got that same scared look back, an' starts talking about something else.

"Well, we get back to the Beverly House. Thar's quite a bunch of villagers in the front room, an' they treat me mighty respectful. I gather that Eph has told 'em who I'm supposed to be, an' that this is a sort of committee of welcome. One man comes up an' says he's glad to see me but I've been too slow coming home. Also, they've all got the news about these vanishing paupers, an' it's plain they don't like it.

"I get my supper, an' come out an' there's more people there. They've got a sort of look of herding for comfort. An' that idea of mine gets stronger. It's that I've been wronging Eph in thinking all he wants is a profit from me. I get the flattering idea that they're all pretty plumb scared, an' what they think is that mebbe I'm the man who can help 'em out in whatever's scaring them. After all, I suppose the Partingtons in their time was big guns 'round here, an' here I am, one of 'em, an' coming back providentially, as you might say, just at the right time. I sit an' listen, an' all the talk goes 'round the poor farm an' the Frenchman.

"It gets around nine o'clock an' a feller comes in. He says: 'They picked up two of them missing paupers.' Everybody sort of comes close, an' Eph says: 'Where?' An' this feller says: 'Bill Johnson's late getting in, an' he sees these two floaters off his bow. He hooks an' tows 'em. Old Si Jameson's at the wharf an' he takes a look. He says he knows 'em. They're Sam an' Mattie Whelan who's been at the poor farm for three years. They lay 'em out on the wharf. They must have drowned themselves an' been hitting up against a rock for God knows when, says this feller.'

"'What d'you mean hitting up against a rock?' asks Eph. An' the feller says they must have been because, there ain't a whole bone in their chests. Says the ribs are all smashed, an' the way it looks to him they must have been pounding on a rock steady for days. Like as if they'd been tied to it. Even their hearts are all mashed up—"

I felt sick—and abreast of the sickness a bitter rage; and within me I heard a voice crying: "So it was done in the old days ... so they slew your people ... long ago—" Then I realized I was on my feet, and that Bill was holding my arms.

I said: "All right, Bill. Sorry, McCann," and poured myself a drink.

McCann said, oddly: "Okay, Doc, you've got your reasons. Well, just then into the room comes a gangling sort of feller with empty eyes an' a loose mouth. Nobody says a word, just watches him. He comes over to me an' stares at me. He starts to shake, an' he whispers to me: 'She's riding again. She riding on the black horse. She rode last night with her hair streaming behind her an' her dogs around her—'

"Then he lets out the most God-awful screech an' starts bowing up an' down like a jumpin jack, an' he yells—'But they ain't dogs! They ain't dogs! Keep em off me! Dear Jesus ... keep 'em off me!' At that there's a bunch around him saying 'Come along 'Lias, now come along' an' they take him out, still screeching. Them that's left don't say much.

"They look at me solemn, an' pour down a drink or two an' go. Me—" McCann hesitated "-me, I'm feeling a mite shaky. If I was the old goat I could give you an' idea how 'Lias yelped. It was like a couple of devils had pincers on his soul an' was yanking it loose like a tooth. I drunk a big one an' started for bed. Old Eph stops me. He's putty-white an' his beard is quivering. He trots out another jug an' says: 'Stay up awhile, Mr. Partington. We've an idea we'd like you to settle here with us. If that price don't suit you, name your own. We'll meet it.'

"By that time it don't take a master-mind to tell this is a pretty well-scared village. An' from what I know before an' what I've heard since I don't blame 'em. I say to Eph: 'Them paupers? You got an idea where they're going to? Who's taking them?'

"He looks around before he answers, then he whispers—'De Keradel.'

"I says: 'What for?' An' he whispers: 'For his rockery.'

"Earlier I might have laughed at that. But somehow now I don't feel like it. So I tell him I'm interested, but I got to go back to New York tomorrow an' think it over an' why don't they get the police to look into things. He says the village constable's as scared as any, an' there ain't no evidence to get out a search warrant, an' he's talked to a couple of country officers but they think he's crazy. So the next morning I check out saying I'll be back in a day or two. There's quite a little delegation sees me off an' urges me to come back.

"I'm mighty curious to see that place behind the wall, an' especially what Eph calls the rockery. So I run down to Providence where I've got a friend with a hydroplane an' we fix it to ride over the de Keradel place that night. We go along the coast. It's a moonlight night, an' we raise it about ten o'clock. I get out the glasses as we come close. We're flying about 500 feet up. It's clear, but there's a fog rising about this point as we get closer. A quick fog, too, that looks as if it's trying to beat us to it.

"There's a big boat lying off the point, too, in a sort of deep cove. They flash search lights up at us, whether trying to blind us or to find out who we are I don't know. I give my friend the office and we duck the lights. I've got my glasses up an' I see a long rambling stone house half hid by a hill. Then I see something that sort of makes me feel creepy—like old Eph's wailing. I don't just know why. But it's a lot of big stones all doing ring-around-a-rosy around a bigger gray heap of stones in the middle. The fog's swirling all around like snakes, an' there's lights flickering here an' there ... gray sort of lights ... rotten ... "

McCann stopped and lifted a drink with a none too steady hand: "Rotten sort of lights is right. Like they're ... decaying. An' there appears to be something big an' black squatting on that big gray heap ... without no shape to it ... shadowy. An' it quivers an' wavers ... an' the standing stones are like they're reaching up to pull us down to this squatting thing ... "

He set the glass down with a hand even less steady:

"Then we're over an' zooming away. I look back an' the fog's covered everything."

He said to Lowell: "I'm telling you, Doc, that never at no time with the Mandilip hag did I feel as slimy as when we flew over that place. The Mandilip hag had a line into Hell all right. But this is Hell itself—I'm telling you!"

CHAPTER XIII

SUMMONS FROM DAHUT

"Well, that's all." McCann lighted a cigarette and looked at me. "But I got the idea what I've been telling makes a lot more sense to Dr. Caranac than it does to me. Me—I know it's black poison. Mebbe he knows just how black. For instance, Doc, why'd you shy so when I made mention of them two paupers?"

I said: "Dr. Lowell, you won't mind if I have a little talk with Bill. McCann, I apologize to you in advance. Bill, come over here in the corner. I want to whisper to you."

I took Bill out of earshot, and asked: "Just how much does McCann know?"

Bill answered: "All that we know about Dick. He knows de Keradel's connection with the doll-maker. And that would be enough for him, if he knew nothing else."

"Anything about my experiences with the Demoiselle?"

"Certainly not," said Bill stiffly. "Both Lowell and myself thought too much of the confidential element entered into them."

"That," I said, keeping solemn with an effort, "was true delicacy. But have you spoken to anyone except me about the shadowy visitation your imagination drew upon you?"

Bill exclaimed: "Imagination hell! But no—I haven't."

"Not even to Helen?"

"No."

"Fine," I said. "Now I know where I stand." I went back to the table and apologized again to McCann. I said to Lowell:

"You remember de Keradel spoke to us of a certain experiment he contemplated? Its purpose the evocation of some god or demon worshiped long ago? Well, from McCann's story I would say that his experiment must be rather far advanced. He has set up the standing stones in the order prescribed by the ancient ritual, and he has built in their center the Great Cairn. The House of the Blackness. The Shrine of the Gatherer. The Alkar-Az—"

Lowell interrupted, eagerly: "You have identified that name? I recall that when first you spoke it de Keradel showed consternation. You evaded his questions. Did you do that to mystify him?"

I said: "I did not. I still do not know how that name came into my mind. Perhaps from that of the Demoiselle as other things may have come later. Or perhaps not; the Demoiselle, you will also recall, suggested to him that I had—remembered. Nevertheless, I know that what he has built in the heart of the monoliths is the Alkar-Az. And that, as McCann truly says, it is black poison."

McCann asked: "But the two paupers, Doc?"

I said: "It may be that they were beaten by the waves against the rocks. But it is also true that at Carnac and at Stonehenge the Druid priests beat the breasts of the sacrifices with their mauls of oak and stone and bronze until their ribs were crushed and their hearts were pulp."

McCann said, softly: "Jesus!"

I said: "The stone cutter who tried to escape told of men being crushed under the great stones, and of their bodies vanishing. Recently, when they were restoring Stonehenge, they found fragments of human skeletons buried at the base of many of the monoliths. They had been living men when the monoliths were raised. Under the standing stones of Carnac are similar fragments. In ancient times men and women and children were buried under and within the walls of the cities as those walls were built—sometimes slain before they were encased in the mortar and stone, and sometimes encased while alive. The foundations of the temples rested upon such sacrifices. Men and women and children ... their souls were fettered there forever ... to guard. Such was the ancient belief. Even today there is the superstition that no bridge can stand unless at least one life is lost in its building. Dig around the monoliths of de Keradel's rockery. I'll stake all I have that you'll discover where those vanished workmen went."

McCann said: "That poor farm's on the water. It wouldn't be hard to take them away by boat."

Lowell objected, sharply: "Nonsense, McCann! How could they be taken secretly? You're surely not suggesting that de Keradel could steam in, gather the paupers on his boat and sail away without anyone being aware of it?"

McCann said, placatingly: "Well, now, Doc, there wouldn't be much of a trick in that. I've seen 'em snaked out of penitentiaries. Guards can always be fixed, you know."

I said: "There are other ways. They might slip away of their own volition. Who knows what de Keradel might promise them—if they slipped away to him?"

Lowell said: "But how could he get to them? How establish contact?"

Bill answered, quietly: "By the shadows of Dahut!"

Lowell thrust his chair back, violently. He said: "Preposterous! I acknowledge that such abnormal suggestion as we have been considering might have been effective in Ralston's case. But to assert that a collective hallucination could be induced which would draw away half a hundred inmates of—it is—preposterous!"

"Well, anyway," drawled McCann, "they went."

I said: "De Keradel is an enthusiast, and thorough. Like Napoleon, he knows that you cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs; nor can you have meat without cattle; nor human sacrifices without humans. How did he get his workmen? He engaged an agent who collected men without family—and therefore with nobody to care whether they turned up again or did not. Also, they came from widely separated parts and they did not know each other. Why? Because that reduced to a minimum any chance of inquiry concerning them. What became of those who were left after they had finished his rockery! Who knows—and who cares? Were any of them allowed to go after they had finished their work? I doubt it. Otherwise, why all these peculiar precautions? Again—who knows and cares?"

Bill said: "You mean he used them for—"

I interjected: "For his experiment, of course. Or as McCann's old goat put it—for his rockery. They were laboratory subjects. Well, the supply runs short. He hasn't enough. For one reason or another he doesn't want to bring in any more that way. Still, he must have more subjects. For a show such as he proposes putting on, he may need quite a crowd. Where could he get them with the least risk? Not by stealing them from around the countryside. That would raise hell. Not from a prison—because even ten men vanishing from a prison would raise even more hell. Also, he needs women as well as men. What is the least missed person in the world? A pauper. And here close at hand is a reservoir of them. And so—the paupers vanish."

McCann said: "It listens. But what about them dogs that ain't dogs that sent 'Lias loco?"

I thought: "Riding on her stallion black, at her feet her shadow pack—" I answered: "Your guess about that is as good as mine, McCann. What are you going to do with these men, if Ricori puts them under your command? What plan have you in mind?"

He settled himself in his chair.

"Well, it's this way. If the boss turns 'em over to me, it means he's going to come back. An' when the boss makes up his mind, he moves quick. Now these lads I named are handpicked an' none afraid of hell or its angels. Handy with the Tommy-guns an' what not, but they ain't a bad-looking or a bad-behaved lot—ordinarily. Now what I'm figuring is that if this de Keradel's up to the tricks we've been talking of, something's likely to happen that'll give us the breaks on him. I got a hunch the floating off of them two paupers was a mistake. He don't want nothing that'll point a finger at him. All right, maybe he'll make another mistake. An' we'll be there.

"The Beverly people'll be damned glad to see me. I been a mite modest about how much they took to me. I go back with a couple of the lads an' tell Eph I'll try out for a bit that house he offered me. Then in a day or two the rest filter in, just coming up to stay with McCann for the fishing an' the rest. We'll fish around all right, an' sort of ride an' tramp an' scout. By the time the boss gets here we'll have the lay of the land. Then, after you've shown him, he'll tell us what to do further."

Dr. Lowell said: "McCann, all of this will cost money. I cannot consent to it unless you permit me to defray the expenses."

McCann grinned: "Don't worry about that, Doc. The house won't cost us nothing. Eph an' his friends'll see to that. As for the lads—well, I look after some things for the boss an' he's left me plenty funds. The boss'll pay for the party. An' should the party get rough, well—" there was a lawless glint in McCann's eyes "—from what you and Doc Bennett tell me there ought to be good pickings at the de Keradel joint."

Lowell exclaimed, shocked: "McCann!"

I laughed; nevertheless I studied McCann. Suddenly I had an uneasy feeling that he might not be so disinterested after all. Straightforward enough he seemed, and his story supported our every suspicion—but wasn't it just a little too pat? He and Ricori had been gangsters and racketeers, operating ruthlessly outside the law. I had no doubt that in the main his story was true; that he had found a village filled with fear and rumor. But this might be nothing more than the gossip of a small community whose curiosity and resentment had been aroused by being barred from a place to which they had enjoyed free ingress for generations. In many parts of rural New England it is a neighborhood affront to pull down the window shades at night. Families have been ostracized and preached against in the churches for doing it. Unless you are doing something wrong, why cover the windows so the neighbors can't look in? The same argument might be at the bottom of the Beverly unrest. Their imaginations painted what might be going on behind the de Keradel wall. And tale after tale would grow stronger in the telling.

How easy for a quick-witted crook to take advantage of such a situation; bring in a gang and set up headquarters in this house between the village and the isolated de Keradel place. Then, on some manufactured evidence or without it, under pretense of ridding the villagers of their terror, with their rear protected by these superstitious allies, to storm the wall, raid the house and loot it. Its guards once overcome, there would be none to interfere. Perhaps McCann had information as to the extent of the "pickings" beyond Bill's surmises as to what had been secured from Ralston and the others. Perhaps he had already apprised Ricori of the opportunity, and the cable he had induced Lowell to send was only a blind.

These thoughts ran through my mind in a fraction of the time it has taken to tell them. I said:

"It sounds first rate. But what you need is somebody inside the place who will keep in touch with you."

McCann said, emphatically: "That's one thing can't be done."

I said: "Wrong. I know somebody who will do it."

He grinned: "Yeah? Who?"

I said: "Me."

Lowell leaned forward, staring at me incredulously. Bill whitened, and little beads of sweat came out on his forehead. McCann's grin faded. He asked:

"How you going to get in?"

I said: "By the front door, McCann. I have, in fact, an invitation from Mademoiselle de Keradel. I've accepted it. I'm afraid I forgot to tell you that, Bill."

Bill said, grimly: "I'm afraid you did. So ... that ... was why you wanted de Keradel's address? And that was what you did while I was asleep ... and that was why—"

I said, airily: "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, Bill. The Demoiselle, no matter what else she may be, is a damned interesting lady. I'd been thinking over what you suggested a few days ago—about sitting in and so on. It just happened that the invitation came while you were asleep, and I immediately accepted. And that's all."

He said, slowly: "And immediately the—"

I said, hastily: "Nothing to that, Bill. Forget it. Now as I see the situation—"

McCann interrupted, his eyes narrowed and face hardened: "Seems to me you know this de Keradel gal better'n anybody told me, Dr. Caranac. Seems to me you know a hell of a lot you've not come clean with."

I said, cheerfully: "A hell of a lot is right, McCann. And that's the way it stays. Take me or leave me. You'll have your gang outside the wall. I'll be inside. If you want me to cooperate, fine. If you don't, I'd just as soon play a lone hand. What are you afraid of?"

He flushed, and his hands went down to his hips in a swift stiff motion. He drawled: "I ain't afraid—but I like to know the brand of who I work for."

I laughed: "Take it from me, McCann, whatever it is, it's not the Double-Cross. But you'll have to leave it at that."

Bill said, still sweating: "I can't let you do that, Alan."

I said: "Listen. Either de Keradel and the Demoiselle brought about the suicide of Dick and the others—or they did not. If they did—they accomplished it by some dark knowledge they possess, or by hypnotic suggestion. In either case, no evidence could be brought against them that any court would consider. So that's out. But if de Keradel is actually carrying on that devilish experiment he hinted, and if he is luring, stealing or otherwise securing human sacrifices to complete that experiment, then he's leaving himself open to perfectly tangible evidence and a charge of murder. He's bending his neck to the noose. And so—" I winced at the thought "—is the Demoiselle. The only place to get that evidence is up there in Rhode Island. McCann's plan is good, but he's outside the wall, and he could not have the advantages that someone inside would have for observation. It happens that I am not only invited to go inside, but uniquely fitted for doing so—" I couldn't help giving Bill a sardonic grin at that. "Also, Bill, if there is danger, I have a real conviction that I run less risk by accepting the Demoiselle's invitation than I do by refusing it."

And that was true enough, I thought. If I obeyed Dahut's summons, I'd probably lose Helen forever. But if I didn't—well, I would just as probably lose her anyway. And I didn't like to think of what might happen to her and to Bill in the process. At that time incredulity and absolute conviction of the Demoiselle's unholy powers revolved in my mind like a two-sailed windmill. And sometimes so fast that I found myself both believing and disbelieving at the same time.

Bill said: "You were always a rotten bad liar, Alan."

McCann stuck out his hand: "Okay, Doc, I'm sorry I said it. You don't need tell me nothing more. What you want me to do?"

I was really moved by that. I took his hand and said: "I'm sorry, too, McCann."

McCann asked: "What for?" I said: "For something I'd been thinking. Come down to the Club with me and we'll map out some line. We won't talk here because from now on I want Dr. Bennett to keep out of this."

Bill said, hotly: "The hell I will. When McCann goes up there I go with him."

I said: "I know what I'm talking about. I'll play this game with McCann. And with Ricori—if he comes over. But you're out of it, Bill. I don't want you even to talk to Ricori. Let Dr. Lowell do all the explaining."

Bill said, stubbornly: "I go with McCann."

I said: "You poor boob, do you think it's you I'm considering? It's Helen."

He dropped at that, and again I saw his face whiten and the little beads of sweat come out on his forehead. He said, slowly: "So—that's it."

I said: "That's exactly it. Think it over and see how right I am. Nothing doing, Bill. You're out."

I turned to Dr. Lowell: "I have the best of reasons for what I am saying. I am hoping you will support me. I don't think there's much danger for you. But for Helen and Bill—a lot."

Lowell said, very gravely: "I understand you, Alan. I will not fail you."

I got up; I looked at Bill and laughed. I said: "You've the look of somebody who sees his best friend pacing from the condemned cell toward that Little Green Door from which none returneth. It's nothing of the sort, Bill. I'm going to visit a charming lady and her perhaps insane but nevertheless brilliant father. I expect to have a most interesting time. And if papa gets too crazy I have McCann to fall back on. If I want you, I'll call on you. There are mails and telephone. Come on, McCann."

We went down, the four of us, to the hall. I said: "Also, Bill, don't tell Helen anything about this until I give you the word."

And just then the door opened and Helen came in.

Her eyes widened, and she looked distressed and she said: "Hello, darling. Why didn't somebody tell me you were coming tonight? I'd not have gone out."

She put her arms around my neck and kissed me. Her lips were soft and warm, and there was a fragrance about her—not like some unknown sea-bloom but flowers blossoming on a breast of earth.

I said: "I didn't know it myself until after you'd gone, angel."

She said: "Well, you're coming right back. I've a lot to talk to you about."

I wanted to be with Helen, right enough—but some way, tonight, I didn't want to talk to her. I cast an involuntary glance of appeal at McCann.

McCann caught it. He said: "Sorry, Miss Helen, but we got to get right out."

Helen looked at him: "Hello, McCann. I didn't notice you. What are you going to do with this man of mine?"

"Anything you say, Miss Helen." McCann was grinning, but I had the idea he was speaking absolute truth, and that whatever Helen ordered he would certainly do his best to accomplish.

Bill said: "Alan has to go, Helen."

She took off her hat and smoothed the copper helmet of her hair. She asked, quietly: "The de Keradel affair, Alan?"

I nodded and she went a little white. I said: "It's nothing very important, but, honestly, I can't stay. Let's make a day of it tomorrow, Helen. Meet me at Marguens and take lunch. Then we'll ride around a bit and get supper and go to some show or other. I haven't been to a theater for three years."

She looked at me for a long minute or two, then rested her hands on my shoulders: "All right, Alan. I'll meet you there—at two. But—be there."

As I went out I swore to myself that come hell or high water, I'd be there. Summons from Dahut notwithstanding. If Bill had to entertain one of her shadows for a few hours—well, he'd have to stand it. Down at the Club, McCann and I had a few drinks and I told him a few more things. I said I thought both de Keradel and his daughter were a bit crazy, and the reason I'd been invited down was because she had a wild idea we'd been in love with each other a few thousand years ago. He listened, silently. When I was done, he said: "The shadders, Doc. You think they're real?"

I said: "I don't see how they can be. But certainly the people who see them think they are."

He nodded, absently: "Well, they got to be treated as if they're real. But how can you put the heat on a shadder? The people responsible for 'em are real, though. An' you can always put the heat on them."

He said, shrewdly:

"This de Keradel gal, now. How do you feel about her? I hear she's mighty ornamental. Feel safe—going down there?"

I flushed at that; I said, coldly: "When I need a guardian, McCann, I'll let you know."

He answered as coldly: "I didn't mean it that way. Only—I ain't aiming to see Miss Helen get any crooked deal."

That stung me; I began, unthinkingly: "If it wasn't for Miss Helen—" then shut up. He leaned over toward me, his eyes less hard:

"I thought so. You're scared for Miss Helen. That's why you're going. But mebbe that ain't just the way to protect her."

I said: "All right, McCann, tell me a better."

He said: "Why not leave it to me an' the hands?"

"I know what I'm about, McCann," I told him.

He sighed and got up: "Well, soon's we hear from the boss you an' me's got to get together on signals an' how to meet down there. There'll be boats fishing at the end of the walls, for one thing. When do you figure on visiting?"

"When I'm sent for."

He sighed again, shook my hand solemnly, and left. I went to bed, and slept soundly. The next morning at nine Bill called me up to say that Ricori had cabled the necessary instructions and that he was flying from Genoa to Paris that day to catch the Mauretania and would be in New York in a week. McCann 'phoned the same news, and we made an engagement for that midnight to go over details of our team work.

I spent a gorgeous day with Helen. I met her at Marguens and said: "This day is yours and mine, darling. We're not going to think about anything else. To hell with the de Keradels. This is the last mention of them."

She said, sweetly: "To hell with them suits me perfectly, darling."

It was, as I have said, a gorgeous day, and long before it was over I knew just how much I was in love with her; how utterly lovely and desirable she was. Every time the thought of the Demoiselle crept out of the far corner of my mind into which I had thrust her, I pushed her back with a pang of hatred. At half-past eleven I bade good-by to Helen at Lowell's door. I asked: "How about tomorrow?"

She said: "All right—if you can."

I asked: "Why the devil couldn't I?"

She said: "This day's over, Alan. You'll not be rid of Dahut so easily." I started to answer; she stopped me: "You don't know how much I love you. Promise me—if you need me ... come to me ... at any time ... in any shape!"

I caught her in my arms: "In any shape—what the devil do you mean by that?"

She drew my head down, pressed her lips to mine—savagely, tenderly, passionately all in one for long. She thrust me from her and I saw that she was crying. She threw open the door, then turned for a moment:

"You don't know how much I love you!"

She closed the door. I went down to the waiting cab and rode to the Club, cursing the Demoiselle more comprehensively than I had since ancient Ys—if and when that had been. McCann hadn't arrived, but a telegram had. It was from Dahut, and read:

The yacht will be waiting for you at the Larchmont Club at noon tomorrow. Her name is Brittis. I will meet you. Sincerely hope you will come prepared for indefinite stay.

Well—that was that. I did not miss the nuance of the name, nor the mockery in that "indefinite stay." Helen was reality, and Dahut was shadow. But I knew that now shadow had become the true reality. With a sinking of the heart; with forebodings against which I raged, impotently; with sorrow for Helen as though I were bidding her farewell forever; with cold hatred against this woman who was contemptuously summoning me—I knew I could do nothing but obey her.

CHAPTER XIV

BEHIND DE KERADEL'S WALL

I had one of my valises packed when McCann was announced. He squinted at it with surprise: "You ain't going away tonight, Doc?"

With sudden impulse toward frankness, I pushed over to him the Demoiselle's telegram. He read it stolidly; looked up: "This just come? Thought you told Doc Bennett you'd already had an invitation."

"This," I explained patiently, "is merely a confirmation of an engagement previously made, setting a definite time for one left indefinite before as you will see if you read it over again carefully." I began to pack the other valise. McCann reread the telegram, watched me silently for a while, then said mildly:

"Doc Bennett had one of them shadders trailing him, didn't he?"

I turned to him sharply: "What makes you think that?"

He went on, as though he had not heard me: "An' he lost it down here with you, didn't he?"

"McCann," I said, "you're crazy. What gave you that idea?"

He sighed, and said: "When you an' him was arguing tonight about you going down an' setting in with this de Keradel, I got a mite puzzled. But when I see this telegram, I ain't puzzled no more. I get the answer."

"Fine," I said, and resumed packing. "What is it?"

He said: "You traded something for Doc Bennett's shadder."

I looked at him and laughed: "You've grand ideas, McCann. What have I to trade, and with whom and for what?"

McCann sighed again, and put a finger on the Demoiselle's name: "With her—" He pointed to the "indefinite stay" and said: "An' you traded this for his shadder."

"McCann," I went over to him. "He did think a shadow was following him. But that may have been only because he has been thinking too much about this whole queer matter. And he has much the same idea as you about how be was relieved of the obsession. I want you to promise me that you will say nothing of your own suspicions to him—and especially nothing to Miss Helen. If one or the other should speak to you about it, do your best to discourage the notion. I have good reasons for asking this—believe me I have. Will you promise?"

He asked: "Miss Helen don't know nothing about it yet?"

"Not unless Dr. Bennett has told her since we left," I answered. Uneasily I wondered whether he had, and cursed my stupidity for not getting his promise that he wouldn't.

He considered me for a time, then said: "Okay, Doc. But I've got to tell the boss when he comes."

I laughed, and said: "Okay, McCann. By that time the game may be all over—except for the post-mortems."

He asked, sharply: "What do you mean by that?"

I answered: "Nothing." And went on with my packing. The truth was I didn't know myself what I had meant.

He said: "You figure on getting there some time tomorrow evening. I'll be up at the old goat's with some of the lads long before dusk. Probably won't get to this house I been telling you of until next day. But nothing's likely to happen right off. You got any plans how we're going to get together?"

"I've been thinking about that." I stopped the packing, and sat on the bed. "I'm not so sure how much I'm going to be under surveillance, or what liberty I'll have. The situation is—well, unusual and complicated. Obviously, I can't trust to letters or telegrams. Telegrams have to be telephoned and telephones can be tapped. Also, letters can be opened. I might ride to the village, but that doesn't mean I could get in touch with you when I got there, because I don't think I'd be riding alone. Even if you happened to be there, it would be highly impolitic to recognize and talk to you. The de Keradels are no fools, McCann, and they would realize the situation perfectly. Until I've been on the other side of de Keradel's wall and studied the ground, I can suggest only one thing."

"You talk like you been sentenced an' bound for the Big House," he grinned.

"I believe in looking for the worst," I said. "Then you're never disappointed. That being so—put this down, McCann—a telegram to Dr. Bennett which reads—'Feeling fine. Don't forget to forward all mail' means that you're to get over that wall despite hell or high water as quick as you can and up to the house as quick as you can and damn the torpedoes. Get that McCann?"

"Okay," he said. "But I got an idea or two likewise. First—nobody's going to keep you from writing after you get there. Okay again. You write an' you find some excuse to get to the village. You get out to this Beverly House I been telling you about an' go in. Don't matter who's with you, you'll find some way to drop that letter on the floor or somewhere. You don't have to give it to nobody. After you go they'll comb the place through to find it. An' I'll get it. That's one line. Next—they'll be a couple of lads fishing around the north side of that wall all the time—that's the left end of it coming from the house. There's a breast of rock there, an' I don't see why you can't climb up that to look at the surroundings, all by yourself. Hell, you're inside the wall an' why should they stop you? Then if you've writ another note an' put it in a little bottle an' casually throw some stones an' among 'em the bottle, the lads being on the look-out for just such stuff will just as casually rope it in."

"Fine," I said, and poured him a drink. "Now all you have to do is to tell Dr. Bennett to look out for that message and bring up your myrmidons."

"My what?" asked McCann.

"Your gifted lads with their Tommies and pineapples."

"That's a grand name," said McCann. "The boys'll like it. Say it again."

I said it again, and added: "And for God's sake, don't forget to give that message straight to Dr. Bennett."

He said: "Then you ain't going to talk to him before you go?"

I said: "No. Nor to Miss Helen either."

He thought over that for a bit, then asked: "How well you heeled, Doc?"

I showed him my 32-automatic. He shook his head: "This is better, Doc." He reached under his left armpit and unstrapped a holster. In it was an extraordinarily compact little gun, short-barreled, squat.

"It shoots a .38," he said. "Ain't nothing under armor plate stands up against that, Doc. Tote your other but stick this under your arm. Keep it there, asleep or awake. Keep it hid. There's a few extra clips in that pocket of the holster."

I said: "Thanks, Mac." And threw it on the bed.

He said: "No. Put it on an' get used to the feel of it."

"All right," I said. And did so.

He took another drink, leisurely; he said, gently: "Of course, there's one straight easy way out of all this, Doc. All you need do when you sit at the table with de Keradel an' his gal is to slip that little cannon loose an' let 'em have it. Me an' the lads'd cover you."

I said: "I'm not sure enough for that, Mac. Honestly—I'm not."

He sighed again, and arose: "You got too much curiosity, Doc. Well, play your hand your own way." At the door he turned: "Anyway, the boss'll like you. You got guts."

He went out. I felt as though I'd been given the accolade.

I dropped a brief note to Bill, simply saying that when one had made up one's mind to do something, there was no time like the present and that therefore I was making myself one of the de Keradel menage on the morrow. I didn't say anything about the Demoiselle's telegram, leaving him to think I was on my way solely of my own volition. I told him McCann had a message that was damned important, and that if and when he received it from me to forward it quick, according to directions.

I wrote a little letter to Helen ...

The next morning I left the Club early—before the letters could be delivered. I taxied leisurely to Larchmont; arrived at the Club shortly before noon and was told that a boat from the Brittis was awaiting me at the landing stage. I went down to the boat. There were three men on it—Bretons or Basques, I couldn't tell which, oddly enough. Rather queer looking—stolid faces, the pupils of their eyes unusually dilated, skins sallow. One turned his eyes up to me and asked, tonelessly, in French:

"The Sieur de Carnac?"

I answered, impatiently: "Dr. Caranac." And took my place in the stern.

He turned to the two: "The Sieur de Carnac. Go."

We shot through a school of small fry and headed for a slim gray yacht. I asked: "The Brittis?" The helmsman nodded. She was a sweet craft, about a hundred and fifty feet over all, schooner rigged and built for speed. I doubted McCann's estimate of her ocean-going capabilities.

The Demoiselle was standing at the head of the ladder. Considering the manner of my last parting with her, there were obvious elements of embarrassment in this meeting. I had given them considerable thought and had decided to ignore them, or pass them over lightly—if she would let me. It was no picture of a romantic hero I had made sliding down from her tower, and I was still somewhat sensitive as to its undignified aspects. I hoped her arts, infernal or otherwise, hadn't enabled her to reconstruct that spectacle. So when I had climbed the ladder, I simply said with cheerful idiocy:

"Hello, Dahut. You're looking beautiful."

And so she was. Nothing at all like the Dahut of ancient Ys; nothing at all like a shadow queen; nothing at all like a witch. She had on a snappy white sport suit, and there was no aureole, evil or otherwise, about her pale gold hair. Instead there was a tricky little green knit hat. Her great violet eyes were clear and ingenuous with not a trace of the orchid hell sparks. In fact, to outward appearance only an extraordinarily beautiful woman with no more high explosive about her than any beautiful woman would naturally carry. But I knew different, and something whispered to me to be doubly on my guard.

She laughed, and held out her hand: "Welcome, Alain."

She glanced at my two bags with a small enigmatic smile, and led me down to a luxurious little cabin. She said, matter-of-factly: "I'll wait for you on deck. Don't be long. Lunch is ready." And she was gone.

The yacht was already under way. I looked out of the port and was surprised to see how far we were from the Club. The Brittis was speedier than I had surmised. In a few minutes I went up on deck and joined the Demoiselle. She was talking to the captain whom she introduced to me by the good old Breton name of Braz; and me to him as the "Sieur de Carnac." The captain was of stockier build than the others I had seen, but with the same stolid expression and the same abnormally dilated eyes. I saw the pupils of his eyes suddenly contract, like a cat's, and a curiously speculative gleam come into them ... almost as though it were recognition.

I knew then that what I had taken for stolidity was not that at all. It was withdrawal. This man's consciousness lived in a world of its own, his actions and responses to the outer world instinctive only. For some reason that consciousness had looked out from its inner world into this under the spur of the ancient name. From its own world ... or from another's into which it had been sent? And were the other men upon this boat under that same strange duress?

I said: "But Captain Braz, I prefer to be called Dr. Caranac—not the Sieur de Carnac." I watched him closely. He did not respond, his face impassive, his eyes wide and blank. It was as though he had not heard me.

The Demoiselle said: "The Lord of Carnac will make many voyages with us."

He bent and kissed my hand; he answered, tonelessly as had the boatman: "The Lord of Carnac does me great honor."

He bent to the Demoiselle and walked away. I watched him, and felt a creep along my spine. It was exactly as though an automaton had spoken; an automaton of flesh and blood who had seen me not as I was but as someone else had bidden him.

The Demoiselle was regarding me with frank amusement. I said, indifferently: "You have perfect discipline, Dahut."

Again she laughed: "Perfect, Alain. Let us go to lunch."

We went to lunch. That, too, was perfect. Somewhat too perfect. The two stewards who served us were like the others I had seen; and they served us on bent knees. The Demoiselle was a perfect hostess. We talked of this and that ... and steadily I forgot what she probably was, and thought of her as what she seemed to be. Only toward the last did that which was buried deep in both our minds crop out. The blank-eyed stewards had knelt, and gone. I said, half to myself:

"Here feudal and the modern meet."

She answered, quietly: "As they do in me. But you are too conservative in naming feudal times, Alain. My servants go further back than that. As do I."

I said nothing. She held her wine glass against the light, turned it to catch the colors, and added, casually:

"As do you!"

I lifted my own glass, and touched hers with its rim: "To ancient Ys? If so, I drink to it."

She answered gravely: "To ancient Ys ... and we drink to It."

We touched glasses again, and drank. She set down her glass and looked at me, faint mockery in her eyes and, when she spoke, within her voice:

"Is it not like a honeymoon, Alain?"

I said, coldly: "If so—it would be somewhat lacking in novelty—would it not?"

She flushed a little at that. She said: "You are rather brutal, Alain."

I said: "I might feel more a bridegroom if I felt less like a prisoner."

Her straight brows drew together, and for a moment the hell sparks danced in her eyes. She dropped her eyes and said, demurely, although the angry flush still stained her cheeks:

"But you are so elusive, my beloved. You have such a gift for disappearance. There was nothing for you to fear that night. You had seen what I had willed you to see, done as I had willed—why did you run away?"

That stung; the sleeping wrath and hate against her that I had known since I met her flared up; I caught her wrists:

"Not because I feared you, white witch. I could have strangled you while you slept."

She asked, tranquilly, and tiny dimples showed beside her lips:

"Why didn't you?"

I dropped her hands: "I may still. That was a wonderful picture you painted in my sleeping mind."

She stared at me, incredulously: "You mean ... you do not think it was real? That Ys was not real?"

"No more real, Dahut, than the world in which the minds of the men on this boat live. At your command—or your father's."

She said, somberly: "Then I must convince you of its reality."

I said, rage still hot within me: "Nor more real than your shadows, Dahut."

She said, yet more somberly: "Then of those, too, you must be convinced."

The moment I had said that about the shadows I was sorry for it. Her reply did nothing to reassure me. I cursed myself. This was no way to play the game. There was no advantage to be gained by quarreling with the Demoiselle. It might, indeed, bring down upon those I was trying to protect precisely what I was trying to save them from. Was that the meaning behind her promise to convince me? She was pledged so far as Bill was concerned and here I was in payment—but she had made no pledges as to Helen.

If I was to play my game, it must be to the limit; convincingly; with no reservations. I looked at Dahut and thought, with a sharp pang of compunction, for Helen, that if the Demoiselle were a willing partner it would have its peculiar compensations. And then I thrust Helen out of my mind, as though she might read that thought.

And there was only one way to convince a woman ...

I stood up. I took the glass from which I had drunk and I took Dahut's glass and threw them to the cabin floor, splintering. I walked to the door and turned the key. I went to Dahut and lifted her from the chair and carried her to the divan beneath the port. Her arms clung round my neck, and she raised her lips to mine ... her eyes closed ...

I said: "To hell with Ys and to hell with its mysteries. I live in today."

She whispered: "You love me?"

I answered: "I do love you."

"No!" she pushed me away. "In the long ago you loved me. Loved me even though you killed me. And in this life it was not you but the Lord of Carnac who for a night was my lover. Yet this I know—again in this life you must love me. But must you again kill me? I wonder, Alain ... I wonder ... "

I took her hands, and they were cold; in her eyes there was neither mockery nor amusement; there was vague puzzlement and vague dread. Nor was there anything of the witch about her. I felt a stirring of pity—what if she, like the others upon this boat, were victim of another's will? De Keradel's who called himself her father ... Dahut who lay there looking at me with the eyes of a frightened maiden and she was very beautiful ...

She whispered: "Alain, beloved—better for you and better for me if you had not obeyed my summons. Was it because of that shadow I was forced to send your friend ... or had you other reasons?"

That steadied me. I thought: Witch, you are not so clever.

I said, as though reluctantly: "There was another reason, Dahut."

She asked: "And that?"

"You," I said.

She bent toward me, took my chin in one soft hand and held my face close to hers: "You mean that—Alain de Carnac?"

I said: "I may not love you as the Lord of Carnac did. But I am tempted to try."

She leaned back at that, laughing—little rippling waves of laughter, careless and cruel.

"You woo me strangely, Alain. Yet I like it—for I know that what you say is truth. What do you truly think of me, Alain?"

I said: "I think of you as a garden that was planned under the red Heart of the Dragon ten thousand years before the Great Pyramid was built and its rays fell upon the altar of its most secret shrine ... a strange garden, Dahut, half of the sea ... with trees whose leaves chant instead of whisper ... with flowers that may be evil and may not be, but certainly are not wholly of earth ... whose birds sing strange songs ... whose breath is more of ocean than of land ... difficult garden to enter ... more difficult to find its heart ... most difficult, once entered, to find escape."

I said: "I think of you as a garden that was planned."

She bent to me, eyes wide and glowing; kissed me: "You think that of me! And it is true ... and the Lord of Carnac never saw me so truly ... you remember more than he—"

She fastened my wrists, her breast against mine: "The red-haired girl—I forget her name—is she not a garden, too?"

Helen!

I said, indifferently: "A garden of earth. Fragrant and sweet. But no difficulty there about finding your way out."

She dropped my wrists, and sat for a time silent; then said, abruptly:

"Let us go up to deck."

I followed her, uneasily. Something had gone amiss, something I had said or had not said about Helen. But what the devil it could have been, I did not know. I looked at my watch. It was after four. There was a fog, but the yacht seemed not to mind it; instead of diminishing, it seemed to me that the speed had increased. As we sat on the deck chairs, I mentioned this to the Demoiselle. She said, absently: "It is nothing. There can be no danger."

I said: "The speed seems rather dangerous."

She answered: "We must be at Ys by seven."

I echoed, stupidly: "Ys?"

She said: "Ys. It is so we have named our home."

She sank back into silence. I watched the fog. It was an odd fog. It did not swirl past us as fog normally does. It seemed to go with us, to accommodate its pace to ours.

To move with us.

The wide-eyed, vacant-faced sailors padded past. I began to have a nightmarish sort of feeling that I was on a ship of ghosts, a modern Flying Dutchman, cut off from the rest of the world and sped on by unseen, unheard, unfelt winds. Or being pushed along by some gigantic swimmer whose hand was clasped about the stern of this boat ... and whose breath was the fog that shrouded us. I glanced at the Demoiselle. Her eyes were shut, and she seemed to be fast asleep. I closed my own eyes.

When I opened them, the yacht had stopped. There was no sign of fog. We lay in a little harbor between two rocky headlands. Dahut was shaking me by the shoulders. I was outlandishly sleepy. The sea air, I drowsily thought. We dropped into a tender, and landed at a dock. We climbed up steps, interminably, it seemed to me. A few yards from the top of the steps was a long rambling old stone house. It was dark, and I could see nothing beyond it but the banks of trees, half-stripped by autumn of their leaves.

We went into the house, met by servants, wide-pupiled, impassive, as those who manned the Brittis. I was taken to my room, and a valet began to unpack my bags. In the same torpor, I dressed for dinner. The only moment of real consciousness I had was when I put my hand up and felt McCann's holster under my armpit.

I have the vaguest recollection of the dinner. I know that de Keradel greeted me with the utmost politeness and hospitality. During the dinner, he talked on and on, but what he was talking about I'm damned if I knew. Now and then I was aware acutely of the Demoiselle, her face and big eyes swimming out of the haze that gripped me. And now and then I thought that I must have been drugged—but whether I had or hadn't been didn't seem to matter. There was one thing that I was acutely conscious did matter, however—and that was how I answered de Keradel's questions. But another sense, or another self, unaffected by what had so paralyzed my normal ones, seemed to have taken charge of that, and I had the comfortable feeling that it was doing it most satisfactorily.

And after a while I heard Dahut say: "But, Alain, you are so sleepy. Why, you can hardly keep your eyes open. It must be the sea air."

I replied, solemnly, that it must indeed be the sea air and apologized for my dullness. I had a dim perception of the solicitous readiness with which de Keradel accepted the feeble excuses. He, himself, took me to my room. At least, I was hazily aware that he accompanied me to some place where there was a bed. I rid myself of my clothes by sheer habit, dropped into the bed and in an instant was sound asleep.

I sat up in my bed, wide-awake. The strange drowsiness was gone; the irresistible torpor lifted. What had awakened me? I looked at my watch, and it was a few minutes after one. The sound that had awakened me came again somberly—a distant muffled chanting, as though from far under earth. As though from far beneath the old house.

It passed slowly from beneath the house, rising, approaching; becoming ever plainer. A weird chanting, archaic; vaguely familiar. I got up from the bed, and went to the windows. They looked out upon the ocean. There was no moon but I could see the gray surges breaking sullenly against the rocky shore. The chanting grew louder. I did not know where was the switch to turn on the electrics. There had been a flashlight in one of my bags, but these had been unpacked; their contents distributed.

I felt around in my coat and found a box of matches. The chanting was dying away, as though those singing were passing far beyond the house. I lighted a match, and saw a switch beside the wall. I pressed it, and without result. I saw my flashlight on a table beside the bed. I clicked the catch, but no ray streamed forth. Suspicion began to take hold of me that these three things were linked—the strange sleepiness, the useless flash, the unresponsive switch ...

McCann's gun! I felt for it. There it was, nestling under my left armpit. I looked at it. The magazine was full and the extra clips safe. I went to the door and cautiously turned the key. It opened into a wide, old-fashioned hall at the end of which dimly glimmered a great window. The hall was curiously uneasy. That is the only word for it. It was filled with whisperings and rustlings—and shadows.

I hesitated; then stole to the window and looked out.

There was a bank of trees through whose half-bare branches I could see across a level field. Beyond that level field was another bank of trees. From beyond them came the chanting.

There was a glow through and over these trees—a gray glow. I stared at it ... thinking of what McCann had said ... like light decaying ... rotten ...

It was exactly that. I stood there, gripping the window, looking at the putrescent glow wax and wane ... wax and wane. And now the chanting was like that dead luminescence transformed to sound ...

And then a sharp scream of human agony shot through it.

The whisperings in the hall were peremptory. The rustlings were close. The shadows were pressing around me. They pressed me from the window, back to my room. I thrust the door shut against them, and leaned against it, wet with sweat.

Leaning against it, I heard again that scream of anguish, sharper, more agonized. And suddenly muffled.

Again the torpor swept over me. I crumpled down at the edge of the door, and slept.

CHAPTER XV

BEHIND DE KERADEL'S WALL—2

Something was dancing, flittering, before me. It had no shape, but it had a voice. The voice was whispering, over and over: "Dahut ... beware of Dahut ... Alan, beware of Dahut ... give me release, Alan ... beware of Dahut, Alan ... give me release ... from the Gatherer ... from the Blackness ... "

I tried to focus upon this flittering thing, but there was a brilliancy about it into which it melted and was lost; a broad aureole of brilliancy and only when I turned my eyes from it could I see the thing dancing and flittering like a fly caught in a globule of light.

But the voice—I knew the voice.

The thing danced and flittered; grew larger but never assumed definite shape; became small, and still was shapeless ... a flittering shadow caught in a brilliancy ...

A shadow!

The thing whispered: "The Gatherer, Alan, the Gatherer in the Cairn, do not let It eat me but beware, beware of Dahut free me, Alan, free ... free ... " Ralston's voice!

I lifted myself to my knees, crouching, hands on the floor; my eyes fixed upon the brilliancy—straining to focus this flittering thing that whispered with the voice of Ralston.

The brilliancy contracted—like the eyes of the captain of the Brittis. It became the knob of a door. A knob of brass glimmering in the light of dawn.

There was a fly upon the knob. A bluebottle; a carrion fly. It was crawling over the knob, buzzing. The voice I had thought that of Dick was drained down into the buzzing; became one with it. There was only a bluebottle fly flittering and buzzing upon a shining brass door-knob. The fly left the knob, circled me and was gone.

I staggered to my feet. I thought: Whatever you did to me there on the boat, Dahut, it was a first-class job. I looked at my wrist watch. It was a few minutes after six. I opened the door, cautiously. The hall was shadowless; tranquil. There was not a sound in the house. It seemed to sleep, but I didn't trust it. I closed the door quietly. There were great bolts at top and bottom which I dropped into place.

There was a queer emptiness in my head, and I could not see clearly. I made my way to the window and drew deep breaths of the sharp morning air, the tang of the sea strong within it. It made me feel better. I turned and looked at the room. It was immense; paneled in old wood; tapestries, colors softened by centuries, fell here and there. The bed was ancient, carved and postered and canopied. It was the chamber of some castle in Brittany, rather than that of a New England manse. At my left was an armoire, ancient as the bed. Idly, I opened a drawer. There upon my handkerchiefs lay my pistol. I pulled it open. Not a cartridge was in the chamber.

I looked at it, unbelievingly. I knew that I had loaded it when I had placed it in one of my bags. Abruptly, its emptiness linked itself with the useless flash, the unresponsive switch, the strange sleepiness. It jarred me wide-awake. I put the gun back in the drawer and went and lay down on the bed. I hadn't the slightest doubt that something other than natural cause had induced the stupor. Whether it had been suggestion by Dahut while I lay asleep on the deck, or whether she had given me some soporific drug with my lunch, made no difference. It had not been natural. A drug? I remembered the subtle drug the Tibetan lamas administer—the drug they name "Master of the Will" which weakens all resistance to hypnotic control and renders the minds of those to whom it is given impotent against command, wide-open to hallucination. All at once the behavior, the appearance, of the men on the boat, the servants in this house, fell into an understandable pattern. Suppose that all were being fed with such a drug, and moved and thought only as the Demoiselle and her father willed them to move and think? That I was surrounded by human robots, creatures who were reflections, multiplications, of the de Keradels?

And that I, myself, was in imminent peril of the same slavery?

Belief that something like this was the truth became stronger the more I thought over it. I strove to recall the conversation with de Keradel the night before. I could not—but I still retained the conviction I had passed the ordeal successfully; that the other sense or self which had taken charge had not allowed me to be betrayed. Deep within, I felt that assurance.

Suddenly, as I lay there, I felt other eyes upon me; knew that I was being watched. I was facing the windows. I drew a deep breath, sighed as one does in deep sleep, and turned with arm over face. Under its cover, with scarcely opened lids, I watched. In a few moments a white hand stole from behind a tapestry, drew it aside, and Dahut stepped into the room. Her braids fell below her waist, she wore the sheerest of silken negligees and she was incomparably lovely. She slipped to the bottom of the bed, soundlessly as one of her shadows, and stood studying me. I forced myself to breathe regularly, as though in soundest slumber. She was so lovely that I found it rather difficult. She came to the side of the bed and leaned over me. I felt her lips touch my cheek as lightly as the kiss of a moth.

Then, as suddenly, I knew she was gone.

I opened my eyes. There was another scent, unfamiliar, mingling with the breath of the sea. It was oddly stimulating. Breathing it, I felt the last traces of lethargy vanish. I sat up, wide-awake and alert. There was a shallow metal dish on the table beside the bed. Piled on it was a little heap of fern-like leaves. They were smoldering, and from their smoke came the invigorating scent. I pressed out the sparks and instantly smoke and scent disappeared.

Evidently this was an antidote to whatever had induced the other condition; and quite as evidently there was no suspicion that I had not slept uninterruptedly throughout the night.

And possibly, it occurred to me, the shadow crowded, rustling hall and the bluebottle fly that had buzzed with the voice of Ralston might have been by-products of this hypothetical drug; the sub-consciousness fantastically picturing under its influence, as it does in dream, chance sounds in terms of what has been engrossing the consciousness.

Maybe I really had slept through the night. Maybe I had only dreamed I had gone out into the shadow crowded hall ... and had fled from it and dropped down beside the door ... had only dreamed the chanting.

But if there had been nothing they had wanted me to be deaf and blind to—then why had they bundled me up in that blanket of sleep?

Well, there was one thing I knew I had not dreamed.

That was Dahut slipping into the room with the leaves.

And that meant I hadn't acted precisely as they had expected, else I wouldn't have been awake to see her. There was one lucky break, whatever the cause. I would be able to use those leaves later, if they repeated the bundling.

I went over to the tapestry and raised it. There was no sign of opening, the paneling seemingly solid. Some secret spring existed, of course, but I postponed hunting for it. I unbarred the door; the bars were about as much a guarantee of privacy as one wall in a room with the other three sides open. I took what was left of the leaves, put them in an envelope and tucked them in McCann's holster. Then I smoked half a dozen cigarettes and added their ashes to those on the dish. The appeared about the same, and they were about what would have remained if all the leaves had burned. Maybe nobody would bother to check—but maybe they would.

By then it was seven o'clock. I wondered whether I ought to get up and dress. How long was it supposed to be before the antidote took effect? I had no means of knowing and no desire to make the least mistake. To sleep too long would be far safer than to wake too soon. I crawled back into bed. And I did go to sleep, honestly and dreamlessly.

When I awakened there was a man laying out my clothes; the valet. The dish that had held the smoking leaves was gone. It was half after eight. I sat up and yawned, and the valet announced with antique humility that the Lord of Carnac's bath was ready. Despite all that the Lord of Carnac had on his mind, this combination of archaic servility and modern convenience made me laugh. But no smile answered me. The man stood, head bent, wound up to do and say certain things. Smiling had not been in his instructions.

I looked at his impassive face, the blank eyes which were not seeing me at all as I was, nor the world in which I lived, but were seeing me as another man in another world. What that world might be, I suspected.

I threw a robe over my pajamas and locked the bathroom door against him; unstrapped McCann's holster and hid it before bathing. When I came out I dismissed him. He told me that breakfast would be ready a little after nine, and bowing low, departed.

I went to the armoire, took out my gun and snapped it open. The cartridges were in place. Furthermore, the extra clips lay orderly beside where it had been. Had I also dreamed that it had been emptied? A suspicion came to me. If I were wrong, I could explain it as an accident. I carried the gun to the window, aimed it at the sea and touched the trigger. There was only a sharp crack as the cap exploded. In the night the cartridges had been made useless and, without doubt, had been restored to the pistol during my later sleep.

Well, here was warning enough, I thought grimly, without any buzzing bluebottle, and put the gun back. Then I went down to breakfast, cold with anger and disposed to be brutal if I had the chance. The Demoiselle was waiting for me, prosaically reading a newspaper. The table was laid for two, so I judged her father had business otherwhere. I looked at Dahut, and as always admiration and a certain tenderness reluctantly joined my wrath and my rooted hatred of her. I think I have mentioned her beauty before. She was never more beautiful than now—a dewy freshness about her, like the dawn; her skin a miracle, clear-eyed, just the right touch of demureness ... not at all the murderess, harlot, and witch I knew her in my heart to be. Clean.

She dropped the paper and held out her hand. I kissed it, ironically.

She said: "I do hope you slept soundly, Alan."

And that had just the right touch of domesticity. It irritated me still more. I dropped into my chair, spread my napkin over my knees: "Soundly, Dahut. Except for a big bluebottle fly that came and whispered to me."

Her eyes narrowed at that, and distinctly I saw her tremble. Then she dropped her eyes, and laughed: "You're joking, Alan."

I said: "I am not. It was a big bluebottle that whispered and buzzed, and buzzed and whispered."

She asked, quietly: "What did it whisper, Alan?"

"To beware of you, Dahut."

She asked, again quietly: "Were you awake?"

Now, regaining caution, I laughed: "Do bluebottle flies whisper to people who are awake? I was sound asleep and dreaming—without doubt."

"Did you know the voice?" Her eyes lifted suddenly and held mine. I answered:

"When I heard it I seemed to know it. But now, awake, I have forgotten."

She was silent while the blank-eyed servants placed this and that before us. Then she said, half-wearily: "Put away your sword, Alan. For today, at least, you do not need it. And today, at least, I carry no weapons. I pledge you this, and you can trust me for today. Treat me today only as one who loves you greatly. Will you do this, Alan?"

It was said so simply, so sincerely, that my anger fled and my distrust of her weakened. For the first time I felt a stirring of pity. She said:

"'I will not even ask you to pretend to love me."

I said, slowly: "It would not be hard to love you, Dahut."

The violet of her eyes was misted with tears; she said: "I wonder."

I said: "A bargain. We meet for the first time this morning. I know nothing of you, Dahut, and today you will be to me only what you seem to be. Perhaps by tonight I will be your slave."

She said, sharply: "I asked you to put down your sword."

I had meant nothing more than what I had said. No innuendo ... But now I heard again the voice that had changed to the buzzing of a fly—"Beware ... beware of Dahut ... Alan, beware of Dahut ... " And I thought of the blank-eyed, impassive men ... slaves to her will or to her father's ...

I would not put away the sword—but I would hide it.

I said, earnestly: "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean, Dahut. Really I haven't. I meant precisely what I said."

She seemed to believe me. And on that basis, piquant enough considering what had gone before in New York and ancient Ys, our breakfast continued. It had its peculiar charm. Before it was done I found myself dangerously close several times to thinking of the Demoiselle exactly as she wanted me to think of her. We dawdled, and it was eleven when we ended. She suggested a ride around the place, and with relief I went up to change my clothes. I had to snap my gun a few times and look at the leaves in McCann's holster to clear my mind of disarming doubts. Dahut had a way with her.

When I came down she was in riding breeches, her hair braided around her head like a helmet. We went to the stables. There were a dozen first class horses. I looked around for the black stallion. I didn't see it, but there was a box stall where it might have been. I picked out a sweet roan and Dahut a leggy bay. What I wanted most to see was de Keradel's "rockery." I didn't see it. We trotted along a well-made bridle path which gave occasional vistas of the water, but most of the time the rocks and trees shut off the ocean. It was a peculiar lay-out and one better adapted for solitude I have never seen. We came at last to the wall, turned and rode along it. Wicked, inverted chevaux-de-frise guarded the top, and there were a couple of wires that I suspected of carrying heavy voltage. They could not have been there when 'Lias had scaled the wall. I thought that probably he had taught a lesson as well as having received one. And here and there stood one of the swarthy little men. They had clubs, but how otherwise armed I could not tell. They knelt as we passed them.

We came to a massive gate, and there was a garrison of half a dozen. We rode past the gate and came to a wide, long meadow land dotted with stunted bushes, crouching like cowering men. It came to me that this must be where the unfortunate 'Lias had encountered the dogs that weren't dogs. Under the sun, the brisk air and the exhilaration of riding, that story had lost many of its elements of reality. Yet the place had a frightened, forbidding aspect. I mentioned this casually to Dahut. She looked at me with a secret amusement; answered as casually: "Yes—but there is good hunting here."

She rode on without saying what kind of hunting. Nor did I ask; for there had been that about her answer which had abruptly restored my faith in 'Lias's veracity.

We came to the end of the wall, and it was built in the rock as McCann had said. There was a big breast of the rock which shut off view of what lay beyond. I said:

"I'd like to take a look from here." And before she could answer, had dismounted and climbed the rock. From the top, it was open ocean. A couple of hundred yards from shore were two men in a small fishing boat. They raised their heads as they saw me, and one drew out a hand net and began dipping with it. Well, McCann was on the job.

I scrambled down and joined Dahut. I asked: "How about riding back and going out the gate for a canter. I'd like to see more of the countryside."

She hesitated, then nodded; we rode back and through the garrison and out upon a country road. In a little while we sighted a fine old house, set well back among big trees. A stone wall protected it from the road, and lounging beside one of its gates was McCann.

He watched us come imperturbably. Dahut passed without a glance. I had hung back a few paces, and as I went by McCann I dropped a card. I had hoped for just this encounter, and I had managed to scribble on it:

"Something very wrong but no definite evidence yet. About thirty men, think all well-armed. Barbed and charged wires behind wall."

I drew up beside the Demoiselle and we rode on a mile or so. She halted, and asked: "Have you seen enough?"

I said, yes; and we turned back. When we went by McCann he was still lounging beside the gate as though he had not moved. But there was no paper on the road.

The garrison had seen us coming, and the postern was swinging open. We returned to the house the same way we had gone. I had gotten not a glimpse of the "rockery."

Dahut was flushed with the ride, full of gayety. She said: "I'll bathe. Then we'll have lunch on the boat—go for a little cruise."

"Fine," I said. "And I hope it doesn't make me as sleepy as it did yesterday."

Her eyes narrowed, but my face was entirely innocent. She smiled: "It won't, I'm sure. You're getting acclimated."

I said, morosely: "I hope so. I must have been pretty dull company at dinner last night."

She smiled again: "But you weren't. You pleased my father immensely."

She went into the house laughing.

I was very glad I had pleased her father.

It had been a thoroughly delightful sail with a thoroughly charming girl. Only when one of the tranced crew knelt as he passed did I feel the sinister hidden undertow. And now I sat at dinner with de Keradel and the Demoiselle. De Keradel's conversation was so fascinating that he had made me forget that I was a prisoner. I had discussed with him much that I had wished to on the night Bill had persuaded me to be so objectionable. If at times his manner was irritatingly too much like that of a hierophant instructing a neophyte in elementary mysteries, or if he calmly advanced as fact matters which modern science holds to be the darkest of superstitions, investing them with all the authenticity of proven experience—it made no difference to me. The man's learning was as extraordinary as his mind, and I wondered how in one short life he could have acquired it. He spoke of the rites of Osiris, the black worship of Typhon whom the Egyptians also named Set of the Red Hair, the Eleusinian and the Delphic mysteries as though he had witnessed them. Described them in minutest detail—and others more ancient and darker, long buried in age-rotten shrouds of Time. The evil secrets of the Sabbat were open to him, and once he spoke of the worship of Kore, the Daughter, who was known also as Persephone, and in another form as Hecate, and by other names back, back through the endless vistas of the ages—the wife of Hades, the Queen of the Shades whose daughters were the Furies.

It was then I told him of what I had beheld in the Delphian cave when the Greek priest with the pagan soul had evoked Kore ... and I had watched that majestic—that dreadful—form taking shape in the swirls of smoke from what was being consumed upon her thrice ancient altar ...

He listened intently, without interrupting, as one to whom the story held no surprise. He asked: "And had She come to him before?"

I answered: "I do not know."

He said directly to the Demoiselle: "But even if so, the fact that She appeared to—to Dr. Caranac—is most significant. It is proof that he—"

Dahut interrupted him, and I thought there was some warning in the glance she gave him: "That he is acceptable. Yes, my father."

De Keradel considered me: "An illuminating experience, indeed. I am wondering, in the light of it, and of other things you have told me—I am wondering why you were so—so hostile—to such ideas the night we met."

I answered, bluntly: "I was more than half drunk and ready to fight anybody."

He bared his teeth at that, then laughed outright: "You do not fear to speak the truth."

"Neither when drunk nor sober," I said.

He scrutinized me silently, for moments. He spoke, more as though to himself than to me: "I do not know ... she may be right ... if I could wholly trust him it would mean much to us ... he has curiosity ... he does not shrink from the dark wisdom ... but has he courage ... ?"

I laughed at that, and said, baldly: "If I did not have—would I be here?"

"Quite true, my father." Dahut was smiling maliciously.

De Keradel struck down his hand like one who has come at last to a decision: "Carnac, I spoke to you of an experiment in which I am deeply interested. Instead of being a spectator, willing or unwilling ... or no spectator, whichever I might decide ... " he paused as though to let the covert menace of this sink in ... "I invite you to participate with me in this experiment. I have good reason to believe that its rewards, if successful, will be incalculably great. My invitation is not disinterested. I will admit to you that my experiment has not as yet met with full success. I have had results—but they have not been what I hoped. But what you have told me of Kore proves that you are no barrier to the materialization of these Beings—Powers or Presences, or if you prefer, discarnate, unknown energies which can take shape, become substance, in accordance with laws discoverable to man—and discovered. Also, you have within you the ancient blood of Carnac, and the ancient memories of your race. It may be that I have missed some slight detail that your stimulated-memory will recall. It may be that with you beside us this Being I desire to evoke will appear in all its power—and with all that implies of power for us."

I asked: "What is that Being?"

He said: "You, yourself, named it. That which in one of its manifold shapes came to the Alkar-Az of ancient Carnac as it came to the temples of my own people ages before Ys was built or the stones of Carnac raised—the Gatherer in the Cairn—the Blackness ... "

If I felt cold creep along my skin he did not know it. It was the answer I had been expecting and I was prepared.

I looked long at Dahut, and he, at least, misinterpreted that look, as I had hoped he would. I struck my own hand down upon the table: "De Keradel, I am with you."

After all, wasn't that why I had come there?

CONTINUED IN

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