Agar Halfi the mystic

London William Rider & Son, Limited Paternoster Row, E.C. 1915

Printed by +Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.+ at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

Contents

Page

Prologue 1

Chap.

I. Introductory 17

II. The Menace At Sunset 23

III. A Woman’S Fears 36

IV. At The Break Of Dawn 46

V. Strange Confidences 56

VI. A Saint And A Sinner 65

VII. Grave Suspicions 79

VIII. The Involving Of Constance Alletson 87

IX. A Lady’S Glove 105

X. “Hector” Manifests Antipathy 114

XI. The Discovery 124

XII. A Warning 137

XIII. The Power Of The Mystic 149

XIV. Herbert Canning, London 167

XV. An Unexpected Encounter 178

XVI. A Problem To Unravel 189

XVII. The Abbess 199

XVIII. Fate Defied 211

XIX. Heart-Searchings 224

XX. The Decision Of The “Combine” 231

XXI. How East Rules West 242

XXII. Almost A Tragedy! 254

XXIII. “The Writing On The Wall” 274

XXIV. Fail Not, Great Wizard! 288

XXV. “I Am But As The Dust” 298

XXVI. Till The Stars Meet 310

XXVII. At Last! Oh Beloved! 316

Agar Halfi The Mystic

Prologue

Hugo Alexis Brentwood gave his assent to Agar Halfi, his right-hand man, to pitch their little camp by the side of the stream at the foot of the mountain. Just for one moment, the Hindoo looked at his master with half-closed eyes; his consent had been merely a mechanical inclination of the head, and Agar Halfi was quite sure that the Sahib was not listening.

Still, it was sufficient; such matters were always left in his hands, and really it was more a matter of form than anything else that he had asked. So without more ado he swiftly gave his orders to the half-dozen servants and carriers, and then busied himself in superintending the preparations for the evening meal. That, to his mind, was an important thing, for no man could work unless he were properly fed.

Meanwhile the leader of this small party leaned thoughtfully on his rifle and continued to gaze absently toward the western horizon, as though fascinated by the vivid sunset. He was in reality reviewing the past eight years of his life, spent in rough travel, and contemplating with some satisfaction the knowledge and experience which he had acquired thereby.

When he left England, those who knew him best—they were not many—regarded him as a man who, having given great promise as a psychologist, had discarded most Western theories, and side-tracked into occultism; which of course, from a Western scientific point of view, was mere superstition. His colleagues had put it down to the Eastern blood in him, concluding that his environment had not been strong enough to overcome his hereditary traits of mysticism.

But their point of view did not trouble him greatly. He had drawn his own conclusions, and having plenty of means at his disposal, had decided to make research, and gather facts for himself. His measure of success was more than he had hoped for; some of his theories he had proved up to the hilt; others had not been so satisfactory, but in any case, he now knew that psychology as understood by Western thought was a mere drop in the ocean, such a puny feeble creature, that it was a wonder it had any life at all.

Thus it was that at present he happened to be situated in wild Afghanistan, a country in which he had experienced many weird and strange things, not always to be found even by those who seek them.

At the present time he was not many days’ journey from the Persian border; and when at Herat, he had heard a lot of whispered talk concerning a cave in the mountains about forty miles further on. From what could be gathered, the place was stigmatised as haunted; but the people spoke of it as if half afraid to do so, and the information he could gather was meagre.

It appeared that at irregular intervals the lifeless bodies of people had been found there. This in itself was sufficient to give the place an evil repute, but it could hardly have accounted for the firmly implanted idea that the cave was under the influence of the Evil One. All the bodies had been mutilated in the same manner. In each case the throat had been torn as though with a sharp instrument; but the wound was a jagged one, such as no known weapon could inflict! No doubt it was this latter fact that caused the natives to condemn the cave as under the spell of the supernatural. At any rate, that was all he could get to know, so he had determined to go a little out of his direct course and examine the place.

It was the crackling of the fire and the clink of tin pots that brought him back to his present surroundings. It then immediately occurred to him that Agar Halfi had asked for orders to pitch camp. Remembering that, he turned his eyes to see what sort of a spot they were in, and after a cursory glance, nodded with approval.

The position selected by the Hindoo was a good one, being sheltered on two sides by the rocky base of the mountain which formed a right-angle, and flanked on a third side by a stream which bubbled swiftly down to the plains below in a northerly direction.

Satisfied, he took up his glasses and carefully surveyed the rugged Afghan landscape. At length his eyes rested on a portion of it which seemed to be of particular interest, for he looked at it long and steadily; then dropping his glasses, he gave a low exclamation of satisfaction. There could not be much doubt that this was the place he had set out to visit.

He was disturbed in his meditations by Agar Halfi informing him that supper was ready. Yawning, he slung his rifle on his back and stretched his tired limbs; then looking keenly at the wiry supple figure of the Hindoo, said:

“Agar Halfi, to-night we will rest; to-morrow you and I will visit yonder cave, and if there is a demon there, we will exorcise him.”

He laughed a little grimly as he spoke. He was barely thirty-five years old, and had not yet reached that age when men do not talk too confidently about those things which they have to tackle, however certain they may be of the issue. But there was some excuse for his confident tone. During his eight years’ sojourn, he had nearly always been successful in clearing up to his own satisfaction—if not always to the satisfaction of those concerned—the many weird cases that had come across his path, and he did not think then that a day would dawn when he would be baffled, and indeed narrowly escape with his life.

Agar Halfi—forty years if a day—shook his head gravely, and did not reply immediately. He was a mystic of the Eastern school, and once had been within the shadow of death, when probing too far into the mysteries of the underworld. There was a note of warning in his voice as he answered:

“Maybe, Sahib, we shall exorcise him, maybe not—maybe he will exorcise us! Who knows?”

A slight smile flitted across the white man’s handsome face at the Oriental’s quaint way of rebuking him, but it died almost immediately as on second thoughts he replied:

“True, my friend, you did well to chide me for my self-assurance. It is time experience of these things had taught me not to speak lightly of them. Still, let us eat and drink, then rest, or we shall be no more fit physically to do battle with this evil thing, than these poor natives are mentally.”

Saying which, he led the way to their rough repast, which they made mostly in silence, excepting for occasional question and answer regarding their equipment, their stores, and things in general. When they had finished, the explorer brought out a pipe, which he carefully filled, and lying back on his elbow, began to smoke. The Hindoo, who did not indulge in the narcotic weed, rose and went on his usual evening mission to see that all was well for the night. When he returned, he piled fresh fuel on the fire, and squatting down—Eastern fashion—sat staring at the flames.

Brentwood, smoking retrospectively, watched him lazily for a time. At last he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and stifling a yawn remarked:

“The worst of this sort of case is, that one can get so little information—has to take so much on trust.”

Without moving his eyes from the fire, the Oriental replied:

“That is true, Sahib—the fact is, ignorance strikes terror into the hearts of these poor devils, and they think that if they speak too loudly, or say too much, the hobgoblin will lay in wait for them.”

“Unfortunately that is so,” answered his companion. “Also unfortunately, it has been the means of putting us more than once into a very tight corner.”

The Hindoo grunted emphatically. “A man can only die once, Sahib, and he will not die until his time comes.”

“True, my friend, but he can precipitate his end by acting rashly.”

“Also true, Sahib, but then, his time has come,” replied Agar Halfi with finality.

Brentwood yawned again; he was too tired to argue upon those lines, so getting his blanket, he rolled himself up, and with a lazy “good-night” prepared to settle down.

But sleep did not come to his tired eyes; his active brain would not rest, and try as he would, he could not shake off a dim feeling of depression. At last he raised himself on his elbow, and looking across the fire at the set face of his companion, said:

“What do you make of this cave business, Agar Halfi?”

The Hindoo, who had not moved since he sat down, raised his head mechanically, and looked at the speaker with vacant eyes. He had the blank expression of the somnambulist, whose mind—occupied with the internal workings of the brain—is dead to external influences. At length the light broke into his eyes, just as if his soul—being at a distance—had heard a call, and returned swiftly to its house of clay.

“Ah, Sahib, the time is inopportune; evil directions of the stars work against you, and, as I said when at Herat, we should have done well to have forgotten this place.”

“You are pessimistic,” replied Brentwood, in a tone of slight irritation. “Even if the stars are against us, it does not follow that their rays are fatal or that we cannot overcome the trend of their influence. Surely, Agar Halfi, you are falling back to the old fatalistic fallacy of your people?”

The Oriental’s eyes flashed a little in the firelight, as he answered in his grave voice:

“Now for certain the Sahib knows that Agar Halfi is no fatalist; he eradicated that doctrine from his soul long ago. But although the evil directions of the stars may be overcome by the wise and the good, does my friend think that the way to counteract them is deliberately to walk into the danger zone?”

“Perhaps I am over-confident,” replied the other meditatively; “but then I think differently to you. My English blood gives me thoughts of which you are unconscious. It is quite possible that one may enter the danger zone and still overcome the opposing forces.”

The Hindoo slowly shook his head. “Is it wise to risk the jaws of the tiger, when you can kill him from a safe distance?”

“Still, Agar Halfi, for better or worse we are here now, and we will make a bold bid to uproot this mystery. Once again, what is your opinion about it?”

“That we shall not come to grips with it!” he answered bluntly.

At this retort, Brentwood sat upright and stared surprisedly at his companion, who returned his look steadily.

“Do you mean that we shall not succeed in this matter?”

“I shall be satisfied if we both escape with our lives!”

The explorer looked at him closely for some time, and his face grew stern as the thought flashed through his mind that possibly the Hindoo would like to shirk this task; but he discarded it almost as soon as it was born, and said quietly:

“Agar Halfi, I have known you ever since I set foot in India over eight years ago. Since then, we have travelled together constantly, and, during that period, I have never known you to shrink once. Speak, what is in your mind?”

“You say, Sahib, that you have never known Agar Halfi to shrink once; true, neither will he shrink now; but he knows that there are forces at work here which are more powerful than the Sahib thinks, and—well, friend Brentwood, we are not Mahatmas.”

A grim smile turned up the corners of the white man’s mouth.

“Well, suppose I take your advice and turn back now?”

“Why waste words, Sahib? You know you will not turn back.”

Brentwood laughed in a low voice.

“That is true, my friend—I shall not turn back.”

“Nor will Agar Halfi,” replied the other stolidly. “Where the Sahib goes his friend and servant will go also. For he remembers that once, when fleeing from the wrath of the priests, into whose secrets he had dared to look too deeply, a white man gave him refuge, food, and clothing, and saved his life. Some day, perhaps, Agar Halfi will repay that debt—who knows?”

A long silence followed the Hindoo’s last remarks, and they both looked at the fire, neither desiring to speak. At length the Oriental raised his hand, and said gravely:

“Listen, Sahib, and I will tell you a legend of these mountains.”

Brentwood inclined his head in assent, and the Hindoo continued:

“Far away in the bygone past, there once lived a wizard, who practised his rites under the shadow of one of the great Persian kings. This man was a very wise and good one, who lived a clean, upright life, and always strove to do his best to uplift the people of his country. So great was his power, and so well-beloved was he of the people, that they said he was the far-famed Zoroaster come back to earth again.

“He was strong and handsome, and though barely forty years of age, he had guided the councils of the king for many years with his wisdom, and they were close friends. But his life was not fated to be a smooth one, indeed it was to end in pitiful tragedy.

“Now there resided in the palace a sister of the king, who was a sorceress. Through her brother, she wished to rule the kingdom, and no doubt would have done so but that the power of the wizard barred the way. Several times had she tried to thwart him, but her arts and spells were impotent against the white magic which he used. She was evil as well as beautiful, this sister of the king, and, in her great jealousy, she determined to encompass the downfall of the one man who stood in the way of her ambition.

“One day she made excuse to her brother the king, saying that she wished to retire for a period from the court, in order to seek solitude to enable her to gain strength in the magical arts. She obtained his consent, and for a whole month no one saw nor heard of her. What happened during that period is not written, but when she came back she had changed. There was more magnetism in her eye, more subtle power in her voice, and, what was more, she returned not alone! Dwelling in her private chamber which she used for magical ritual was a familiar demon, in the form of a huge vulture-like roc, that had evil gleaming eyes, and followed her about like a shadow. Such, Sahib, had been the fruits of her sojourn in the wilderness.

“With the aid of the familiar, the sorceress found means to enforce her wicked will. She caused the wizard to fall in love with her, knowing that thus she would deprive him of his control of powers which enabled him to hold his high station. At first, being long estranged from things of the flesh, he resisted the influence; but gradually the spell worked into his system, and at last he fell a victim to the passion she had created in him.

“Now she knew that his doom was sealed, that she had him in her grasp. Gradually his control left him, he lost his power and fell into disgrace. Too late he realised that he had been duped. In the bitterness of his downfall he changed visibly; black evil rose up in his heart, and he craved for revenge.

“But in the midst of her triumph the sorceress was to taste the bitter cup. Unwittingly she had wrought her own ruin, for, in making the wizard fall in love with her, she had discovered too late that she really and truly loved him. Now she could not undo the spell she had set in motion, and things must perforce take their course.

“One night, longing to see him, she sent a message asking him to meet her alone. That was just what the man wanted—an opportunity—and while he said he would come, he wondered at her rashness. They met, and so great was her passion for him, that she forgot all else; but revenge was uppermost in the wizard’s heart, and he strangled her. Then he fled across the border to these mountains, where he knew he would be safe from the pursuit and vengeance of her brother the king. Safe indeed was he on that score, but he reckoned without the power of the Evil One with whom the sorceress had made the compact in the wilderness. The Master of Evil had not cast his nets in vain.

“One morning, just before the dawn, the wizard awoke in his cave, with the uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone, that another presence was near him. As he opened his eyes, he saw dimly outlined the shape of a great bird, perched on one of the rocks, staring triumphantly at him with malignant eyes.

“He trembled with fear, for he realised now that his doom was sealed; that his time had come. With a hoarse, chuckling shriek the monster drew near to him. He tried to rise, but the power of the demon embodied in that dreadful shape held him terror-stricken. Nearer and nearer it drew, its cruel merciless eyes gloating over the hideous work it was about to perform.

“At length it reached him. There was a terrible cry as of one in the death throes, followed by a horrid mocking laugh, and all was silent.”

Agar Halfi paused, then continued:

“Such, Sahib, is the legend of these mountains, that has been handed down in the mystic schools of the East, and it is said that the soul of the sorceress haunts the caves, seeking her lover. At these periods her familiar appears in the form of the roc, and kills human beings who are unfortunate enough to come within the zone of its evil influence. And this will go on, until sometime in the dim future—as it is said—the wizard will again come to earth, and slay the demon which was let loose from the world of darkness by the sorceress. Then, and not till then, will these two unfortunates be released from their earth-bound condition, and be able to unite once more on the higher planes of the spiritual spheres.”

Brentwood sat silent for a while, thinking, and the Hindoo relapsed into himself again, his eyes fixed absently on the fire.

When the explorer spoke it was in a subdued tone:

“That sounds very much like the antics of the hobgoblin we have come to lay, Agar Halfi?”

The Hindoo shrugged his shoulders, which was characteristic of him; beyond that he gave no reply.

At length the explorer settled himself down once more, and this time he slept. Little did he know what would transpire before the sun rose over the eastern rim. Far less did he guess that he would never set foot in the cave he had come to explore, or of the manner in which they would meet the hobgoblin they had set forth to lay.

For a time Agar Halfi sat motionless, staring into the flames. He was far from easy. He knew that his companion was liable to a violent end from weird and unnatural causes, under the influence of the evil directions from the planet Neptune, which were now beginning to operate in his life. Particularly was this so at the periods of the conjunction and opposition of the lights in the angles, and this very midnight they would be conjoined in the north angle, below the earth!

What could have possessed the Sahib that he should court danger at such a period? He shook his head gloomily. It would have been well, as he had said, if the explorer had forgotten the existence of this place. Moreover, he felt that a powerful influence was around, over which he had no control, and there was something sinister in the atmosphere, like the deadly silence that foreshadows the tropical storm.

The Hindoo had determined that sleep should not close his eyes that night. He knew instinctively, as well as from experience, that evils of this kind struck at the moment when least expected, and that, when the world was wrapped heaviest in sleep, just before the dawn. Yes, he would remain on guard through the night, and prepare for an attack, as far as he was able. To his mind there was no question that instead of being hunted, the evil—whatever it was, and he had made a good guess as to that—was going to hunt them! How far in his judgment he was wrong, subsequent events will show.

Moving quietly, he deftly drew the signet ring from the little finger of the sleeper’s right hand, and, resuming his seat, began to slowly roll it between his palms, while, in a subdued voice, he chanted strange words. With his eyes staring fixedly at the fire, he continued this curious ritual for nearly fifteen minutes, and then, extracting a small packet from the bosom of his garment, he carefully emptied some of the contents into the fire.

For some seconds a thin, straight column of dark green smoke ascended into the air. Then it burst into lurid flame, the tongues of which darted fiercely outward, enveloping the man in a blaze of light. Agar Halfi never moved, but continued to chant in a monotonous tone, still rolling the ring in his hands. Gradually the flames sank back, and the fire resumed its normal proportions. Then, and not till then, did he cease his ritual.

For a moment he glanced at his sleeping companion, then stealthily replaced the ring without disturbing him. Building up the fire afresh, he had one look around to see that all was right, and settled down to his night watch.

How long Agar Halfi sat thus he did not know; for the very thing happened which he had determined to prevent—he slept. The next thing he remembered was being wide awake, staring into the darkness. The fire had sunk low, and it must have been somewhere near the dawn.

He had a dim idea that some sound had awakened him, and while he sat trying to recollect it, his eyes rested on the sleeping form of the explorer. He looked at him mechanically for a moment, then suddenly he noticed that his face was not a natural colour; it had a pale, greyish hue, and the features were drawn as though in suffering.

The Hindoo moved, with the intention of rising and going over to examine him; there was something which was not quite as it should be. He had, however, hardly reached his feet when a horrible chuckling sound, which made his flesh creep, caused him to turn quickly, his hand on his yataghan. Nothing? He could have sworn that he saw a huge dark shadow receding into the night. He looked keenly into the gloom, trying to follow it, when once more that uncanny sound caught his ear, causing his gorge to rise, and this time it subconsciously awoke some dim memory in his mind. But that had no time to come to the surface, for immediate action was required. The cry came again as if from behind him. He faced around, and this time there could not be any doubt about it; a monstrous shape was hovering over the sleeping white man, who lay with his left arm outstretched, as if to ward something off, and his right hand firmly grasping his throat, while a look of intense horror transfixed his countenance.

Agar Halfi stood as though paralysed, his eyes riveted on the scene, and great drops of perspiration broke out all over him. Surely, he thought, the evil death is upon us? Then a faint hope began to filter into his mind—the Fire Charm which he had wrought! Ah, but would it avail? He could only wait in mute agony and see, some unknown force held him impotent; he could not move.

Look! A great shadowy beak, beneath two awful orbs, was slowly drawing near to the explorer’s throat. The Hindoo shook in his fear, as he helplessly waited for the end. He had resigned himself to the inevitable, when once again that horrible chuckle smote his ear, this time swelling into a hideous screech, half-laugh, of baffled rage, dying away into a plaintive wail.

Then the spell broke; the shadowy shape seemed to melt into thin air. With shaking limbs Agar Halfi stepped across the dying fire, and, dropping on his knees, gazed into the death-like features of his companion. He moved the right hand from the unconscious man’s throat, and started back in amazement. Across it was a jagged blood-red line, but no blood flowed from it. Surely, thought the Hindoo, this is the evil of the legend! And as he gazed horror-stricken, the first faint shafts of sunlight heralded the coming dawn.

Chapter I

Introductory

There are villages like flowers in the combes of Somerset, There life moves in ordered measure like an old-world minuet, Life replete with scented blossoms, honest work and well-earned rest, With the inn where you may tarry when the sun sinks to the west. And there’s one where I would linger, near the pilgrim path to Wells, For its name is like a poem set to song—the “Ring of Bells.”

On a bench near the doorway you may watch the dreamy dusk Fall on gardens sweet with roses, lady-lilies, stocks and musk, You can hear the cows’ home-coming and the dogs far down the lane, And the evensong of thrushes, or the lisping speech of rain, While the cider laughs alluring with its piquant apple smells, As you drink to teeming orchards clustering round the “Ring of Bells.”

In a valley fair as this is ’twere no hardship to grow old, Mellowing as an apple mellows, homing like the sheep to fold, With the deep peace of the valley like balm upon the soul, With the faith that earth awakens ripening as the seasons roll. For ’mid beauty Death comes softly, like the tale that autumn tells, Like a song with finished cadence, like the last soft Ring of Bells.

+Rose E. Sharland+, _At the Sign of the “Ring of Bells.”_

Far away down the Bristol Channel, lying snugly under the north-west wing of an ever-growing seaside resort, is an ancient rustic village, which for centuries has slept, deep in the valley between the hills and the western sea.

Cut off from the inland by a fine range of hills, which, sweeping round from the north almost in a semicircle, also encloses the great town of Westsea, this quiet village of Worlstoke dreams on in its rural simplicity.

Although so near such a busy centre—it is only separated from Westsea by three miles of hilly woods—Worlstoke would lie practically undisturbed, but for the few visitors who, deserting the more exciting pleasures of a seaside town, walk to it through the shady paths of the Westsea Woods.

And there, after partaking of tea at one of the cottages, nearly all who wander that way visit the tiny, picturesque church, with its squarely-built, eleventh-century Norman tower; and, if so inclined—and the door is open—climb up the narrow stone steps to the belfry, thence to the roof, and revel in the glorious view to be obtained there.

To the west lies the mysterious sea, stretching across to Cardiff and Barry, while south-west it rolls away down the channel in an ever-increasing flood to the Atlantic Ocean. To the south, over the tops of the trees which form the great woods, the church spires of Westsea are just discernible, and to the north stands out the little headland which, running down to the sea, forms the northern portion of the bay in which the village lies.

About a stone’s-throw further down the main road, and on the opposite side to the church, are some broad steps, rough-hewn out of the rock. These ascend to the brow of that portion of the hill forming the end of the woods, and are continued by a path which leads down the other side, to the hamlet of Storton.

They are known as the “Monks’ Steps,” and it is said that in the years gone by the fathers used this rough road from Storton to Worlstoke to bring their dead for burial.

The steps are many in number and uneven; but the climb up them, though toilsome, is worth the trouble, if only for the truly magnificent view of the surrounding country which is obtainable at the top.

To the north, directly at one’s feet, is a green and fertile valley, stretching right up to the base of the barricading hills, the one end of which fades away in a misty blue, not far from a great seaport town about twenty miles away.

For miles and miles this range of hills runs in a great semicircle, and at last sweeps down to the sea by a small bay, just below Westsea. And there, looking white and beautiful, lies, in panoramic view, this popular seaside resort, as though in the grasp of a giant hand.

But the church and the “Monks’ Steps” are not the only items of interest at Worlstoke. If visitors care to take the north road running on a level with the seashore, half an hour’s walk will bring them to all that remains of the old priory of Melsea.

The tower is the only part now left of the original priory, but it will well repay those who take the trouble to inspect it.

Other parts of the building are now modernised, and used as a farm, but there is sufficient interest in the surroundings to justify the walk.

It was in this priory that the monks mentioned above used to flourish, from about the eleventh to the fifteenth century. Rumour has it that they had communication with Worlstoke church by means of an underground passage, though no trace of such a thing has ever been brought to light.

Now it happened that one sunny Sunday morning, in the spring of 19—, the population of this almost hidden village received a shock, so sudden and so unexpected, that it not only for some time afterwards awoke the inhabitants out of their lethargic dreamings, but brought the eyes of the surrounding districts to bear upon the place.

The shock was caused by the disappearance of the Vicar, the Rev. Henry Thornton! It was “Jarge” Wride, the milkman, who brought the first news on his way from the Vicarage. As he said to the next customer he called on:

“Mrs. Galsby” (Mr. Thornton’s housekeeper) “she be in a fine way. The Vicar he been an’ went oot for a walk las’ night, about seven o’clock, an’ he idn’t come back!”

Such important news, and through such a good medium as the milkman’s customer happened to be, spread quickly; and the whole village was very soon discussing the pros and cons of the matter, forming all sorts of conjectures—mostly irrelevant. When, toward evening, there was no sign of the missing man, the excitement grew, and eventually a search party was formed, which sought fruitlessly far into the night.

On the Monday the police were called in, but days passed without so much as a single clue to the mysterious disappearance; not a trace of Mr. Thornton could be found. So things went on, until, a month after the catastrophe, and after the police had retired baffled, the Rev. Henry Thornton was given up for lost.

The Powers-that-Be appointed a new vicar, and the village began to settle down once more to its ordinary humdrum life.

But the people were not to be left in peace—there was worse in store for Worlstoke. Things went well for a fortnight, and then the inhabitants had a further shock. A second disappearance occurred! This time it was the twenty-four-year-old daughter of the people’s churchwarden, and although every effort was made, no clue could be obtained. The Westsea Woods were scoured from end to end, but all to no purpose. She had, like Mr. Thornton, seemingly de-materialised, and vanished completely.

The minds of most of the people now bordered upon consternation. What did it mean? Who was going to be the next victim? Having no explanation of the mystery, several almost instinctively flew to the conclusion that it was something supernatural. People refused to go about after dark, unless they were in twos or threes. Anxious mothers breathed sighs of relief when their children returned home safely from the village school, and even the bolder spirits of the men were affected.

All sorts of weird tales were raked up, told and re-told, and it is quite possible that if an earthquake had swallowed up London Town, the inhabitants of Worlstoke would have made little comment, so centered were they all upon their own particular trouble. To them, one thing only really mattered, and that was what had come to be known locally as the Worlstoke Mystery.

But that by some strange chance, the new vicar became entangled in the trouble, it is difficult to say what would have happened. His presence brought others into it, and upon them rests this story.

What actually did occur constitutes a strange drama, as the following pages will reveal, if the reader has by now found sufficient interest to seek a little further.

Chapter II

The Menace At Sunset

The Rev. Philip Alletson, Vicar of Worlstoke, in the county of Somerset, walked slowly and easily along the main path of the great wood that bordered his parish.

Occasionally he stopped and absently contemplated the hard stony path, or unconsciously plucked a leaf from a bush and slowly tore it up, then went on again.

It was evident, from the slightly contracted brows, that he was deeply considering some question of grave importance—at least to him—and as he walked with head bent, a first impression of his rather tall, yet slenderly-built figure, and iron grey hair, would be that he was middle aged. Moreover, a slight stoop of the shoulders—a habit he had when in thought—tended to confirm it. But to see him face to face would shatter that first impression, for the clear skin, keen nose, and full though firm mouth, denoted youth; besides, one was conscious of energy and power when meeting the steady grey eyes.

He might have been fifty; possibly thirty; probably he was nearer forty—no one could say, and, after all, it did not matter.

His thoughts troubled him, owing, perhaps, to his extremely sensitive temperament—one might almost say with truth, “supersensitive.” Be that as it may, there is no doubt that the average man, with steady nerves (as it is said), would not have thought twice about the matter which troubled the vicar. He would simply have dismissed it from his mind as one of those strange, inexplicable coincidences that do happen in life.

Mr. Alletson had only been installed at Worlstoke a month, but that period had been sufficient for him to learn much of which he had been ignorant before he accepted the living. Had he known then what he now knew, it might have affected his decision; but indeed only a very weighty consideration would have caused him to refuse the offer, for at the time when it was laid before him, the strain of an arduous curate’s life in the East End of the great City had all but wrecked his health. When his rector had intimated that there was a small country and seaside living, with a fair stipend and a comfortable house, at the disposal of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and that he (the rector) had been able to secure for him the refusal of it, the Rev. Philip Alletson had not, under the circumstances, taken long to make up his mind. For who could tell? such another offer might not present itself for years.

He had certainly accepted the living “in haste,” but the “repentance at leisure” stage had hardly yet arrived, though an extraordinary incident that happened about a week ago had gone a long way to make him feel that he had acted without forethought, in not inquiring into things before he had finally settled.

It was this incident, coupled with one or two things that he had learned, which perplexed his mind this cool spring evening, for it looked as if the quiet rest which he sought was not to be.

Briefly, the points were:

1. The late vicar, the Rev. Henry Thornton, a mild, good man, if a little weak and easy-going, of forty-five years of age, bachelor, had suddenly and unaccountably disappeared, leaving no trace whatever, and in spite of exhaustive efforts by the police and other people interested, no rational clue had been discovered.

The only light that had been shed on the matter was contained in the detective’s report after the search at the vicarage. It tended to show that no premeditated flight had been thought of. All his papers were found in order, and practically every article of clothing he possessed had been sworn to by his housekeeper, with the exception of one suit of everyday clothes and a soft hat. He had gone out on the Saturday evening in the usual way, and had never returned.

2. It had been mooted that Mr. Thornton’s ghost had been seen by someone in the village close by the ruins of the old priory of Melsea, and there had been a lot of small talk about ghosts.

3. A small farmer at Melton-Storton had sworn that when coming home through the Great Wood of Westsea one evening, he had been suddenly confronted by two apparitions, one that of a woman, and the other that of Mr. Thornton, both of whom had looked at him in a most evil and threatening way, and then vanished.

4. A fortnight ago, Elsie Hobson, the twenty-four-year-old daughter of the people’s churchwarden, had disappeared as mysteriously and suddenly as the Rev. Henry Thornton.

Now it was the coincidence of points 1 and 4 that caused Mr. Alletson to give the matter grave consideration. Point No. 2 could be accounted for in various ways, and as to Point No. 3, well, Farmer Joicey had not the best of reputations for sobriety, particularly when returning from Westsea late at night.

What concerned Mr. Alletson was that two people should disappear in so remarkable a manner. True, there was a lapse of six weeks between the events, but they bore such a resemblance that it made him feel the same cause had probably accounted for both. But what cause? He smote the air with his fist in perplexity; there was no apparent cause. Neither Henry Thornton nor Elsie Hobson had any enemies; both were well liked, in fact the former, from all accounts, was popular, and there was no intelligible reason for either of them to “clear out.”

Poor Mrs. Hobson, who had been prostrated with the shock, had not yet recovered. Her husband, a hale man of fifty-five, had grown old in that week of trouble; and Arthur Shepperton, to whom Miss Hobson was engaged, had worn himself haggard in tiring but fruitless search. The surrounding country had been scoured, and the wood beaten from end to end; but all in vain.

The Vicar sighed, and paused in his thoughts. A cool breeze from the north-west blew in his face and brought him suddenly to himself. For a moment he hesitated, surprised, not quite knowing where he was; then he uttered an audible “Oh!” He found he had passed out of the wood, down the gentle slope that adjoined the White Worlstoke Road, passed the church and vicarage a quarter of mile further on; in fact, was quite two miles beyond them, and within a stone’s-throw of Melsea Priory.

The sun was setting in gorgeous hue, over the sea to his left, and the last lingering rays, striking the grey stones of the tower, threw out in bold relief the remains of the once beautiful building. He turned and looked at the ruins, with silent admiration, for it was the first time he had seen them. The tower stood out in sentinel fashion, high and commanding; but the sunlight softened the cold look of the stones, and dispersed the otherwise grim appearance which they usually had. Just behind, the thick ivy clung protectingly to the crumbling walls. In the background were ploughed fields, while far in the distance could be seen the dim outline of the Mendip Hills.

He walked a little nearer, to gain a better view, and again stood, drinking it in. Gradually the last bright ray disappeared, leaving the ruin in dull twilight, grey and old-looking.

The evening was very still; hardly a sound broke the silence. Once or twice the distant barking of a dog came across the fields, and the murmuring echo of voices. Occasionally, from the west behind him, the sad voice of the sea caught his ear.

The dusk deepened, and in that calm period just before darkness sets in, a space of time which no language can adequately express, but which the heart and mind alone can feel, the man lost himself in reverie. The night was gently casting a veil over a troubled world before it slept.

Gradually the coming darkness seemed to lift, then a faint silvery light, playing on the walls of the priory, betrayed the new crescent moon, soon to follow the sun over the western rim.

The man breathed deeply; it was exquisite. Forgotten for the time was the pitiful tragedy that had absorbed his thoughts but an hour ago. He was entranced by the unspeakable grandeur of the closing day.

All at once he felt strangely and completely alone; a quaint, eerie feeling, as though he were cut off from all humanity—a curious sense of abandonment and desolation seized him. It was as if he only were left in a great universe.

Shaking himself, he smiled. Why, of course he was alone; but although he passed it over, that feeling of loneliness was not merely the absence of living flesh and blood, as he well knew. Still, the sensation had turned his thoughts into another channel.

He was back in London, fifteen years ago, a young and healthy man, eager for the work before him, and with that remarkable faith in his heart which carries some people through the most arduous struggles.

Ah! how he worked in those days. His heart was great as well as his faith, and he used to carry out his duties with a vigour that had won for him a name.

And then, slowly but surely, doubts began to trickle through the armour of his beliefs; and while reason began to coldly drive him one way, he clung with a tenacity almost desperate to his early teachings. They had wound themselves into his life, and it was hard and bitter to even have to think that they were a mere nothing. But he was not satisfied, and he read—heavens! how hungrily he read, hoping without hope, all types of works; striving to obtain that for which many others have sacrificed their lives: aye! and perhaps their souls too.

He shuddered, for in his searchings he had studied and practised Magic! And yet, why should one exclaim? for what will a man not do when his very self-conscious existence seems to be in the balance, and the long and stern struggle within gives no light?

Let us not forget that there is a period in everyone’s life when the real self demands that the vexed question of purpose in the universe shall be settled. It is one of our lessons—part of our evolution.

Until we either consciously, or sub-consciously, realise or perceive ultimate good in the nature of things, how can we set ourselves to work for good? Unless, indeed, in the evolutionary process we are forced to travel that path, and are not free to choose the ultimate end, but only to retard or quicken it.

If we coldly examine our beliefs with critical reason, as we undoubtedly should, we receive rude shocks; and if we pursue the process, most of us get landed in an impasse, where we arrogantly flounder, declaring that we have reached the extent of man’s rational capabilities.

We treat condescendingly the many who have “faith without reason,” and, in our blind ignorance, unjustly include with them the few who, after weary battlings, have struggled out of the man-made cul-de-sac of logic, and found, through intuitive knowledge, knowledge which is in us all, but to which man’s artificial reasoning does not lead, some of the great truths of existence.

But let us not be too harsh. The traps into which logical reasoning allures us are many and deadly. For instance, if we come to analyse the conscious desire which is in humanity for prolonged life, the desire not to be swept into oblivion, where are we landed? Our process of reasoning will not explain to us whether that desire is inherent merely as a heritage from primitive man, or is something else which at present we cannot understand; though its tendency is to convince us of the former. Neither can logical reasoning explain many of the truths which we already know—remember that we can know things without reasoning to them. So let us beware! Though logic is part of truth, truth is not necessarily logic; for logic is a part of a thing, and truth the whole of it.

Based upon such premises had been the struggle within the Vicar’s self; and he wondered now why he had not then gone mad; it must have been a very near thing. Perhaps he was on the verge when the crisis came, and his health broke down. Maybe that saved his reason. No doubt the particularly hard position that he held, combined with the prolonged struggle within, had been too much. He had not actually been ill, but after a week of violent headache (neuralgic the doctor called it), a kind of dull, lethargic spell came over him. He went about as if crushed, and was rapidly sinking into an old man, when the offer of Worlstoke came to his rescue.

The young moon sank over the horizon in the wake of the sun, and the sudden change from the dim mystic light to darkness aroused him to a sense of his present environment.

It was chilly. Buttoning his coat across his chest, he turned to go; when once more that queer, lonely feeling crept over him.

It was uncanny; more, it was extraordinary, and puzzled him not a little. He could not in any way connect it with anything he had experienced before. It was as though that part of him which in the evolution of things is always striving for betterment, struggling to uplift, had been wrenched away, leaving his body a hulk of clay, helplessly adrift.

He hesitated, trying within himself to understand this newly-born sensation, and, as he strove to grasp it, he was forewarned that all the old doubts (which had not troubled him since he came to Worlstoke) were slowly beginning to rise.

Could it be that he was again going to suffer all the agony of mind to which he had been exposed in London? He trembled to think of it. Such an ordeal as that could not again be endured without calamity. No human reason could twice sustain what he had passed through during those long, wretched years of trial.

With an effort he controlled himself, overcame the paralysing sensation which gripped him, and once more started off home.

But it was only momentarily. Those doubts, once roused, could not so easily be quelled. Moreover, they were taking definite shape! Something, he could not comprehend what, was actually forcing his mind to accept there and then that not only was there no hope of God, and Good, but that the reverse, evil (so-called), was the only real force or power that existed. That so-called God, or Good, was merely a phantasm of the disordered brain of man. That the whole universe was one mighty, struggling mass of individual atoms, each seeking to destroy the other. That—that—but enough! He stopped dead, mentally and physically, and a cold perspiration broke over him. What was happening? Was he really at last going mad?

He gazed dully through the darkness, trying to disentangle his thoughts. His legs felt heavy and weary, as though the weight of his troubled mind had been materially added to his body, and they could not support the double burden. He almost sank to the ground, and probably would have done so, when something happened which drew him up taut, every muscle tense and senses alert.

Borne on the cool night wind, a long, low, plaintive cry came fretfully calling over the fields, like the whine of a creature in pain.

The man’s breath came and went rapidly, in short fits and starts, and irresolutely he strained his ears to catch the sound.

What was it?

A short deadly silence followed, during which he was conscious of a dual desire. He wanted to go away from that cry—to run, anything, so as not to hear it again. He was aware of a feeling of loathing and repulsion, while something within said “fly.”

Simultaneously, he was aware that the hideous cry appealed to him in some way, drew him in a mysterious manner; and he had a strong impelling desire to go in the direction from which it came.

In spite of his usual outward calm, he trembled, though not knowing why; for it was not physical fear that held him.

Hark! Once more it broke forth upon the stillness, whimpering and wailing through the night; and in it there was a blood-curdling note of wicked mockery.

The Vicar gasped; it seemed unnatural; instinct told him that no human voice could make that sound. Then it must be an animal—but what animal? What beast could produce a cry of that description? It was most improbable; for there was a distinct intelligible note in it, which appealed and called, of which surely no animal was capable; but what other explanation was there?

Moreover, he was keenly sensible of that subtle note, supplicating in an alluring manner to something as yet unknown.

Once more it penetrated the darkness, long drawn out, mournful, and this time—O God! the appeal, the call, was to him. Something in him stirred and responded to it, holding him fast, although he fought hard, in palpable fear and disgust, to overcome it.

Slowly, slowly, impelled by he knew not what, he began to move, as though drawn by invisible hands toward the ruined priory; and as he stealthily glided over the ground, the feeling of horror which had been so acute became less so, until it gradually but surely left him.

His pace quickened, and with it his blood circulated more freely, until a warm glow suffused his body. All at once he felt joyously elated, as though treading on air—a buoyant feeling of awful gladness dominated him.

Tiny patches of green mist began slowly to twist and twirl in the gloom, now at a distance, now close, not more than a couple of yards away. Faster and faster they danced, in a never-ending maze, until the pace became bewildering, and he watched them fascinated.

They seemed to be leading him, but where he did not know, nor did he care much just then, his one desire being to follow, though there was a dim idea in his mind that they would guide him to some place where he anxiously wanted to go.

He was walking quickly now, and the heat engendered by the sharp physical action, caused him instinctively to want to open his coat. He tried to lift his hand to do so, but some force seemed to hold it down.

Absorbed in watching the dancing mist, he steadily followed in its wake. But the heat became almost intolerable, and involuntarily he again tried to lift his hand to release the buttons, and ease the hot choking feeling at his throat. Once more that same hidden power held it back; but this time, the strong, overbearing desire to obtain relief from the heat compelled his attention for a moment, not consciously, but instinctively, and the resistance irritated, half-angered him. Natural obstinacy resented it, and with a violent jerk, he brought his hand to the top of his coat and literally tore it open.

And now a strange thing happened. Practically at the same time that he released the buttons of his coat, his fingers by accident (?) came in contact with the little gold cross that he always wore round his neck, and clutched it....

+Snap!+ Something seemed to part asunder in his brain with a report. He came to a sudden halt, and stared about him fearfully, as one would when first waking from a dreadful dream. He gave a little exclamation of wonder, then started to laugh, but the laughter died away, as suddenly he remembered that abominable cry. As the thought of it came surging into his brain, he was for a space seized with an overwhelming nausea, followed by a sense of revolting disgust.

For half a minute he might have stood thus, and then he regained control of his muscles. With a gasp of real fear, he turned and blindly ran as hard as he could run, as though all the powers of Hell were let loose upon his track.

Over the uneven ground he fled, over the hedge at the bottom of the field, and up the road, heedless of all and everything but the fear in his heart, until he fell, exhausted and trembling, but with his fingers still clutching the little gold cross, on the floor of the summer-house in the garden of the quiet old Vicarage. For a short space he lay thus, perhaps sixty seconds, and then he felt himself plunging through black voids, falling, falling into empty, bottomless nothingness. He had fainted.

Chapter III

A Woman’S Fears

The morning following the Rev. Philip Alletson’s extraordinary experience found him rather pale, and in a decidedly nervous state of mind. The shock to his system had been severe, and he had contracted a slight cold through being exposed in the summer arbour.

He got out of bed with difficulty, feeling very seedy, and had to use an effort of will to take his cold bath. He felt a little better after the effect of the water, but he was longer than usual dressing, and once or twice narrowly missed cutting himself whilst shaving.

However, he finished his toilet at last, and went down to breakfast fifteen minutes late—a very unusual occurrence.

Beyond drinking some coffee, he scarcely touched the meal; instead, he sat toying with his knife and looking out of the window.

His sister Constance surveyed him with troubled eyes. She was used to his silent ways, but she could see that this morning he was not his usual self; and the fear immediately arose in her mind that the “old doubts”—which had not manifested themselves since they came to Worlstoke—were again weighing upon him.

“Are you all right, Philip?” she asked doubtfully.

“Hardly; I’m afraid I’ve caught cold, and I feel rather out of sorts.”

She sighed with a sense of relief, feeling glad it was apparently nothing worse.

“Do try and eat something; you have almost regained your normal appetite since we came here, and I don’t want to see any signs of it falling off. It makes me think of those dreadful days after your illness, when I had to beg and entreat of you to take anything.”

Raising his eyes, he looked at her smilingly, and then managed to swallow a few mouthfuls; but it was a poor attempt, and clearly done to please her.

He had a great affection for his sister; indeed, although but twenty-eight, and ten years his junior, she was his closest companion, and had lived with him ever since the death of their mother some eight years ago.

In contrast to her brother, Constance Alletson was rather below than above the medium height, though well-built, with an upright carriage. Her hair was of a fine rich brown, with an auburn tint; and it well matched her fair skin and intelligent dark blue eyes. She was undoubtedly attractive, without being exactly beautiful, though, like her brother, she was reserved and possessed of the same nervous disposition.

She critically watched her brother’s forced attempt to eat, and then exclaimed:

“That’s better, though it doesn’t seem to go down very well, and it is fish too, which I know you like.”

He looked apologetic: “No! I’m afraid I must give it up; I did not sleep at all well last night, Constance.”

“Now that’s strange, Philip, _I_ could not rest. I kept dreaming in a jumbled-up sort of fashion, though now and again quite vividly. Once in particular, I remember it plainly: I had been running away from something, as you do in dreams, though I didn’t know what it was, and had just reached the Vicarage gate, exhausted. I had not even strength to lift the latch to pass through into the house, and all the while this terrible something was approaching nearer and nearer. I had given up all hope and was preparing to be seized, when you suddenly stepped in front of me, between me and the monster. All you seemed to do was to hold up that little gold cross I gave you, which you wear round your neck, and it seemed to be possessed of magical powers. The something gave a horrid cry of baffled rage and fled, and as it went, it turned into Mr. Brentwood!

“Ridiculous, wasn’t it?” she added laughingly.

Philip nodded his head in unconscious assent and eyed her curiously. He was well aware that his sister possessed certain psychic powers—they used to have private sittings together when in London —and he could not help wondering whether she knew anything about his own experience. That reference to the gold cross seemed strange. However, it was unlikely, as she would almost surely have mentioned it before now.

Constance noticed his silence, and misreading it, continued:

“Of course, I know I don’t like Mr. Brentwood, he seems to be such a cold-blooded and unsociable man—and I expect that is why he became the bogey of my nightmare. I apologise, Philip, for maligning him—I know that you and he are good friends.”

She drew herself up in mock dignity, and laughed merrily.

“I think you are rather hard on our neighbour, Constance—I don’t find him unsociable, and I don’t think you would either, if you knew him better. But why should you think he is cold-blooded?”

“Well, do you remember when you told him about the disappearance of Miss Hobson?”

“Yes.”

“He never even altered his countenance—it didn’t affect him a little bit. I know, because I was looking at him.”

“Rather thin evidence upon which to judge him, Constance.”

“Well, not only that, but I always had the impression, from the first time I met him, that there was something wicked at the back of his mind. Really, Philip, I don’t think I could trust him.”

The Vicar laughed in amusement; he had no answer for such reasoning. There was silence for a few minutes, during which Constance finished her breakfast, while her brother watched her.

Then he remarked:

“Ah! dreams are queer things.”

“Yes, Philip, I know some of mine are.”

“I suppose they all arise from stomach troubles?”

“I’m sure they all don’t, and you know they don’t,” she retaliated.

“Well, at least so we are told by our medical advisers.”

Constance laughed. “Now you are teasing.”

Suddenly she became serious:

“Have you heard anything more concerning the mystery?”

Her brother looked graver than usual, and shook his head.

“No. I called at the farm yesterday afternoon to see how Mrs. Hobson was, and then learned that no clue had been alighted upon. I am sorry for them—Hobson seems quite an old man, and his wife is still unable to leave her bed.”

“Do you know, Philip, I think there is something unnatural about this place.” She had lowered her voice, and was bending over the table, her blue eyes gazing steadily into his grey ones.

Just for a second the Vicar’s face betrayed surprise; then he said quietly:

“Well, go on.”

“These two extraordinary disappearances, which up till now have baffled everybody—surely, if they had been——”

Her brother shook his head and frowned:

“You know, Constance, it is the usual thing to fly to the ‘supernatural’ to explain a problem when it baffles the reason.”

She gave a little gesture of impatience:

“Surely, Philip, you know me better than to think I should——”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” he interrupted. “I am quite sure you would not jump to wild conclusions. I merely wanted to emphasise the point, as it is important.”

“Well, my impressions on more than one occasion lately have been exceedingly queer, and I am quite certain that there is something more than unhealthy in the atmosphere.”

She spoke so forcefully that he could not help being impressed.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, rising, “I hardly know what to think. Still, I must be getting on, I have a heap of work to do this morning.”

As he reached the door, she called him:

“Philip!”

He half turned, and she was by his side with her hand on his arm, looking earnestly into his face.

“Something tells me that you are going to try and probe this mystery!”

He smiled and nodded. It was not the first time she had known things in that way.

“Well, promise you will let me know all that you do. I am not easy about it; I feel—er—that something may happen to you.”

He laughed reassuringly:

“Don’t worry, Constance, I will tell you all I do, and I won’t attempt anything desperate. But I must do what I can to try and help clear the thing up; it is my duty.”

She did not answer him, instead she turned to the table and busied herself with the breakfast things.

He watched her for a few seconds, then opening the door, went to his own little room—where he did his indoor work—and sat down at his desk. His mind was a little easier now; it was a relief to find that Constance had not any knowledge of the fainting fit which overcame him in the garden. That would have needed some explanation, and he was not prepared to say anything at present. Had he been found, there would have been no alternative; for he had a plain, straight way of dealing with things, and never paltered with the truth. He would not have countenanced any idea of misleading anyone with regard to the cause of his swoon, least of all his sister.

But he was very far from being tranquil. He was really obsessed with the uncertainty of the whole matter, and, contrary to his natural reserve, he had a desire to put the details before someone else.

Instinctively he thought of Constance, but immediately shook his head. It might ease him to tell his sister, but it was more likely to upset her, and further, he failed to see how it could help matters.

The only other person he could think of was his neighbour, the Master of Storton. If accounts were true, and to some extent he knew they were, Mr. Brentwood was the very man before whom to put such a case. But there were difficulties in that direction. Although they were on fairly intimate terms, the Vicar was not quite sure that he could trust him with such a personal matter. His neighbour was not a Churchman, of that he had no doubt; in fact, he was fairly sure that Mr. Brentwood, if anything, was opposed to the Church. How then would he be likely to treat such a matter coming from a clergyman?

Mr. Alletson was sensitive, extremely so; and he had no desire to encounter the “sceptic’s smile.” He was quite well aware of the average sceptic’s idea of clergymen, and although he knew it was not true, any suggestion of it was liable to irritate, and he had no wish to cause friction.

But there was the other side to it. His neighbour would perhaps take him seriously, and really, so far as he knew, he was a man of broad mind, and one not likely to dismiss the matter with ridicule.

Then again, why should he ask advice, particularly from a layman? Why not go to the Bishop? The Vicar’s eyes twinkled, and he dismissed his Lordship. No! he would let the thing keep, at any rate for the present. So far as he knew, no actual harm had been done. He would wait and see.

As the morning advanced, he recovered somewhat from his indisposition. His nervous system assumed a more normal state, and the depressed feeling with which he had begun the day evaporated. By lunch time he had almost forgotten the incident, in fact his mind was busily occupied with parish matters.

Taking these things into consideration, it was curious that immediately after lunch he went to his escritoire, opened it, took up pen and paper, and wrote the following letter:

“+Dear Mr. Brentwood+,—Please excuse my importunity. I am taking the liberty of calling upon you on Thursday morning next, at eleven o’clock, and shall be very glad indeed if you will spare me an hour.

“The notice is exceedingly short, but as you know, my time is much occupied, and I am anxious to see you immediately upon a matter which is of grave importance.

“I feel sure you can help me, and you will do so when I have put the case before you.

“I must add that I would not have troubled you in this abrupt manner, if I did not feel that immediate action should be taken.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

+Philip Alletson+.”

Every action connected with the writing of it was deliberate, from the putting in of the date to sending the maid to the post. It looked as if he had done it in spite of his recent decision, and this occurred to him shortly after, when it was too late to retract.

He felt annoyed, it was not usual for him to go back on a decision, once he had made up his mind. Why had he done it? He tried to think it out, and failed to satisfy himself.

It was not very comfortable. Could it be that he was losing his grip on things? “Umph.” Passing out into the hall, he put on his hat and cloak. Really, he must dismiss it from his mind for the present. He had a big afternoon’s work before him and time was getting on.

That evening, at the District Visitors’ meeting, the disappearance of Miss Hobson was dwelt upon at some length. During the discussion, something occurred to the Vicar which had not entered his head before. What if his strange experience had any connection with it? At first he rather ridiculed the idea; there seemed to be no link. But before he went to bed that night the thought grew stronger and stronger, until he began to take it seriously. If such were the case, then it no longer remained a personal matter, and it would be his duty to consult someone else.

Finally, he made up his mind to put the whole facts before Mr. Brentwood on Thursday morning, irrespective of his personal feelings. He was bound to do all he knew to try and clear up the extraordinary mystery surrounding Miss Hobson and Mr. Thornton.

Chapter IV

At The Break Of Dawn

Clang! clang! clang! clang! clang! The mellow tones of the church clock of Worlstoke, striking the hour of five, floated slowly and distinctly upon the still morning air.

As the last chime died away in the distance, Hugo Alexis Brentwood, the Master of Storton Manor, became suddenly and acutely aware that he was fully awake, staring blankly into the darkness!

Not a sound, not a movement—everything around was wrapped in absolute calm. He was the only spark of life there, quite alone, seemingly suspended in space.

It did not appear to him at all extraordinary, nor did he feel in any way uneasy. To be quite clear, he had no definite thoughts. He was simply there, keenly alert, without any of that drowsiness usually experienced when awaking from slumber.

Physically unconscious, he had no sense of things external, but there was a far-away vague idea that he was floating in the ether; beyond that nothing except this very real mental wakefulness, as though his whole entity was concentrated on something that was going to happen.

He tried to think, to reason, but his efforts failed completely; some force seemed to have taken control of his mind and was holding it in check.

There was something oppressive about the silence which enveloped him, yet he could not bring his thinking powers to analyse it, try as he would. He knew it, knew that he was in it; further his mind refused to take him.

Nightmare! Of course, that’s what it was. Mechanically he went to switch on the electric light by the side of the bed, but his hand merely passed up and down through the air. In a vague way this startled him, though he did not for the moment realise that he should have touched the switch, if he had been in bed.

Oh! well, he must get out and find it—the darkness was irritating, and nightmare was not agreeable. He made as if to rise, and then something jolted in his mind and set the currents of thought running. There was no bed!

A sudden feeling of fear gripped him. Where was he? What had happened? He had a great desire to stand on something solid, and instinctively his hands went forth to grasp—anything, just to hold on.

Almost immediately he had a swaying sensation, and felt that he was being propelled in some curious manner. This was followed by a feeling that he was being compressed, bound tightly in a small space. Simultaneously he was conscious of standing in his night attire, at the east window of his study in the tower, looking intently across the fields at the approaching dawn.

A puff of cold air blew in his face, making him shiver; and with this return of physical consciousness, he discovered that he was half leaning out of the open window, with his hands tightly gripping the casement on either side.

Even now he did not fully comprehend the situation. Somehow his faculties were not working in unison; as one manifested itself the others seemed to become dormant.

Perfectly still, without any visible sign of breathing, he might have been a statue as he thus stood, while consciousness slowly filtered into his brain.

He was not yet able to grasp the fact that the last thing he could remember was getting into bed the previous evening, and that under ordinary circumstances he should be there now.

To all appearances he looked as if he had gone through an awe-inspiring ordeal, which had bereft him of power to think or move. His dark-skinned face, with its ordinarily firmly-set features, was drawn with pain, while the bloodless lips, tightly set in a straight line, were those of a man holding back a cry of agony.

Gradually the tension relaxed; he was able to think in a normal manner, and as he became fully cognisant of the circumstances, he drew in a sharp, quick breath.

For a few seconds, which seemed hours, the shock of the reaction seemed to paralyse the heart’s action; then that organ, beating with hammer strokes, sent the blood pulsing over his body in a rushing stream. This continued for fully half a minute, until the naturally strong, healthy body of the man reasserted itself, and shaking off the attack, resumed its normal state.

He was, however, perspiring freely, and, mentally, he felt anything but normal. The incident had been extremely unpleasant, and, moreover, this was the sixth or seventh time it had occurred during the past twelve months!

Now, as on other occasions, it had left behind a disturbing influence of something objectionable having happened, though it was but vaguely conveyed to the mind, being merely a dim impression arising from an unknown source. To be quite frank, he could not remember anything that had taken place between the moment of retiring and the moment of waking.

Little by little he gained complete control of himself, and with a shudder, silently closed and fastened the window; then, with uncertain gait, he went heavily down the stairs to his bedroom underneath the study. Hastily donning his dressing-gown and slippers, he returned, and sinking into a large divan chair, tried to collect his thoughts.

It was some little time before he could settle down to think consecutively, his mind would go wandering off in various directions; but eventually he became calmer, and began to sort things out. So far as he could see, there was nothing at all connected with these uncomfortable experiences, excepting that every one of them had happened about dawn. They came at irregular intervals and at various times of the year.

To the ordinary way of thinking, it looked merely a question of sleep-walking, and a case for a medical man. That it was a question for a doctor Mr. Brentwood was fully aware; but what doctor? There he had come to a full stop, for though not acting professionally, he was a Bachelor of Medicine himself, and had, from a professional standpoint, carefully diagnosed his own symptoms, without success. He knew, none could know better, that it was not a case of somnambulism. He was perfectly sound in mind and body and had strong nerves. Probably at this juncture he might have consulted a specialist, but he was not yet at the end of his own resources.

During his younger days, when a medical student, the enforced close study of physiology had very soon led him into that of psychology, which latter science he had tenaciously set himself out to master—at least all that was known of it.

He had been instinctively drawn toward the subject, partly, perhaps, owing to the fact that Eastern blood was in his veins. Here, he thought, he might find a clue to the strange malady which afflicted him, but he had to admit to himself that the chances were not great, for knowledge of the science at best was meagre, and its ramifications were many.

However, he quite saw that if he discarded this course there was no alternative; so slowly and deliberately he decided to probe the mystery to the bottom—partly because his position was far from comfortable, and he foresaw that the strain of such a complaint as this was bound to tell sooner or later on the strongest constitution, and partly because, being of a masterful, dogged nature, he distinctly disliked to be baffled by anything.

During the thirty-nine years of his existence, ever since he could remember, he had stubbornly fought all obstacles that had come across his path, and in the same way he would fight this one.

Naturally, he desired to cure the complaint if possible, but beyond that, the mind of the man, trained in science, was keenly anxious to analyse the problem. Research was second nature to him, and the last fifteen years of his life had been spent in that direction, nine of them in the East, the home of his mother.

If there was one point more than another which troubled him, it was that each time he had undergone the uncanny experience, he had for days afterwards found himself trying to recollect what had happened during the period between going to sleep and the rude awakening.

To his cold, calculating mind, this was irrational. He had no knowledge whatever that he had dreamed about anything, and it was the more unlikely, as he was a man who rarely dreamt.

He would at once have discarded the thought, if it had not been for the possibility that he might have dreamed, and failed utterly to remember anything of his dream on the return to normal consciousness.

Even then, he would not have seriously considered the point, but for the fact that he intuitively had a strong impression he had dreamed. Here again he appeared to be getting off the beaten track—there was no evidence at all that he had dreamed, but why that impression? It was so very strong, he could not utterly disregard it. He smiled slightly, as he thought that if he had discarded all such impressions he would not have been alive at the present time. His experience had taught him that some things which appeared most unreasonable, were only so because they were not understood.

One other point occurred to him as rather curious. The tower-room (his study) had two windows, one facing east and the other west. Now, on each occasion when he had gone through this strange experience, it had always been at the east window where he had discovered himself!

There was no apparent reason why such small points as these should be taken into serious consideration. There was no basis even upon which to formulate anything with regard to them; only the man had had too broad an experience of life to be “sure” of things, and he therefore reserved his decision.

Still thinking, he at last fell into a quiet sleep, and for the time being ceased to be troubled with the pros and cons of the case. He breathed easily and regularly, and his strong face showed little, if any, trace of the strain to which he had been subjected just over an hour ago.

That was not unnatural, for he had lived a hard life, and, as mentioned before, nine years of it in parts of the East, where foreigners are apt to carry their lives in their hands, so to speak, and get accustomed to shocks and precarious positions.

During that long absence from England, he had become imbued with Eastern lore, and his knowledge of it was radical and extensive. Being half an Eastern, channels of learning were open to him which are barred to the Westerner, and of that he had taken full advantage.

His study of psychology, as understood by the Western schools of thought, had left him hungry for more knowledge. He had discovered that there were great gaps in it, and he determined, if it lay in his power, to fill them. So to that end he gave the best years of his life, making exhaustive research in the homeland of his mother’s people, often risking his life in obtaining results upon which he could securely build. And he had not sought and worked in vain. Later on, the value of his research was recognised by Europe.

Incidentally, his knowledge was to stand him in good stead before very long. The time was not far distant when certain human lives, which seemed to be at the mercy of unknown powers, were saved mainly through the application of that learning which he had acquired.

When he awoke it was past eight o’clock, and the sunlight was streaming brightly into the room. Rousing himself, he descended to his bedchamber, bathed, dressed, and went downstairs to the breakfast-room.

After ordering his morning meal, he proceeded to open the letters. These he glanced through rapidly, and placed them in a little heap on his left hand, with the exception of one, which he carefully read through again. It was that which the Vicar of Worlstoke had written to him the previous day.

Mr. Brentwood frowned and pinched his under lip with his finger and thumb. What could it be that would cause Mr. Alletson to come to him for help? In their different ways, the Vicar and he were fairly good friends. They had one or two interests in common, and had spent many a pleasant hour together, after the ice had been broken.

At first he had been inclined to think that the Vicar had ulterior motives with regard to his parish and church, and had been greatly surprised to find that he never mentioned them. That was just as he wished it to be, for he was not a Church-man, and had no desire to take any part in Church work.

But that letter made him feel a little uneasy; it looked as if Mr. Alletson were at last going to introduce “business.” The Master of Storton looked hard at the coffee-pot. If the Vicar did, it was probable there would be an end to future pleasant hours. Neither by money nor action would he support the Church of England, or any other Church; and if the Vicar had any such idea in his mind, well!——

Here he began to attack his breakfast, with unusual vigour. The truth was not always agreeable, and it was quite within the bounds of possibility that Mr. Alletson would be offended.

Having finished his repast, he went into the library and wrote the following note:

“+Storton Manor, Somersetshire.+ 21st _April 19—_.

“+Dear Mr. Alletson+,—I shall be at home to-morrow, Thursday, at eleven o’clock +a.m.+ If I can be of any assistance, I shall be happy to help you, so long as it does not clash with my principles. I shall expect you to stay to lunch.—Yours sincerely,

+H. A. Brentwood+.”

Before sealing the note, he carefully read it over again, and after a few minutes’ hesitation decided it would do.

He did not wish to give offence in any way, if he could help it, yet he was quite clear in his mind that he must give a hint to the Vicar that he would not help in a matter with which he was not in sympathy.

Little did he guess into what strange paths of mystery and evil the subject about which his friend wanted to consult him would lead them both! Had he known then, what the next few months were to bring forth, it is doubtful whether he would have seen the Vicar at all.

But then, the future is seldom revealed, and perhaps (who can tell?) it is better for humanity that most things are not foreseen.

Chapter V

Strange Confidences

Agar Halfi, the Hindoo, sat on the floor of the living-room of his lodge, with legs crossed in true Eastern fashion. The table on which he usually had his meals had been pushed back against the wall, and he sat on the hearthrug, looking steadily into the fire. In his hand was a piece of paper, upon which were drawn strange hieroglyphics. At intervals he stared at them doubtfully, as though trying to solve some problem, the key of which he had mislaid.

In the right-hand corner of the fireplace, underneath a large cupboard fixed in the wall, a great bull-mastiff sat, winking lazily at the flames. In this he seemed to be at one with his companion, though what was passing through his canine mind is a matter of conjecture. Occasionally he opened his tremendous mouth, and yawned indifferently, as though to show his contempt for the trivial thing that was perplexing the man.

No doubt, to him, men were always funny creatures, but to see one of them—and above all one for whom he had much respect—worrying over strange characters on a bit of paper, was enough to make even a grave dog like Hector smile.

Still, he had had his breakfast, and Agar Halfi’s peculiarities didn’t really matter, so long as he (Hector) could blink at the warm fire, undisturbed. This kind of madness which sometimes came over his friend had its advantages, for so long as the Hindoo wasted his time soliloquising over the fire, Hector knew that he could sit in peace. He preferred Agar Halfi’s sitting-room to his kennel, and the longer his friend brooded, the longer he could stay.

It was a dull, cold morning, and Agar Halfi and the dog, who had both been out since daybreak, were each in his own way enjoying the rest and the warmth of the fire. Hardly a sound broke the stillness, except the monotonous ticking of an old grandfather’s clock, and the occasional dropping of the fire, as it gradually burned away.

The Hindoo might have sat thus for hours; he was almost dead to external things, but that the grandfather’s clock, after giving a warning whirr-r-r-r, slowly struck the hour of ten. This interruption broke his train of thought, for he looked up and noted the time. Then turning his attention to the dog, he gazed at him steadily for about half a minute. The animal was too much absorbed in the fire to be greatly disturbed by that, but the restless movement of his eyes denoted he was well aware of the attention that was being paid to him. At length the man exclaimed:

“Hector!”

The dog pricked up his ears, instinctively, but beyond that did not move.

The Hindoo looked at him, half in sorrow, half in anger.

“Hector, you lazy beast, there is going to be trouble for you and me. What do you think of that?”

Except for a slight movement of his tail, which indicated that he had heard, the dog did not stir; but continued to blink at the fire.

“Do you understand, son of a thief?” continued Agar Halfi impressively. “For all I know, before this moon dies, aye, before it reaches the full, you will only be carrion fit for the crows to pick.”

Even this startling outlook did not appear to upset Hector; he only wagged his tail a little more. What was going to happen in the dim future was no concern of his. What no doubt did trouble him, was the fact that now the Hindoo had roused himself, it would soon be time to go to his kennel; and though clean straw and litter were nice and warm, a fire—well, it was a luxury.

Agar Halfi glowered at him sternly:

“Sometimes you have the soul of a respectable being, but get you near a fire, and you have the soul of a pig. Do you understand—outcast?”

Hector dropped his head a little at the other’s reprimanding tone, but did not move.

“Come here!”

The dog yawned in a bored sort of fashion, and slowly getting on to his legs, shambled rather than walked over to Agar Halfi, and licked his cheek.

The Hindoo put out his arm, and seizing hold of the loose skin of the animal’s neck, pushed him vigorously away.

“Lie down, idiot!” he exclaimed.

In nowise disconcerted by this discourteous treatment, Hector obediently stretched his great length on the hearthrug, close by his friend, and rested his muzzle on his two paws.

Agar Halfi again turned his eyes to the fire, and for a long while he sat thus, motionless, except for the slight heave of his chest, and the occasional movement of his lips as he whispered strange words to himself.

At length he rose, and going over to the cupboard, took from a shelf a roll of papers. Resuming his seat, he began to look them through. The first three he put on the rug after a cursory glance at each, the fourth he stopped to look at a little longer. When he had finished with it, he put it on the dog’s back, and said:

“That’s yours, my friend, and a worse nativity I’ve never seen—at least for some things.” He paused and looked into the animal’s big brown eyes, but the dog only blinked at him unconcernedly, so Agar Halfi continued:

“Do you know, dolt, that you will probably die a violent death?”

Hector wagged his tail as though the idea pleased him. Perhaps he believed in the old saying that a man (or a dog for that matter) can only die once, so it does not matter how, when, or where.

The Hindoo looked at him sardonically. What was the use of talking to a brute, some would say? But ah, what he said to the dog he knew would not be repeated, and he said a good many things to Hector that he would not have trusted to a man.

“If you only had sense enough, I might be able to show you how to avoid it, but you haven’t. Still, the soul of you is better than the souls of most men, for you are honest, and faithful, even if you have weaknesses for a fire, and raw meat; and perhaps I may be able to help you out of that hole, my friend.”

Hector snorted indifferently, as much as to say, “I don’t know what you are talking about, and I don’t much care.”

The Hindoo turned again to the roll of papers, and at last pulled out one that he wanted. It represented the horoscope of the Master of Storton, for in the left-hand top corner was inscribed “H. A. B., 17th January 18—.” Underneath was a square map of the heavens, divided into twelve houses, showing the zodiacal signs, with the places of the planets noted therein for the time of birth. Below this was a list of computations, probably the directions of the horoscope.

Agar Halfi ran his eye down the latter, until he came to the following: “Zod. D.D. 39 years 5 months. ☽☌ ♆ □ ♂!”

He studied the symbols closely. He had no doubt about the calculations, he had compiled them himself, and checked them twice. This was the fortieth year of Mr. Brentwood’s life, and these aspects, especially the evil aspect of the moon to Mars, had been active since the beginning of the year.

Slowly he read the rest of the directions, until he came to the bottom of the page, and there his eye was arrested by a note, which was as follows:

“At the time of the new, or full Moon, should the Sun enter the fifth house of the heavens, you will be in danger of your life from four-footed beasts. In your 40th year, when at that time the planet Neptune throws its evil rays to the lesser luminary, you will be subject to strange and weird experiences; and should the planet Mars cast an adverse ray, a violent death will encompass you.”

The Hindoo drew in a long breath. “That is Fate,” he muttered. “It is what is written.” Then he smiled a grim smile. “Strong men can overcome Fate!”

He turned suddenly, and eyed the dog intently, at the same time exclaiming:

“And your master also will probably die a violent death!”

Hector received this piece of information quite undisturbed, looking calmly at the man with his big soft eyes. Agar Halfi returned the dog’s gaze mechanically, his mind being engrossed with the paragraph at the bottom of Mr. Brentwood’s horoscope.

Suddenly Hector pricked his ears, jumped up, and went over to the door. He sniffed loudly at the bottom of it, as though uncertain, and then wagged his tail. The next moment footsteps sounded outside, there was a low knock, and Agar Halfi rose to face the Master of Storton.

For some moments the two men looked at each other in silence, the Hindoo with solemn eyes, the other with half-smiling sarcastic ones.

At last Brentwood said easily:

“Well, is there anything that is not quite as it should be?”

Agar Halfi shrugged his shoulders as he replied:

“I feel that the Sahib has been subjected to a severe mental strain.”

The Master of Storton laughed oddly as he seated himself on the edge of the table, and nodded his head by way of acquiescence.

“That is true, but surely I don’t show it in my countenance?”

The Hindoo smiled at the remark.

“No,” he retorted. “The Master of Storton seldom shows anything by his face.”

Brentwood looked amused, as he replied questioningly: “If my face did not show it, how did you know?”

“Surely the Sahib knows that as well as I do,” was the solemn answer. “You came here to tell me something. When we met, that something was dominating your mind. We looked at each other, my mind became attuned to yours—ascended or descended to the same plane of consciousness. What you wanted to say was being projected from your mind along this particular plane, and my mind being on the same plane, the thought naturally came to my understanding.”

“Not only that, Agar Halfi, but the thought returned from your mind to mine, and I became aware that you were cognisant of that which I wanted to convey to you. It is what we in England call telepathy, and it has recently been fairly well established as a scientific truth.”

The Hindoo laughed sarcastically. “Surely, Sahib, the ancients used it long ago!”

“I don’t doubt that,” returned the other; “at any rate, it would be difficult to explain some things that they accomplished, without the medium of telepathy. I was merely saying that Western thought had only just discovered it.”

“And,” added Agar Halfi, “will go on discovering other things which are not new.”

The Master of Storton acquiesced with a sigh. “I’m afraid that Western civilisation is too much absorbed in amassing worldly wealth at present to get much more forward in things that really matter; consequently, the higher faculties of the race can only develop very slowly. Still, what I came to tell you is, that last night I had another of those queer experiences.”

Here the Master of Storton related, as far as he could remember, what took place.

“What do you make of it?”

The Hindoo slowly shook his head. “I cannot grasp it, except that it seems to bear out that which is foretold in your nativity.”

“You mean, I take it, that concerning my being in danger of a violent death about this period of my life?” remarked Brentwood coolly.

“Quite so,” answered Agar Halfi. “Those experiences of yours are psychic ones, which are all traceable to the influence of the rays from the planet Neptune, and it is that planet which is at the present time evilly active in your life.”

A silence followed the Hindoo’s last remark. At length, rising from the table with a grim sort of “umph,” the Master of Storton took from his pocket the letter which he had that morning received from the Vicar of Worlstoke, and handed it to his companion. Agar Halfi read it through carefully, then handed it back. “You will see him, I suppose, Sahib?”

“Yes, I have written saying I will. I am rather curious to know what he wants to consult me about so particularly. What do you make of it?”

“When I held the letter in my hands I had an impression, but it may not be of any consequence,” remarked the Hindoo indifferently.

“One never knows,” replied Brentwood. “Tell me what it was?”

Agar Halfi characteristically shrugged his shoulders, as he replied:

“Simply that it indirectly concerned you!”

“Me!” exclaimed the other. He looked thoughtfully at the wall, then continued: “Maybe, but it is hardly possible.”

“Do you require the car to-day?”

“No; I have to go to Westsea, but I shall walk, and,” glancing at the dog, “Hector may as well come with me.” Saying which, he called the animal to him and went out.

For some minutes Agar Halfi stood looking solemnly after his retreating figure, then once more shrugging his shoulders, he resumed his examination of the Master of Storton’s horoscope.

Chapter VI

A Saint And A Sinner

On Thursday morning, at the appointed hour, the Rev. Philip Alletson made his way to the Manor. The maid who answered the door admitted him immediately, and conducted him up to the tower study.

His host was not there, so he went and seated himself upon the “Chesterfield” that filled the recess of the west window. Considering the short time he had been at Worlstoke, he knew the room well. Many a pleasant hour had he spent in it with his friend, over a game of chess, or in discussing mutually interesting subjects.

He always felt at home in this room, with its comfortably arranged furniture. There was a sense of Eastern luxury in it, conveyed no doubt by the beautifully figured tapestry that draped the north and south walls; the thick, richly coloured rugs that covered the well-polished floor, and the heavily upholstered furniture. In fact, the only article of modern appearance was a plain leather-topped writing-desk in the east window, supplemented by a business-like swivel oak chair.

As he thought of these things he grew easier, and the doubt he had about Brentwood’s attitude respecting what he was going to say, almost disappeared.

He gave a sigh of relief, and turning his head, looked out of the window. Far away over the rich fields he could see the restless changing sea, sweeping across the Bristol Channel; while to the south he could just discern the end of the low-water pier of Westsea. It was a beautiful view, with the rich green fields running almost to the edge of the bay. Here and there amongst the green were farms and cottages, while splashes of white at irregular intervals denoted the winding road that ran from the shore through Storton to the old priory at Melsea.

While thus absorbed, the door quietly opened, and his host entered noiselessly. Seeing that his visitor was preoccupied, he took advantage of the fact to contemplate him at his leisure.

“Yes,” he thought, “the Vicar has a good face, there is strength in it too, shown by the firmly set mouth and jaw.” Here he paused, surveying him critically. “Eyes rather too closely set, tending to narrowness, but that to some extent obviated by a fairly broad brow. Temperament nervous, very nervous.” He almost said “unfortunately so,” but instead he only said “umph,” which observation caused the Vicar to turn suddenly round.

He rose immediately, and crossing the room, shook hands with his host, who, in his quiet way, greeted him cordially enough.

The contrast between the two men was very marked, as they stood facing each other. The one tall and slender, with grey eyes set in a rather stern face, almost ascetic, his temperament highly strung and imaginative. The other, half Eastern, with dark skin, deep brown dreamy eyes, and closely cropped black hair, yet heavily built, denoting great physical strength, full-blooded and healthy, and possessed of a cool and calculating mind, that rarely lost its balance.

“I hope,” began the Vicar, “you will forgive this informality. Really, I——”

“Oh, that is all right,” interrupted the other. “If the matter is so important as your note indicates, there is no question of formality. Let’s get seated and then you can begin.”

Alletson settled himself down in one of the comfortable chairs, and then comprehensively and concisely related his experience of the Monday night, right down to when he lost consciousness in the summer arbour.

Here he paused and looked at Brentwood, who had been gazing out of the window while he was speaking. The silence caused the other to glance round, and for a minute he eyed his friend questioningly. Then he rose slowly, and approaching him, said shortly, “Let me feel your pulse.”

The Vicar drew in his breath and started forward in his chair. This was just what he had dreaded. Was he going to laugh at him? However, he controlled himself and held out his left arm.

The Master of Storton watched the second hand of his watch, in silent ease. When he had finished, he resumed his seat and, without saying anything, returned his gaze to the window, waiting for the other to proceed.

There was a pause. The Vicar did not quite understand. He was not aware that his host was a doctor, and it looked as though he were joking. Before he proceeded any further he must know in what light he viewed the narrative.

“Do you take me seriously?” he asked rather coldly.

The other turned and slightly lifted his brows.

“Why should I not?”

Alletson looked relieved.

“I hardly understood your testing my pulse.”

Brentwood looked enlightened and replied:

“Oh, I see. I simply did that just to prove to myself that you were normal. Will you please proceed? I take it that you have not told me all you want to say?”

“To be quite plain,” continued Alletson, “I believe there is some power at large in the neighbourhood, something evil, and that it has caused the disappearance of Elsie Hobson and Henry Thornton!”

Brentwood faced round with a jerk. He was not necessarily surprised, but this conclusion seemed to cause him to concentrate his attention.

“What should make you think it has caused the disappearance of those two people, presuming that such a power as you have mentioned is at large?”

The Vicar shrugged his shoulders in despair. Here he felt he might fail with his neighbour. These scientific men were such sticklers for hard facts, and he had none of those facts to give.

“I am afraid I cannot satisfactorily answer that, but let me be as explicit as I can. Inwardly I feel quite sure about it. Somehow or other I _know_; just the same as I know that there is a sympathetic link between you and me, though I could not explain it.”

Brentwood got up and walked to the window, and for a space looked out silently. He felt he had somewhat misjudged this man. He was almost certain before he came that the matter he wished to discuss was something to do with the Church, and he regretted that even in thought he should have wronged him. At last he walked back to his chair and said:

“Cannot you give me any idea why you should think such a thing? Haven’t you any train of thought which leads up to it?”

“To be quite frank, No! But I ‘sense’ it.”

“‘Sense’ it?” echoed his host. “Excuse me cross-examining, Alletson, but it is necessary if we are to arrive at a common basis. What do you mean by ‘sense’ it?”

The Vicar thought for a minute.

“It would be very difficult for me to explain that; but really I think you understand what I mean.”

His friend looked grimly amused.

“You repose a lot of confidence in me. Do you know how the scientific mind interprets that word when it is used (or rather I should say ‘abused’) outside its ordinary meaning?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Imagination.”

A hard expression came into Alletson’s eyes. Brentwood noticed it, for he added quickly:

“But I quite understand that that is not what you wished to convey to me. What you mean, I take it, is, outside your known five physical senses, you have, through one or more as yet unknown senses, become cognisant of this evil force. Is not that so?”

His friend looked relieved.

“That’s exactly what I mean. It is a similar sensing to that which one has when, say, going out of an ordinary room into a cathedral. Do you understand?”

The other laughed. “Yes, I do understand, although your analogy might easily be explained away by the different structure of the two buildings. Remember that the vastness of a cathedral and the ominous silence usually connected with it naturally impress one with a feeling of littleness and consequently of awe. But what made me laugh was the fact that your explanation reminded me of a so-called Eastern mystery which I came across in Circassia. There are two caves in one of the mountains of the Caucasus, very nearly alike. One is called ‘Evil,’ wherein the devil is supposed to dwell, and the other ‘Good,’ where God resides. The rogues who run this show invite guileless strangers to see for themselves, solemnly warning them not to treat the mystery lightly, as they are in the hands of powerful influences.

“The effect is remarkable. You are shown firstly into the cave ‘Good,’ and soon you are astonished at the happy feeling that comes over you. Then you go into the cave ‘Evil,’ similar in size, shape, and appearance to the other, and in about two minutes most people gladly come out, with a feeling that their hair is standing on end. It is merely a clever trick of Oriental magic. However, to return to the main path; I take it you seriously want me to probe this matter?”

“To that end I have come here with the fixed intention of obtaining your co-operation, if it is possible.”

Brentwood thought seriously for a time. At last he said:

“Have you had any practical experience of things of this nature?”

The Vicar hesitated somewhat.

“Well, I can hardly say. I have studied hypnotism fairly closely, also magic, but I’m afraid I know more of the theory than the practice of either.”

His host looked interested.

“Have you had any results?”

“In hypnotism, yes; I’ve had some queer results. When in the third, or trance stage, my sister—with whom I conducted the experiments—forewarned me of a serious breakdown in health which came true. On one occasion she, apparently without any effort, told me where to find my signet ring, which I had mislaid some three months previously and given up for lost. That was done when the matter was far from my mind, in fact, almost forgotten. Another time she exclaimed in a joyous voice that she was free and was going away. For an hour or more I could not get her to speak, and I was beginning to feel uneasy. All the colour had left her face and her breathing was hardly perceptible. At last, much to my relief, she began to come round, and then she started to upbraid me, saying I was cruel to call her back, and entreating me to let her go again. Unfortunately she could not remember anything of this episode when in the normal state. These in particular, and some minor results, I have had.”

The Master of Storton opened his eyes widely. He had no idea his friend had progressed that far in such a study. He was really surprised, though he did not say so.

“Have you had any experience of vampires, werewolves, or anything of the kind?”

The Vicar laughed.

“Of course I’ve read about them, if that’s what you mean.”

Brentwood repeated his question, though this time he emphasised the word “experience.”

His friend looked at him in amazement.

“No! certainly not. But surely you don’t mean to suggest that such things exist except in legend?”

His host surveyed him calmly, and there was a suggestion of mockery in his eyes. How was it, he thought, that so many folk jumped to conclusions upon certain things, particularly of this stamp, without attempting to verify them? Here was a man intellectually in the prime of life, well-educated and well-read, who, while admitting that he knew practically nothing about them—excepting what he had casually read—was satisfied that they did not exist! It was irritating.

“Have you ever travelled in the East?”

“No, I’ve never been further than Italy.”

“You know that I have spent some years out there?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what I was doing?”

The Vicar looked a little guilty. He was conscious that he had sought information about his neighbour; not bluntly, but had taken opportunities when they occurred to obtain knowledge of him.

“Well, I understand that you were engaged in psychological research.”

“Quite so. Incidentally, I had to investigate other things closely connected with it, and my experiences have led me to grave conclusions. To be quite plain, I am convinced that the existence of so-called vampires and werewolves is not based on myth. Some of the extraordinary phenomena I have witnessed and dealt with have settled that point in my mind, beyond doubt; though there is of course a good deal of superstition mixed up with the matter and its origin is obscure.”

Alletson studied the carpet. His friend’s tone was serious and sincere; besides, so far as he knew, Brentwood was not a man to play with words. But this was remarkable news; it had never occurred to him that there could possibly be any truth in such things—it was generally taken for granted that they were myth, and that idea was so firmly implanted in his mind it could not be eradicated at once.

“It is difficult to believe,” he said, “though I cannot contradict what you say; but it seems incredible.”

“The tricks of the illusionist seem incredible until we find out how they are done,” was the terse reply. “But let me remind you, as Shakespeare said, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.’ We are too apt to take things for granted. The tendency of the present age seems to be: We know this and we know that; what we don’t know is not. Could anything be more arrogant? Is it not more rational to allow that things which appear to be impossible may be, than to assume that what we don’t know cannot be?”

The Vicar smiled interestedly.

“If,” he replied, “I am to take up the cudgels for modern thought, I would answer that although it is argued that what we don’t know is not, the analysis of it is that though a thing may exist, it is unknowable to us, and therefore, as far as we are concerned, it is not.”

“Your answer is the one that is usually put forward; but do you take that view yourself?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Beyond a certain point, I trust largely to intuition; and no reasoning I can bring to bear can affect that view.”

Brentwood half closed his eyes.

“If I may say so, I take it that that applies to you in your religion?”

The Vicar was silent a moment, then, looking straight at his friend, replied frankly:

“Certainly, no broad-minded cleric would attempt to narrow down his religion to a creed.”

“Quite so,” said the other; “and yet a few minutes ago you did not make use of the same principle when I mentioned werewolves and vampires.”

“That is true,” answered the Vicar; “but is not your analogy a little irrelevant? There is a reasonable basis for philosophy and also for religion; but I don’t think you can say that much for vampires, et cetera. Someone may have dreamed of such things very vividly in the first place, and believed they were actually real. Besides, there is no evidence upon which to build.”

Brentwood smiled a little satirically.

“I’m afraid I must contradict you there, and proof of what I say would make my analogy relevant. But be that as it may, what strikes me so very palpably is, that where a thing is bred in one’s blood and bone—like Christianity for nearly two thousand years, and like the belief in vampires and werewolves for a much longer period still—no amount of antipathetic environment seems able to entirely eradicate it; and, consequently, educated people of all nationalities unconsciously give themselves certain latitude with their own particular racial peculiarities, _i.e._ allow their intuitive faculties to play upon them. But when it comes to another person’s national eccentricities, Oh no, that is idle legend!”

The Vicar, who had listened attentively, took a long breath. There was undoubtedly reason in his friend’s argument, but he spoke in such a confident tone that it slightly irritated him. Usually the boot was on the other foot—it was the clerical mind that adopted that attitude. He smiled amusedly as he thought of the many times he had seen and heard his colleagues speak thus.

“You are very confident,” he said at last. “Are you so absolutely sure of what you say? For instance, how can you speak with authority about the hereditary instincts of the Eastern races; although you have studied them, you cannot actually know what they feel?”

“Perhaps the simplest way of answering,” replied the other, “is to tell you at once that I am not an Englishman. There is Hindoo blood in me from my mother, who was half a Circassian.”

He paused to see what effect his words would have on the Vicar, but the latter, if surprised, did not give vent to it; he merely nodded his head, and his friend continued:

“So you see I’m fairly capable of judging from that standpoint, as well as from a Western one. However, to return to the subject of your call. Do I understand that Miss Alletson is mediumistic?”

“Yes, she has power in that way.”

“Is she aware of what you have told me?”

“No. I have not mentioned anything to her. I did not see that it could serve any useful purpose at present. On the other hand, I concluded that it might upset her peace of mind.”

“Have you any other reason for withholding this matter from her?”

“No,” he replied, “but I see no reason why I should inform her.”

“Well, I think she could assist us in no small degree.”

“Indeed!”

Their eyes met, and for a time they looked at each other. He could not have said why, but the first thought that entered Alletson’s head was one of resentment. No, he would not draw Constance into it. But the thought vanished for the time, almost as soon as it was born.

His host seemed to read it, for he said quietly:

“I think you may take my word for it that no harm would come to your sister. So far as I am aware, it would only be necessary for her to act as the medium of one or two experiments, which appear to me essential if we are to obtain any clue. But of course, if you would rather not draw her into the case, I will not pursue the matter further.”

The Vicar was silent. There was really no good reason to refuse, yet he could not help but realise that he wanted to do so. While he hesitated, his sister’s words, “Promise you will let me know all that you do,” came back to his memory and decided his answer:

“Very well, I’ll put the position to her, but of course she must decide for herself.”

“I take it,” said Brentwood drily, “that you wish to keep things as quiet as possible, at any rate for the time being, and the fact of your sister being the medium would ensure secrecy. Moreover, she is to some extent acquainted with the case.”

“Quite so, quite so,” replied the Vicar. “I have little doubt but that she will be willing to assist us.”

“There is just one more thing I would like to add,” went on the Master of Storton. “I shall want to take into my confidence, in a matter of this kind, my chauffeur, Agar Halfi, the Hindoo.”

Alletson looked up a little surprised as he replied:

“Certainly, if you think it necessary.”

“Well,” continued the other, “I do. He has had great experience of such matters, besides the fact that he was with me during all my travels. Now, I don’t think we can get much further at present, and I am sure you must be hungry. Let us go and have some lunch.”

Chapter VII

Grave Suspicions

Arthur Shepperton held the position of managing clerk to the firm of solicitors Dalby & Co., Westsea. He was fully qualified in his profession, Mr. Dalby having some six years back given him his articles; and the future held bright prospects of a junior partnership.

He was a business-like young man, and had earned the confidence of his employer by industry and perseverance; added to which, he had, during the twenty-eight years of his existence, led a careful and regular life, if somewhat narrow and confined, and bided fair to become a highly respected and successful citizen.

From his point of view, life’s outlook was a rosy one, and but for unforeseen circumstances he would probably have lived the life of a respectable middle-class person until his death—unconsciously ground between the millstones of Capital and Labour, as most middle-class people are.

Now unforeseen circumstances have a nasty knack of upsetting the quiet trend of people’s lives, particularly those people who least want their lives interfered with. There is a certain section of the community—probably the mainstay of the country—which desires nothing more than to be able to work honestly and live respectably in peace; and yet it is frequently from this class that “Fate” draws individuals to play aggressive parts in the world.

The disappearance of Elsie Hobson (his fiancée) had been a great blow to Arthur Shepperton; indeed it seemed to completely daze him for a time. Outwardly he had sustained it well enough, but inwardly the effect was different. It seemed to have awakened some unfortunate trait in his character, long dormant, which would in all probability never have manifested under ordinary circumstances.

The humdrum everyday life of the average person does not tend to bring out true character—rather the reverse; nor does it help to make character. It is the exceptional and violent incidents in our lives that mould the real self; whether for good or evil, depends upon some law about which we know little or nothing; all we can say for certain is, that one of these exceptional occurrences may strike an evolutionary note in the individual, or, on the other hand, may develop an atavistic tendency.

In this particular case the violent incident, instead of encouraging the nobler tendencies, gave a fillip to the revengeful instinct; and after the first effects of the shock had passed away, Arthur Shepperton was left in a rather dangerous state of mind. He bitterly resented the fact that he should have to suffer as he did for no apparent reason, and he strongly desired to be revenged on someone or something, though he was not clear on whom or what. If he had stopped to reason, he would have seen the futility of such a course; but his mind was distorted and dominated by the primitive instinct referred to.

Mr. Dalby had shown him generous sympathy in his trouble, and had released him indefinitely from his business duties. Thus it happened that the morning after the interview between the Vicar and Brentwood, related in the last chapter, Arthur Shepperton found himself by the old priory, after a long and lonely walk.

He felt tired, and was much relieved to see an old rustic seat under a tree. Making his way to it, he sat down thankfully, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands.

He was depressed, in spite of the bright morning and cheerful sunshine, and stared at the ruined building before him with expressionless eyes.

The whole problem of Elsie’s disappearance baffled him completely; he had no clue whatever that might lead him to a solution. That was the worst of it, he was merely groping in the dark, with the faint hope that he would soon be able to drop on something which might lead to an explanation. What a relief it would be to his brain if he could only act, even with but the slightest idea that he was on the right track.

Almost mechanically he once more began to go over the few facts of the case which were known to him, but his mind would not act normally, and try as he would to control them, he could not get his thoughts to run in sequence.

Somehow or other he found himself wondering, in a dreamy sort of way, what the monks were like who used to inhabit the priory. He was not the least bit interested, it did not matter to him; but the idea would keep cropping up just when he was trying to connect one point with another.

Every now and then the question kept coming into his head, “What could have happened?” He wished he could get rid of that query. It had been hammered into his brain for the last fortnight and had become wearisome.

Once (and he laughed derisively as he thought of it) the idea had entered his head that the late Vicar and Elsie had prearranged it all and gone away together! Eloped!! Why should he think of such a thing? He should be the last to entertain a theory of that kind. He would have been ashamed to suggest it to anyone, and as a fact had discarded the idea as soon as it appeared. Yet he could not help feeling that it _was_ possible, and he was uncomfortably aware that they had been great friends.

He sighed wearily; why could he not forget all about it? Why should he have all this trouble? His face sank into his hands, and he looked restfully into the blackness caused by the pressure of his fingers on his eyelids. Tired out, he half dozed, and again began to think about the monks. After all, it was a relief to let his mind play at random, after the last two weeks of mental storm and physical exertion.

He fancied he saw several of them walking slowly along, chanting some mournful air. The prior, a tall gaunt man with raven black curly hair, brought up the rear of the procession. His hands were crossed on his breast and he seemed deeply engrossed in some weighty problem. Walking in double file, they approached a door in the wall, through which they gradually disappeared. He counted them as they went through, and was just wondering whether the prior would shut the door after him, when he was aware that that individual had suddenly turned round and was looking at him with a pair of fierce dark eyes, that flamed like fire. Just for a moment and then the vision vanished, and he started into wakefulness, instinctively sure that he had heard someone cough! He looked up at the priory, the direction from which the sound came, and listened. Who could be there at that time of the day? It was barely seven o’clock. Quietly rising, he stepped noiselessly across the grass to the doorway in the wall, the one by which he fancied he saw the monks disappear, and looked through. Seeing no one, he walked cautiously on until, rounding a corner of a ruined wall, his eyes came in contact with something which brought him to a halt.... Seated upon the floor of what once used to be the chapel was a man writing or drawing something upon the stone flags. So deeply was he engrossed, that evidently he had not heard anyone approach. Shepperton eyed him curiously, and his interest all at once increased as he recognised who it was.

His first thought was to make known his presence; but something—probably his legal training—caused him to alter his mind. For one thing, although _he_ knew Mr. Brentwood, the latter did not know him. Besides, the situation rather appealed to the detective in his nature, and there was something so out of the ordinary, that Shepperton was curious to know what was going to happen.

He watched for about a minute, and then withdrawing carefully, silently retraced his footsteps to the door in the wall; but instead of passing through to the left, he went on along the path for about six yards and turned sharply round the chapel wall to the right. Here he would wait until the gentleman had finished his early mass! When he had gone, it would be very interesting to go and inspect his handiwork.

If it did occur to Shepperton that it was not quite the thing to spy upon someone else, that was outweighed by his resentment towards this man, who, ever since he came to live in the neighbourhood, had shown quite plainly that he wished to be left alone. That of itself was sufficient to cause resentment in a nature like Shepperton’s. He judged the man to be selfish; moreover, he was conscious of the fact that Brentwood had remained silent all through the little storm caused by Elsie’s disappearance—apparently unmoved by the tragedy. Yes, it would be interesting to find out what _did_ have any attraction for this very reserved person.

He must have stood there quite ten minutes before he heard Brentwood moving about. Just after, his approaching footsteps resounded on the hard path; and Shepperton’s heart jumped a little, as it all at once occurred to him that Brentwood might possibly come to where he was standing. It would not be pleasant to be found thus; at the very least it would require some explanation. He breathed more freely as he heard the door in the wall close, and when the sound of the receding footsteps had almost died away, he quickly made his way to the chapel.

To his surprise and disappointment he did not discover anything. That was very strange; surely the man was doing something there, his eyes did not deceive him about that. Very carefully, he scrutinised the flagstones round about where Brentwood had been sitting, but could not make anything of them. It was annoying, for he certainly was drawing or writing when Shepperton saw him. He was about to go away unsatisfied, when his eyes alighted on something white, lying on the floor. Picking it up, he discovered it to be a plain manilla envelope, neither sealed nor addressed. There was, however, something inside, which on examination proved to be a photograph. Not an ordinary one by any means, for it represented what was evidently a human hand, and the impression of a bird’s foot, but the latter was more than five times as large as the former! The great difference in the relative sizes was so apparent, that he could not help at once noticing it. Shepperton looked at it intently for a minute, then carefully putting it back in the envelope, slipped it into his breast pocket. He stood for a short space, thinking earnestly, then, turning sharply round, made his way home as quickly as he could.

On reaching his apartments he went straight to his sitting-room, and after locking the door—he was very cautious in some things—took out the photograph and thoroughly examined it. Having satisfied himself that there was no name or mark on it, except the initials “H. A. B.,” he got an inch rule and accurately measured the impression of the foot, which he found to be nearly four inches long, whereas the hand was barely one inch! He thought of all the big birds he had heard of, but could not call to mind one that would have a foot anything like that. It was a queer sort of thing. The photograph of the hand had evidently been taken to show the size of the foot; but what the latter represented was an enigma. He would very much like to know, particularly as there could be little doubt about it having fallen out of Brentwood’s pocket.

“Yes,” he thought, “still waters run deep,” and perhaps Brentwood had excellent reasons for not wishing to associate with ordinary human beings.

Now what could he have been up to in the priory? It certainly looked as if he were engaged on something out of the way, at least. The more Shepperton thought it over, the more he became anxious to know what had happened; and the more he thought of Brentwood, the more his dislike of him seemed to grow. From his own point of view, he had cause to know that he was cold, callous, and selfish, and he also felt that a man who secluded himself from his fellow-beings must have a reason for it; that, he argued, was not likely to be a good one. Yes, he would watch the gentleman; it might be that he would find something out very, _very_ interesting. Meanwhile, the photograph would not come to any harm in his possession. He went and carefully locked it up in his desk, and as he turned the key, it struck him that perhaps the Vicar could enlighten him a little about Mr. Brentwood? Yes, he would go and see him.

Chapter VIII

The Involving Of Constance Alletson

Constance Alletson looked steadily out of her bedroom window at the viola border of her own flower patch, while she slowly buttoned on her gloves. She was going to the Manor with her brother, but did not feel quite at ease about it.

Philip had told her everything that happened at his interview with Mr. Brentwood, not even withholding his own weird experience; and after seriously thinking it over, she had decided—more from a sense of duty than anything else—to do all she could to assist her brother in his endeavours to clear up this strange case.

She was somewhat surprised that the Master of Storton should have shown any interest in it. She knew her brother well enough to believe that his point of view would hardly interest Mr. Brentwood, and she would have been quite unmoved if Philip had told her that his friend had laughed at him. From what she had gathered about scientific people, and from her experience of the few scientific men she had met, they were not the kind to look seriously at anything outside cut-and-dried facts, and she failed to understand why Mr. Brentwood should be an exception.

But it was not that which made her feel uneasy; rather she would have enjoyed pitting her knowledge and strength against the man. In this she differed from her brother, who, being extremely sensitive, would have taken pains to avoid such a measure. The fighting spirit was prominent in her nature, whereas with her brother it was not readily called into action.

No, it was a matter which, to her mind, was far more serious. There was something about Mr. Brentwood to which she was averse. She had no tangible reason for this dislike; so far as she could make out, it was just instinctive. But that did not alter the fact of its existence, and although she would not even admit to herself such a thing, it almost amounted to fear! It would be useless to explain things to her brother, because—manlike—he would immediately want to know what reason she had for it; and she was only too well aware that men generally do not take account of woman’s intuitive faculties—“fancies” they usually call them.

So it was with mixed feelings that she finished her toilet, and she half wished that her promise had not been given. But she was no weakling, and now that the first step had been taken, she would see it through, whatever the result.

The Master of Storton was sending his car over to fetch them; and the hoot of the motor horn outside the gate brought her soliloquy to an abrupt end. Lightly descending the stairs, she met Philip in the hall and they went out together.

The door of the brougham was being held open by Agar Halfi, who saluted them respectfully. Constance noticed that he was very good-looking and had intelligent eyes. Evidently he was a superior type of native, and she wondered how he came to be in Mr. Brentwood’s service.

As they drove swiftly along she chatted gaily, being determined that whatever happened she would not give her brother cause to think she was at all uneasy.

He was very glad to find her in such an excellent humour, and his own spirits began to rise a little. He had entered on this quest with heavy misgivings, and the whole-heartedness with which his sister appeared to be taking the matter up was a great satisfaction.

“Do you know,” she said, “I hardly like being driven by this chauffeur of Mr. Brentwood’s; he is such a grand, dignified person, and although he saluted us so very respectfully, I am sure he considers he is our equal—his manner conveyed it.”

The Vicar looked a little sternly at the back of the dark blue cushioned seat on the opposite side of the brougham before he replied.

“Do you mean to intimate that because he is dark-skinned he could not possibly be our equal?”

Constance laughed outright.

“How you do misconstrue my meanings. Of course I didn’t mean to convey anything of the sort. What I did intimate was that it seems a shame he should have to act as our servant.”

She paused, then added:

“I should rather like to talk to him; I’m sure he would be interesting.”

Philip glanced at her a little surprised.

“You are not usually so keen about talking to men of your own race. Why such a sudden fancy?”

“Nothing strange about that at all,” she said. “One thing, he looks so intelligent, and another, I cannot help feeling that he is a gentleman, in spite of his dark skin, which I am sorry to say I cannot state about all men of my own race.”

Philip nodded his head reluctantly.

“Unfortunately, that is true. But it is not by any means easy to get Hindoos to talk, I understand; they are a mysterious, reticent race, and very proud.”

“I wonder how he came to get into Mr. Brentwood’s service?” she asked.

Her brother shook his head and smiled, then said:

“Probably he got attached to him during his travels in India.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Constance, surprised, “I had no idea Mr. Brentwood had been there.”

She sat silently musing over it, and did not speak again until the slowing down of the car told them that they must be nearly at the Manor.

She had not been to Storton House before, and as they went slowly up the drive, she could not help admiring the well-kept grounds and beautiful flower-borders. Everything showed taste and care, right down to the grass edges, which were perfectly trimmed and cut.

Mr. Brentwood appeared almost immediately they crossed the threshold of his house, and Constance felt that while his greeting to her was perfectly correct, his manner was slightly awkward and certainly appeared to be cold. On the other hand she saw that the two men spoke affably, calling each other by their surnames, which made her arch her brows a little; she did not know they were on such intimate terms—Philip had never led her to understand that. Still, it was a pleasant surprise, for her brother was most unlikely to get very friendly with any sort of person, he was so reserved.

Once inside the room which their host had had prepared, Constance was more at ease. It was ideally comfortable, but not luxuriously so, and although the atmosphere was warm, it was fresh. She was charmed, too, with the profusion of magnificent flowers which seemed to be everywhere. It was such a delightful surprise to find them at that time of the year.

“Really, Mr. Brentwood,” she exclaimed, “these are beautiful. I envy you.”

Her host smiled quietly in acknowledgment, then answered:

“Flowers are one of my weaknesses; I revel in them. But I have to thank my gardener for the luxury, he spares no pains to keep me well supplied.”

Constance looked at him with interest. It was not common for men to thank their servants in that way for what they did. He seemed to regard it as a sort of favour from the tone of his voice.

Brentwood noticed her look and added:

“He is an artist in his profession, and I never interfere in his work, or I doubt if such results as you now see would be forthcoming. I am not skilled in the art of floriculture.”

“Mr. Brentwood is too modest,” laughed her brother, “I myself have seen him hard at work in his own conservatory.”

“Quite true,” explained their host, “but only doing things under my gardener’s supervision.”

He is certainly different to other men, Constance thought—moreover, he is modest, no doubt about that. Further, it struck her that his remarks were singularly just.

There was a short silence, and then, turning to Constance and looking her fully in the face, Mr. Brentwood said:

“I understand, Miss Alletson, your brother has explained that what we are about to undertake is of serious import?”

It was the first time their eyes had really met, and while he was speaking she felt that she could not look away; they were such fine eyes, and there seemed to be no end to their deep brown depths. She was conscious that a great restful feeling came over her, such as she had never in her life experienced before.

While she paused to answer, she felt that she was searching for something in his look, which was concealed, but which she instinctively knew was there.

“Yes, I understand that.”

She replied almost mechanically, her attention being held by the involuntary desire to discover what it was that lay hidden in the man.

“But I think you may rest assured that no personal harm will come to you.”

Constance gave a short derisive laugh! She did not mean to do so, but the position to her just then was so diametrically opposed to his assurance, that she could not help it. She was beginning to feel uneasy. She wanted to avoid finding this strange hidden thing; her whole being repelled it, and she was aware that her uneasiness was fast amounting to real fear! With an effort she replied:

“It is very kind of you to be so thoughtful about me, but what of yourself and my brother?”

“Perhaps I can answer that, Constance,” interposed the Vicar, “if Mr. Brentwood will allow me to speak for him, as well as for myself?”

Their host looked at him and nodded assent, and the Vicar continued:

“As you already know, Mr. Brentwood and I have decided to get to the bottom of this matter if at all possible. There are, however, certain risks, but we are prepared to accept these, while we are both agreed that you must not run any danger.”

As the Master of Storton turned his eyes from hers, Constance gave a sigh of relief, for she almost immediately became her normal self again.

“I don’t know whether to thank you for your consideration or not,” she replied, a little reproachfully. “When I promised that I would help you, I was then, and am now, fully prepared to take my share of the responsibility. Moreover, why should I not?”

Brentwood raised his eyes with fresh interest. This woman evidently had a mind of her own.

“I think,” he said gravely, “there is hardly any need to pursue this further, Miss Alletson, seeing that you are so willing to do your share in the work.”

The well-conceived reply pacified Constance somewhat, so she answered:

“Very well, let it rest at that. But before we begin, I wish to make one stipulation”—here her eyes challenged his—“and that is, that you inform me of all that happens.”

“Mr. Brentwood is quite willing on that point, I’m sure,” answered her brother.

Their host rose, and moving forward a large divan chair, requested Constance to make herself as comfortable as possible. This, with the aid of one or two cushions, she did, and soon found herself reposing restfully.

She felt at ease, strange to say, in spite of the uncomfortable time she had experienced when Mr. Brentwood had been looking at her, but so far as she knew there was no other disturbing element. In any case, she had made up her mind, and would not retract now.

The Master of Storton was talking to her brother in a low voice, and she lazily watched them. Casually she compared the two men and smiled at the idea that they should have anything in common; they were so entirely different. Still, it appeared that they had, and, after all, it was not the strangest thing in the world.

At last Brentwood turned to her, and taking out his watch, said:

“I understand from your brother, Miss Alletson, that you have experienced the trance stage before, and that being so, I propose to conduct you there straight away. During the trance I shall request you to do certain things, which, if successful, will have important results. I would therefore ask you to please give to me the whole of your attention for the next few minutes, so that I may the better be enabled to produce the trance stage as nearly perfect as possible.”

Constance inclined her head in assent. One thing she could not help noticing was, that there was a marked difference in his manner, now that he was about to proceed to business; and she was conscious there and then of having to deal with a very strong personality, if not an extraordinary one.

“Please just look at me for a minute,” he said quietly. That was just what she did not want. Why should he adopt that method? She was averse to again looking into his eyes. So instead of doing as he asked, she looked at the ring on her right hand, which was resting easily on the arm of the chair, and answered:

“It is not now usual, I believe, to induce the sleep by the power of the eyes.”

“No,” he replied, “but while other methods are more popular, it is the best and safest, if properly applied.”

Constance thought his tone a little hard, as though he resented her query. Still, she could not repudiate what he said, so she answered, “Very well,” and raising her blue eyes to his, looked steadily into them. At first she wanted to pit her own strength of mind against his, but as she continued to gaze, once again that delightful restful feeling came over her, and she gave a slight sigh of content.

Gradually his eyes seemed to grow larger and yet larger, until she could see nothing but their dark brown depths, and then it seemed that she was instinctively warned that she was searching for something in his eyes—she did not know what—but which, with a feeling of terror, she knew she would find, and must find. What was it that was forcing her to seek this unknown mysterious something behind the visible man? She was not doing it voluntarily. Then came the reverse action, this unknown, undesirable thing was seeking her. She was conscious of the fact, also that she was terribly anxious to escape it. Oh!—she must try to avoid it at any cost, she dare not face it. What could she do? Which way could she fly? Black despair seemed to enter her breast. Would no one help her? she thought piteously; was she abandoned in that desolate dark waste, quite alone with this shadowy horror, helpless?

Ah!—it was there, it had found her, it was clutching her—O God!... she shrieked the words aloud to the loneliness around her, and then, with a deafening crash and a roar like mighty rivers suddenly loosing themselves into empty bottomless caverns, the spell broke!...

She was floating lazily, dreamily, so restfully, amongst the sweetest scented flowers she had ever known.

• • • • •

Gently closing her eyelids, Brentwood turned his head and looked at the Vicar, who had been watching with deep interest. One glance was sufficient to tell him that her brother was quite unaware of the look of horror that had come into his sister’s eyes just before she lost consciousness. Besides, he could see from the position which Alletson had taken up—at right angles to the operator and the medium—that it was improbable; but he had not been quite sure where her brother was stationed.

The Vicar nodded his head approvingly and then said in a subdued voice:

“I suppose you will let the sleep settle a little before you proceed to sub-consciously awaken her?”

Brentwood absently inclined his head. He was thinking of that look which appeared in Miss Alletson’s eyes, just before she passed into the trance, and was asking himself whether or not he should inform her brother of it, there and then.

He must have stood thus—with the first finger and thumb of his right hand pursing his under lip—for fully four minutes, and might have stood longer, if his attention had not been arrested by Alletson’s voice suggesting that probably it would now be safe to arouse the medium.

Drawing a deep breath, he quietly took up his watch and put it in his pocket; then turning to his friend he said:

“Quite so, the sleep should now be sufficiently deep.” He then proceeded to arouse the sleeper after applying one or two tests to satisfy himself that the trance stage was in evidence.

He had to call her name three or four times before she showed any signs of mental activity; then, slightly puckering her smooth brow, she heaved a deep sigh and answered in a slow voice:

“Yes, I am here; why do you call me back? I am happy amongst the flowers.”

They both watched her face intently, while Brentwood proceeded to question her.

“Are you free?”

“No! You hold me, otherwise I am—let me go.”

“That I cannot do,” he answered softly but firmly.

“Listen! I want you to go to Worlstoke Vicarage.”

The Vicar looked at him inquiringly.

“I am there,” she answered listlessly.

Brentwood turned to his friend and whispered quickly:

“On which night did the Rev. Henry Thornton disappear?”

Alletson knitted his brows for a moment, then replied:

“Saturday evening, twenty-first February last, seven +p.m.+”

The Master of Storton thought rapidly, then, turning to the medium, said:

“Go back to seven +p.m.+, Saturday, twenty-first February in this year.”

For a time the medium’s face looked troubled, as though there were some difficulty, but eventually her countenance cleared and she responded:

“Yes, I am there.”

“Is the Rev. Henry Thornton in the Vicarage?”

“No,” came the prompt reply.

“Go back to six-thirty +p.m.+”

“Yes.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes, in the study.”

“What is he doing?”

“Writing.”

“Watch, and say what he does.”

A long silence followed, and at last the Vicar made as if to speak, but his friend stopped him with a warning hand. The Vicar was keenly excited; he could not understand how Brentwood had so easily obtained the conditions. But that was unimportant compared with the revelations which appeared imminent.

He looked at the operator’s cold, composed features with fresh interest. He had never met a personality like this one, although he had come in contact with many types. This man’s intellect was far above the average, and his will power was abnormal.

Evilly disposed, such a character would be a real danger to humanity. What a blessing his tendencies were for good! He looked at Brentwood again, just to satisfy himself that he had made no mistake, when he had, not long ago, decided that the Master of Storton was an upright man; and his scrutiny confirmed that opinion. The features were refined, and the firm mouth and delicate nostrils showed high taste and strong control over the physical propensities.

His attention was recalled by his sister’s voice speaking slowly:

“He has finished writing—he rises and goes into the hall—he puts on his hat—he is now speaking to his housekeeper. Now he goes out of the front door—he is standing by the gate hesitating—he turns and walks down the road—he is now approaching a ruined building——”

The Vicar gave a short gasp as he thought of the priory.

“—he looks at it hesitatingly—now he walks towards it—he stops again—and there is a strange look on his face—now he goes on again—he has reached the wall....”

The voice stopped abruptly, and a troubled look passed over the sleeper’s face. The two men waited eagerly, the one trembling with excitement, the other with set mouth and alert eyes. At last in a pained voice she continued:

“I cannot go any further, something prevents me; there is something guarding the wall—it is all round it.”

Then she added in quick staccato tones:

“I do not want to go. No! no! let me return!!”

Her voice swelled louder, and the Vicar half rose out of his chair in response to the appeal, but his host quietly and firmly put his hand on his shoulder, and at the same time said in a clear voice:

“Come back to the present. Do not be afraid, no harm can come to you.”

Then he began to speak slowly and firmly in a strange tongue. This he continued to do for fully half a minute, and gradually the troubled look disappeared from the medium’s countenance and once more she breathed easily and regularly.

The operator studied her face carefully before he again spoke, and then, being apparently satisfied that things were in order, he resumed:

“Now go into the ruins.”

“I am there,” she responded listlessly.

“Can you see the Rev. Henry Thornton?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you see.”

After a pause she replied:

“Crumbling walls; broken flagstones; ivy; old rubbish heaps covered with weeds ... nothing but ruins.”

“Have you been all over the priory?”

“Yes.”

“Are there not any vaults or chambers underground?”

“Yes”—after hesitation.

“Where?”

“I am in a large vault now, under the refectory.”

“Describe it.”

“It is quite empty, except for dust and rubbish.”

“Can you find the entrance?”

“Yes, there are some steps leading up to a trapdoor in the floor of the refectory, but it is covered by a large flagstone.”

“Is there no other underground chamber?”

“I think so ... ’er—I’m in a passage.”

“Where?”

“About underneath the chapel.”

“Can you find the entrance?”

There was a long pause, during which the medium looked much perplexed. At last the words came:

“I have come to a wall, about twenty paces from where I started, but I cannot pass it.”

“Is there anything the other side of it?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why cannot you pass the wall?”

“Some force prevents me.”

“Follow the passage the other way.”

“Yes, it is long, very long.... Oh! Let me get out of this dreadful place, there is something evil and weird about it. I feel the presence of death in some form all around. But that I am guarded by your power, I should be lost.”

She spoke in a voice agitated with fear, and lifted her hands appealingly. Brentwood took hold of them in his own, and spoke in a low firm voice:

“Peace, forget, and awake in ten minutes.”

He released her hands, and with a long drawn-out sigh her head fell back, and to all appearances she was just peacefully asleep.

When Constance awoke, it was to find the two men looking steadily at her. As soon as she opened her eyes, the Master of Storton immediately arose, and going to a chiffonier poured into a glass out of a decanter a liquid which looked like water, excepting that it effervesced at intervals, as it came into contact with the air.

“Drink this,” he said gently. His face was grave, but his eyes smiled kindly, and she was just thinking how nice he was, when that instinctive dislike for him, which she had before experienced, entered her mind. She took the proffered glass hesitatingly, and he noticed it.

“Drink it straight away, Miss Alletson, it will stimulate you without any after ill-effects.”

She drank it slowly, and felt a faint tingling sensation, as though the heart’s action had been slightly increased. It refreshed her, however, and feeling better, she said:

“Well! have you been successful?”

The Master of Storton avoided her eyes as he replied:

“I think we have learned of something which may lead to success, Miss Alletson.”

He then briefly told her all that had happened during the experiment, while she listened eagerly.

“There is one thing certain,” exclaimed the Vicar, when Brentwood had finished. “We shall have to closely inspect the ruins of the old priory.”

“Yes,” replied the Master of Storton, “and the sooner we do it, the better.”

They there and then arranged that the Vicar should let Brentwood know by messenger, if he could manage to go in the morning. All being well, they would meet at the priory about 10 +a.m.+

“Of course you will go back in my car,” said their host. “I’ve given instructions for it to be ready.”

They thanked him for his thoughtfulness and rose to depart.

“I must say before you go,” remarked Brentwood as they passed into the hall, “that you are an excellent medium, Miss Alletson; much better, in fact, than many professional ones I have met.”

To her own vexation, Constance blushed a little at the compliment; and she replied rather hurriedly:

“Really I’m very glad I have proved satisfactory, but perhaps it was more due to the skill of the operator that I proved so.”

The Master of Storton actually frowned as he replied:

“You flatter me mistakenly, Miss Alletson. No matter how good an operator may be, without a first-class medium no experiments would be of much use. It would simply be like a musician trying to get harmony out of an instrument that was out of tune.”

Before they got into the brougham, Brentwood did what appeared to be a strange thing. He introduced his visitors to Agar Halfi, his chauffeur. If either of them thought it curious, neither of them, of course, showed it. As to Agar Halfi, he—not at all embarrassed—murmured his pleasure at the honour conferred upon him. He at least did not think it curious.

When they arrived at the Vicarage, the Hindoo jumped down to hold open the door. As they alighted, Constance turned to him with a smile and thanked him for bringing them home.

Agar Halfi’s face lighted up, and bowing low, he said in his dignified way:

“I am always pleased to serve the friends of my beloved master.”

Which remark set Constance wondering what it was that made her dislike the Master of Storton, when everybody else (except Arthur Shepperton) had such a good opinion of him.

Agar Halfi watched them with his dark eyes, until they disappeared through the doorway. Then he slowly turned round and studied the near front wheel of the car. Eventually he gave voice to an emphatic “umph,” and shaking his head doubtfully, mounted the car, muttering in his own language, and drove away.

Chapter IX

A Lady’S Glove

That evening Constance was alone, Philip having gone to visit a parishioner who was sick. It was chilly, and she drew her chair close to the fire. A book lay on her knee, but she was not reading, her mind being engrossed with the events of the afternoon.

On the way home from the Manor, Philip had related to her all that had happened, and it was evident from his remarks that he had no knowledge of what transpired just before she lost consciousness. She had almost there and then told him, but checked t