The Sorcery Club

CHAPTER XX As soon as there was comparative quiet Kelson spoke. "As you can see, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "this animal is genuinely savage! It is not like the tigers one sees in menageries, drugged and deprived of their natural weapons—teeth and claws. It comes direct from India, where its reputation as a man-eater is widespread. I am not, however, intimidated—its growls merely amuse me." Quaking all over, he approached the cage, and staring fixedly into the tiger's face, made the prescribed passes. In an instant, the whole attitude of the great cat changed. Dropping on to its fore-legs, it rubbed its head against the bars and purred. A low buzz of astonishment burst from the audience, and Kelson, now assured that the spell had worked, waved his disengaged hand, in the most gallant fashion, at the audience, and strutted into the cage. He shook paws with the tiger, patted it on the back, sat down by its side, and, whilst pretending to be on the most familiar terms with it, took every precaution to avoid coming in too close contact with its teeth and claws. The audience was charmed—the men cheered, the ladies waved handkerchiefs, and the only disappointed persons present were a few belligerent and bloodthirsty boys, and a Suffragette, who severally, and for diverse reasons, would have relished the performances of a savage tiger, but had little sympathy with the performance of a tame one. The next surprise that Mr. Kelson had for his audience, was the announcement that he could interpret the language of animals. At his invitation, a dozen members of the audience came on to the platform and stood near the cage. Looking steadily at the tiger he then pronounced the mystic words "Meta—ra—ka—va—avakana," holding up his right hand, with the thumb turned down and stretched right across the palm, and the little finger extended to the utmost. In an instant the great secret—the secret that Darwin had studied so strenuously for years—was revealed to him. The language of animals was olfactory. The tiger spoke to him through the sense of smell—through his nose instead of his ears. It regulated and modified the odour it gave off from its body, and which worked its way out through the pores of its skin, just as human beings regulate and modify the intonations of their voices. Indeed, so delicate are the olfactory organs of animals that the faintest of these language smells makes an impression on them, which impression is at once interpreted by the brain. If an animal wishes to leave a message behind it, it merely impregnates some article—a leaf or a root, or a clump of grass—or merely the ether with a brain smell, and any other animal, happening to pass by the spot, within a certain time (in favourable weather), will at once be attracted by the smell, and be able to interpret it. That is the reason one so often sees an animal suddenly stop at a spot and sniff it—it is reading some message left there by some other animal. All this, and more, Kelson explained to his audience, who were exceedingly interested, many of them getting up to ask him questions. He also reported to them the tiger's conversation, which consisted chiefly of complaints against the management with regard to its food. "To be everlastingly fed on scraps of horse-flesh," it said, "when there were dozens of plump young women sitting in the stalls, under its very nose, was tantalizing to a degree. Would Mr. Kelson kindly speak to whoever was responsible for such cruelty and negligence?" A bear and a crocodile having been tamed in the same manner, and their remarks interpreted to the audience, the entertainment concluded. The next day the papers were full of it. The Planet , under the startling announcements— "Recovery of the Lost Senses. More Extraordinary Feats in Cockspur Street. Leon Hamar becomes invisible at will," —narrated all that had occurred. The Monitor —if anything more sensational—declared— "The Language of Animals Discovered at Last! The Problem of Breathing under Water—SOLVED! Dematerialization at Will established!" And even the Courier —the steady, ever cautious old Courier , England's premier paper, created a precedent by the use of a quite conspicuously large type; vide the following— "THE AGE OF MIRACLES REVIVED! Actual Case of Subduing and Conversing with Wild Animals. Recovery of the Properties of Invisibility; of Walking on Water, and of Breathing under Water." As before, there were innumerable cases of imitation, many of them, unhappily, resulting in the death of the imitator. At Dover, for instance, a Congregationalist Minister convinced that he had the requisite amount of faith, announced from the pulpit, that he intended walking on the water, in the Harbour, after service. Thousands flocked to see him, but despite the fact that he said "I will! I will!" with the greatest emphasis, the unkind waves would not support him. Indeed, since they swallowed him, it might almost be said that the Rev. S—— supported the waves. For two whole days there was regular stampedes of experimenters to Hyde Park and Regent's Park, and the banks of their respective waters resounded with the words, "I will walk! I will walk!" succeeded by splashes and cries for help. Nor was the water feat the only one that induced imitators. Crowds flocked to the Zoological Gardens, and the various houses were literally packed with people trying to get into conversation with the animals; these attempts being also marked by a large proportion of fatal results. One old gentleman—a Fellow of the Royal Society—carried away in his enthusiasm to talk with a tiger, after making what he thought to be the correct signs, slipped his nose through the bars of the tiger's cage, and had it promptly bitten off—whilst a girl, in her endeavours to sniff the crocodiles, and so get in conversation with them, fell in their midst, and was torn to pieces before help arrived. However, these fatalities only served as an advertisement to the firm, and hundreds of people, for whom there was not even standing room, were turned away from the house nightly. But later on there were hitches. Curtis, whose dislike to vegetarian diet steadily increased, when dining one evening at his club, could no longer withstand the sight of roast beef. The smell of it tickled his palate unmercifully. "Take this infernal mess away!" he said, pushing a plate of nut steak from him in disgust, "and let me have a full course—entrée, soup, fish, meat, everything you've got—chartreuse and a liqueur, and bring it quick—I'm famished." He ate and ate, and drank and drank, until it was as much as he could do to rise from the table. And then, in excellent spirits, he repaired to Cockspur Street. How he got on to the stage he could never tell. Everything was in a haze around him, until there was a dull crash in his ears, and he suddenly found himself drowning. No one, at first, noticed his helpless condition, but attributed his antics to part of the programme; and he most certainly would have been drowned, had it not been for Lilian Rosenberg, who, being quite by chance, in front of the house, perceived he was drunk, the moment he came on the stage. She flew to the wings, and, just in the nick of time, got two of the supers to haul him out of the tank. Of course, it was announced—with a pretty apology—by Mr. Hamar, that Mr. Curtis had been taken ill. Kelson immediately came on with his animals, and the audience departed without the slightest suspicion as to the truth. Hamar was furious. "You idiot!" he said to Curtis, "that all comes of your making a beast of yourself—you would sacrifice Matt and me, for your insatiable craving for meat and alcohol. Can't you see it was a trick of the Unknown to make us break the compact? Had you been drowned, the partnership, would, of course, have been dissolved—and it would have been your fault! You must obey your injunctions! Damn it, you must!" And Hamar spoke so fiercely that Curtis was for once in a way cowed, and solemnly promised that he would not repeat the offence. Kelson was the next culprit; and his misdoings were indirectly associated with the foregoing incident. Lilian Rosenberg's action in saving Curtis's life, thrilled him to the core, and called into play all his ardent passion. He had seen her sitting in the front of the house, and had come upon the scene just as she was urging the supers to go to Curtis's assistance; and he then thought she had never looked so lovely. "Come out with me to-morrow afternoon," he whispered. "Hamar's going out of town!" And before she could stop him he had kissed her. Kelson hardly expected Lilian Rosenberg would accept his invitation, but on arriving at the place he had named, he was delighted beyond measure to find her there. Nor could anyone have been nicer to him. No girl, he told himself, who did not in some degree at least, reciprocate his sentiments, could have allowed him to stare into her eyes as she did, or squeeze her hands, as he did. He took her to the ladies' drawing-room of his club, where there were plenty of quiet, secluded nooks, and there, whilst she poured out tea for him, he once more related to her all his early deeds and ailments—real and imaginary—and all his ideals and aspirations. Lilian Rosenberg was most sympathetic. "You should have been a poet," she said. "There is something about you that is quite Byronic." And Kelson, who had never even heard of Byron, was immensely flattered. "Will you come to the jeweller's with me," he said, "and choose whatever you like best. Those fingers of yours are made for rings—rings of all sorts!" and he gave them a gentle pressure. She let him escort her to Bond Street, and followed him gaily into Raymond's; but when it came to accepting a ring from him, she laughingly refused, and chose, instead, the most expensive diamond bracelets and pendants in the shop. Some of these she wore—the rest—unknown to him of course—she sold; sending the proceeds, anonymously, to Shiel Davenport—who was starving. When Kelson went on the stage, that evening, his thoughts were so far away—planning for his honeymoon—that he entered the cage of a newly imported lion without having made the necessary signs, and would most certainly have been mangled out of recognition, had not one of the supers, perceiving how matters lay, rushed to his assistance, and kept the lion at bay with a pole, till further help could be procured. It had been a narrow squeak, and to Kelson the bare idea of continuing his performance was appalling. His nerves were, as he himself put it, anyhow, and he preferred retiring for the rest of the evening. But Hamar would not hear of it. "This is the second bungle we have had," he said, "and the reputation of the firm is seriously at stake. You must go on again and retrieve it." And Kelson, trembling all over, was obliged to reappear. After it was all over, and he had bowed himself out into the wings, Hamar led him aside. "Don't look so damned pleased with yourself," he said, "I don't half like the look of things. This is the third time the Unknown has tried to trap us—the fourth time it may be successful! Take care!" CHAPTER XX THE STAGE OF HAUNTINGS Much to the relief of the trio, the end of stage three was at length reached—and, thanks to Hamar, reached without further mishap. To keep Curtis and Kelson up to the mark, Hamar had worked indefatigably. He had never relaxed his efforts in the strict watch he kept over them, and he had unceasingly impressed upon them, the vital importance of obeying, to the very letter, the instructions they had received from the Unknown. The part he had thus taken upon himself, the difficulties he had to encounter in this unceasing vigilance, had produced a new Hamar—a Hamar that was a personality; a personality so utterly unlike the old Hamar—the meek and servile clerk—as to make one wonder if there could possibly be two Hamars—outwardly and physically the same—inwardly and psychologically diametrically opposed. A year ago, Curtis and Kelson would have ridiculed the idea of being afraid of Hamar—such an idea would have struck them as simply absurd; but they were afraid of him now, they dreaded his anger more than anything, more even than the prospect of infringing their compact with the Unknown. "We have made pots of money," Curtis remarked one day. "Why can't we give up work and enjoy it?" "Because I say no!" Hamar hissed. "No! We can't give up—not, at least, until the last stage has been safely gone through. To give up now would be to break the compact!" "Well, why not?" Curtis mumbled. "Why not!" Hamar cried. "Heavens, man, can't you understand! Can you form no conception of what failure to keep the compact means? Has the memory of that night—of that tree and all the foul things it suggested, passed completely out of your mind? It hasn't out of mine—it is as clear now as it was then. And often—mark this, both of you—often when I am alone in the night, I see queer luminous shapes—shapes of repulsive vegetable growths—of polyps—and of disgusting tongues that come towards me through the gloom and circle slowly round the bed, whilst the whole room vibrates with soft, mocking laughter! You know how mirrors shine in the moonlight. Well, the other night, when I looked at mine, I saw in it the reflection, not of a face, but of two light evil eyes that looked at me and—smiled! Smiled with a smile that said more plainly than words, 'I am waiting!' and that is what the shapes, and the very atmosphere of the place at night always seem to say—'We are waiting! You are enjoying the joke now—we shall enjoy it later on!' If we knew exactly what was in store for us it wouldn't be so bad, but it is the vagueness of it, the vagueness of the horrors that the Unknown has hinted at, that makes it so appalling! We may die awful deaths—or we may not die AT ALL—the shapes, indefinite and misty no longer, but materialized—wholly and entirely materialized—may come for us and take us away with them! And it is to prevent this, that I am urging you, compelling you, to stick to the compact, and give the Unknown no loophole! Think of the tremendous rewards, if we succeed in passing through the last stage! As I have said before, Curtis need do nothing else but eat, whilst you, Matt, can become a Mormon and marry all the pretty girls in London!" This speech had the desired effect, and nothing more—for the time at least—was said about retiring. "Do you think Leon is quite—er—like—er—like us?" Kelson said, when Hamar left them, after administering his admonition. "At times he hardly looks human. His face is such a funny colour, such a lurid yellow, and his eyes, so piercing! He gives me the jumps! I can't bear to think of him at night!" "Rubbish," Curtis growled. "You imagine it. There's nothing of the spook about Leon! He's of this world and nothing but this world." It was odd, however, that from that time he, too, began to have the same feeling—the feeling that Hamar was perpetually watching them—watching them awake and watching them asleep! Curtis awoke one night to see, standing on his hearth, a shadowy figure with a lurid yellow face and two gleaming dark eyes, which were fixed on him. He called out, and it vanished! "Of course it's the nut steak!" And thus he tried to assure himself. But he was badly scared all the same. Another night, he saw some one, he took to be Hamar, peeping at him from behind the window curtains. He threw a slipper at the figure, and the slipper went right through it. If Hamar's phantom had been the only thing he saw, he would not have minded much; but both he and Kelson soon began to see and hear other things. Curtis frequently saw half-materialized forms, forms of men with cone-shaped heads and peculiarly formed limbs, stealing up the staircase in front of him, and, turning into his bedroom, vanish there. He heard them moving about, long after he had got into bed. Sometimes they would glide up to the bed and bend over him, and though he could never see their eyes, he could feel they were fixed mockingly on him. Once he saw the door of his wardrobe slowly open, and a white something with a dreadful face—half human and half animal—steal slyly out and disappear in the wall opposite. And once when he put out his hand to feel for the matches, they were gently thrust into his palm, whilst the walls of the room shook with laughter. Kelson was equally tormented, though the phenomena took rather a different form. Alone in his bedroom at night, the shape of the room would frequently change; either the walls and ceiling would recede, and recede, until they assumed the proportions of some vast chamber, full of gloom and strange shadows; or they would slowly, very slowly, close in upon him, as if it were their intention to crush him to death. A feeling of suffocation would come over him, and he would gasp, choke, beat the air with his arms, be at the verge of losing consciousness, when there would be a loud, mocking laugh—and the walls and ceiling would be in their proper places again. At other times he would see strange figures on the wall—numbers of circles, that would keep on revolving in the most bewildering fashion. Then, suddenly, they would leave the wall and slowly approach him, increasing in circumference; and the same thing would happen, as happened with the wall and ceiling; he would undergo the whole sensation of asphyxiation, and be on the brink of swooning, when there would be a loud peal of evil, satirical laughter, and the circles would instantly disappear. Sometimes the bedclothes would assume extraordinary shapes; sometimes the articles on his dressing-table; sometimes his clothes; and once, when he was about to put on his bedroom slippers, he found them already occupied—occupied by icy cold feet. Another time, when he put out his hand to take hold of a tumbler, he put it on the back of another hand—smooth, cold and pulpy! Hardly a night passed without some sort of manifestation happening to one or other of the trio, and even Curtis—fat and stolid Curtis—began to lose flesh and look harassed. On the eve of the initiation into stage four, the three, separating for the night, retired to their respective quarters in a far from pleasant state of expectation. Hamar was undressing, when there came a loud ring at the telephone, outside his door. "Holloa!" he called out, "who are you?" "Are you Mr. Hamar?" a voice asked, breathlessly. Hamar replied in the affirmative, and the voice continued— "I'm Mrs. Anderson-Waite, of 30 Queen's Mansions, Queen's Gate. I have been holding a séance here, with some of my friends, and most extraordinary things have happened, and are still happening. There are violent knockings on the wall and ceiling, and the table has become positively dangerous. It has repeatedly sprung into the air, and savagely assaulted several of the sitters. It has thrown one lady on to the floor, and despite our efforts to prevent it, has rampled on her so viciously that she is badly hurt, and the doctor who has just arrived thinks very seriously of it. We wanted to stop, but some strange power seems to be forcing us to go on. The table has rapped out your name and address, and says it has something important to communicate with you, and that unless you come here at once, it won't answer for the consequences." "All right!" Hamar said. "I'll come. I'll be with you in less than half an hour." When Hamar arrived at Queen's Mansions, he found a terrified party of ladies awaiting him in the entrance to the flat. "Thank goodness, you've come!" they exclaimed, all together. "We've been having an awful time. The table has driven us out of the drawing-room—it is obsessed by a devil." "Let me have a look at it," Hamar said, "and I'll soon tell you." The leader of the party, Mrs. Anderson-Waite, very cautiously opened the drawing-room door, and Hamar peered in. In the centre of the room was a large, round, ebony table, that commenced to rock, in the most sinister fashion, the moment Hamar looked at it. "It evidently wants to speak with me," Hamar said; "you had better leave me here with it for a few minutes." "Do take care," Mrs. Anderson-Waite said, as she shut the door. "It may want to murder you. If it does, ring this bell, and we will all come to your assistance." Hamar gave her an assuring smile, but he was by no means as much at ease as he pretended to be. He stood staring at the table, too fascinated to take his eyes off it, and too afraid to move. At length, however, pulling himself together, and convinced the table was the medium, through which the Unknown wished to give him fresh instructions, he stealthily approached it. He addressed it, and it rapped out to him that he must at once obtain pen and ink and take down what it wished to say. Obtaining the requisite materials from Mrs. Anderson-Waite, he sat down and was preparing to write on his knee, when the table told him to rub its surface briskly with his left hand, to trace on it the three Atlantean symbols, i. e. a club foot, a hand with the fingers clenched and the long pointed thumb standing upright, and a bat—and then—to place his paper on it, and transcribe what it had to say. Hamar obeyed, and after sitting for exactly three minutes with his pencil between his fingers, he felt a cold, pulpy hand laid over his, impelling him to write with lightning-like rapidity. The script read as follows:— "To Hamar, Curtis and Kelson—to the three of you in common—is given the knowledge of inflicting all manner of torments and diseases, of imparting all kinds of injurious properties, and of causing plagues. "In the first place, you must understand that the essence of life, comprising the psychical, psychological and physical, permeates every part of the living corporeal body—and that any limb, or fragment of skin or flesh, cut off from the living corporeal body, retains the essence of life, comprising the psychical and physical in its full vigour and entirety. Consequently, if a person have grafted on to them a piece of skin or flesh, or be inoculated with the blood or veins of a tiger—then that person not merely becomes liable to all the physical infirmities of the tiger, but may—if the counteracting influences are not sufficiently strong—partake of all the tiger's psychological characteristics. "Thus, if you give a person, in whom there is a latent tendency to drink, a drop of a drunkard's blood—in a glass of wine, or sweet, or pill, no matter what—that person will at once take to drink. Thus—mark you—people can be metamorphosed into libertines, suicides, idiots and murderers. This metamorphosis can also be produced by means of a magnet called the 'magnes microcosmi,' which is prepared from substances that have had a long association with the human body, and are penetrated by its vitality. Such substances are the hair and blood. Take either one of them, and dry it in a shady and moderately warm place, until it has lost its humidity and odour. By this process it will have lost, too, all its mumia—that is to say, its essence of life—and is hungry to regain it. It is now a magnes microcosmi, or a magnet for attracting diseases and properties, and if it be placed in close contact with a criminal or lunatic, it will be filled with his essence of life, and may then be used as a means of infecting other people with his pernicious qualities. Bury it under the doorstep of the person you wish infected, or hide it in his house, or mix it well with earth, and plant a shrub in the earth, and the vitality the magnet took from the criminal or lunatic will pass into the plant; and if the plant, or even flower of the plant, be given to any one, that person—unless she or he be a person absolutely free from the germs of vice—will be attracted to it, and greatly affected by it. "Or again, the earth over the grave of a lunatic or criminal will contain his essence of life, i. e. his vitality, which impregnates everything around it, and if that earth be placed somewhere in the immediate presence of a person, in whom there are latent tendencies to vice—then that person will be affected by it. "And through these methods of using the essence of life, that is impregnated with the disease you wish to inflict—you may infect people with all kinds of incurable ailments. "But a quicker, and equally sure method of smiting people with disease, such as cancer, fever, epilepsy, apoplexy, etc.; of smiting them blind, deaf, dumb, lame, etc.; or bringing upon them all kinds of accidents, is to make an image of the person you wish to torment, and, setting it in front of you, preferably, at times when the moon is new, or in conjunction with Venus, Mars or Saturn, concentrate with all your will on whatever injury you wish to inflict. If, for example, you desire the person to become blind, stick a pin, or thorn, or nail in the eyes of the image; if deaf, in its ears; if maimed, cut a limb off the image; if to have a certain disease, will very earnestly that he or she shall have that disease. You may thus, too, torment the object of your aversion with plagues of insects and vermin. "If you desire to bewitch your neighbour's milk, wine, or any food he or she has, you may do it by placing the mumia, i. e. the vehicle containing the essence of life of some criminal or lunatic, in the immediate vicinity of the food, etc.; or in the case of milk, by giving it to the cow to eat; or you may accomplish your design simply by means of concentration and an image. "Always, however, whatever methods you employ, prelude them with this prayer: 'I conjure thee, Great Unknown Power that is Antagonistic to man, that was at the Beginning, that is now, that always will be; by the winds and rain, and thunder and lightning; by the swirling rivers; by the Moon; by the sinister influence of the Moon with Venus, Mars and Saturn; help me obtain the perfect issue of all my desires, which I seek to perform solely for the furtherment of what is detrimental to humanity. Amen.' And conclude them with the signs of the foot, the hand and the bat. If you desire to know anything further it will be unfolded to you in your dreams." The hand that had been laid on Hamar's was now removed. The writing ceased. The table rose several inches from the floor, and struck the latter three times in quick, violent succession. Then it remained quiet, and Hamar knew, by a subtle change in the atmosphere, that all occult manifestations—for that night at least—were at an end. The ladies were, of course, dying to know what had happened; and like most ladies, who dabble in spiritualism, were ready to believe anything they were told. Hamar, who had no intention whatever of telling them what had actually occurred, satisfied them admirably. He went home delighted—far too delighted to sleep—for he had in his possession now the greatest of all weapons—the weapon to torment. And with it what could he not do! What could he not get! He could get—Gladys! CHAPTER XXI THE SELLING OF SPELLS The period of stage four promised to be one of such a lucrative nature, that the trio set to work to profit by it at once. They bribed medical men to procure for them the mumia of people suffering from every kind of disease; of criminal lunatics; of idiots and epileptics; they obtained, by bribery also, the blood and hair of the most abandoned men and women—rakes, thieves, murderers. They bottled and labelled, and arranged and catalogued, the mumia, in a laboratory designed for the purpose; and, when all their preparations were complete, advertised— SPELLS FOR SALE The Modern Sorcery Company Ltd. offer for sale every variety of spells—love charms, sleep charms, etc. In order to carry out the principal conditions of the compact, namely, to do harm, they made pseudo-love charms as follows:— They procured the hair of a girl whom they knew to be an incorrigible, and, at the same time, heartless flirt; and, in the manner described (and related in the last chapter) made a magnes microcosmi of it. When ready for use, i. e. after it had been in immediate contact with the girl's flesh, so as to get it fully charged, they had portions of it set in rings, lockets and pendants. And the purchaser of any one of these trinkets had only to persuade the object of his (or her) affection to wear it, and his (or her) love would at once be reciprocated. Had the magnes microcosmi been charged with real, deep-rooted love, the effect on the wearer would have been highly satisfactory, but charged as it was with the effervescent and fleeting fancy of a flirt, the effect on whoever wore it could not be more disastrous. The sentiments of the hopeful purchaser would be reciprocated for a time, which would probably lead to marriage—after which the affection his adored had professed would suddenly decrease, and before the honeymoon was over, would have vanished altogether. During the week following the announcement of the sale of these spells, over a thousand were sold, the applicants being mostly shop girls, typists, clerks and servants; in the second week the sales rose to three thousand, and every succeeding week showed a still greater increase. In charging the magnes microcosmi, the motive of the purchaser had always to be taken into account. If the love charm were wanted by a woman—a housekeeper may be, who desired some rich old man to fall in love with her, in order that she might come into his property; or by a woman—a companion probably—who, having wormed herself into the confidence of some eccentric old lady, was anxious that that lady should leave her all her money—Hamar took care that the magnes microcosmi should be charged with a lasting infatuation; and the sale of this love spell—the spell that was sought solely that the purchaser might inherit property to which he (or she) had no claim—far exceeded the sale of any other spell. Indeed, it was extraordinary how many people—people one would never have suspected—desired spells that would do other people harm. Lady De Greene, the well-known humanitarian, who was most indefatigable in getting up petitions to the Home Secretary, whenever the perpetrator of any particularly heinous and inexcusable murder was about to be hanged, and who was universally acknowledged "incapable of harming a fly," called, surreptitiously, on Hamar. "I understand," she said, "everything you do here is in strict confidence!" "Certainly, madam, certainly!" Hamar said. "We make it a point of honour to divulge—nothing!" "That being so," Lady De Greene observed, "I want you to tell me of a spell that will hasten some very obnoxious person's death." "If you will give me a rough idea of their personal appearance," Hamar said, "I will make a wax image of them, and undertake they will trouble you no longer." But Lady De Greene shook her head. She had no desire to commit herself. "Can't you do it in any other way," she said, "can't you let me give them an unlucky charm—the sort of thing that might bring about a taxi disaster?" Hamar thought for a moment and then—smiled. "Yes!" he said, "I think I can accommodate you." Leaving her for a few minutes, he went to the laboratory, and from a tin box marked homicidal lunatic, he took a plain, gold ring. With this he returned to Lady De Greene, murmuring on the way the prayer he had learned from the table. "Here you are," he said handing the ring to Lady De Greene, "give it to the person you have mentioned to me—and the result you desire will speedily come to pass." Three days later, London was immeasurably shocked. It read in the papers that the highly accomplished Lady De Greene, beloved and respected by all, for the strenuous exertions on behalf of humanitarianism, had been barbarously murdered by her husband (from whom—unknown to the public—she had been living apart for years), who had suddenly, and, for no apparent reason, become insane. Hamar, who was immensely tickled, alone knew the reason why. This was no isolated case. Scores of Society women came to the trio with the same request. "A spell, or charm, or something, that will bring about a fatal accident—not a lingering illness"—and the person for whom the accident was desired, was usually the husband. And the trio often indulged in grim jokes. Without a doubt, Lady Minkhurst got her heart's desire when her husband abruptly cut his throat, but alas, amongst those decimated, when the charm fell into the hands of one of the footmen, was her ladyship's lover. Again, Mrs. Jacques, the beauty, who, at one time, wrote for half the fashion papers in England, certainly secured the demise of Colonel Dick Jacques, who tumbled downstairs and broke his neck, but as in his fall the Colonel alighted on one of the maids, who was not insured, and so seriously injured her that she was pronounced a hopeless cripple, Mrs. Jacques—with whom money was an object—had, of course, to maintain her for the rest of her life. Likewise, Sir Charles Brimpton, in jumping out of the top window of his house, besides pulverizing himself, pulverized, too, Lady Brimpton's pet Pekingese "Waller," without whom, she declared, life wasn't worth living; and Lord Snipping, in setting fire to himself, set fire to Lady Snipping's boudoir (which he had been secretly visiting), and thereby destroyed treasures which she tearfully declared were quite priceless, and could never be replaced. Crowds of young married women were anxious to get rid of their rich old relatives, who clung on to life with a tenacity that was "most wearying." "Can you give me a spell that will make my grandmother go off suddenly?" a girl with beautiful, sad eyes said plaintively to Kelson. "Don't think me very wicked, but we are not at all well off—and she has lived such a long time—such a very long time." "You don't want her to be ill first, I suppose," Kelson inquired. "Oh, no!" the girl replied, "she lives with us and we could never endure the worry and trouble of nursing her. It must be something very sudden." "This will do it," Kelson said, giving her a locket containing the mumia or essence of life of a mad dog; "fasten it round the old lady's neck, and you will be astonished how soon it acts." "And what is your fee?" the girl asked, her eyes brimming over with joyous anticipation. "For you—nothing," Kelson said gallantly. "Only tell no one. May I kiss your hand." The firm's sale of spells for getting rid of husbands having risen one day to five hundred—and the sale of their spells for putting old people out of the way to fifteen hundred—even Hamar, who was no believer in the perfection of human nature, was astonished. "My word!" he remarked. "Isn't this a revelation? Who would have thought how many people have murder in their hearts? At least half Society would, I believe, become homicides if only there were no chance of their being found out and punished. Anyhow, if we go on at this rate there will be no old people left." And it did indeed seem as if such would be the case. For the moment the idea got abroad that old people could be thrust out of existence with absolute safety and ease, there was a perfect mania amongst men, women, and even children, to get rid of them, and the deaths of people over sixty recorded in the papers multiplied every day. The following is an extract from the Planet of July 28— Bolt. —On July 27, at No. —— Elgin Avenue, S.W., Emily Jane, loved and venerated mother of Mary Bolt, M.D., in her 69th year. Drowned in her bath. And all the Angels wept! Cushman. —On July 27, at No. —— Sheep Street, Northampton, Sarah Elizabeth, adored mother of Josiah Cushman, Plymouth Brother, in her 88th year. Run over by a taxi. Joy in Heaven! Starling. —On July 27, at No. —— Snargate Street, Dover, Susan, highly esteemed and greatly beloved mother of Alfred Starling, Wesleyan Minister, in her 71st year. Lost in the harbour. Asleep in Jesus. Tretickler. —On July 27, at No. —— The Terrace, St. Ives, Cornwall, Elizabeth, adored grandmother of Tobias Tretickler, Congregationalist, in her 91st year. Fell over the Malatoff. "Oh, Paradise! Oh, Paradise!" Broot. —On July 27, at Charlton House, Queen's Gate, S.W., Jane, greatly beloved mother of John Broot, Labour M.P., in her 83rd year. Fell down the area. Peace, blessed Peace. Gum. —On July 27, at No. —— Church Road, Upper Norwood, Sophia, widow of the late Albert Gum, L.C.C., in her 85th year. Choked whilst eating tripe. Sadly missed! Paveman. —On July 27, at No. —— Queen's Road, Clifton, Bristol, Anne Rebecca, dearly beloved mother of Alfred Paveman, grocer, in her 74th year. Accidentally burned to death! At rest at last. But it must not be supposed from these few notices, selected from at least a hundred, that the applicants for spells were by any means confined to the upper and middle classes. By far the greater number of spells were sold to the working people—to those of them who, prudent and respectable, counted amongst their aged relatives, at least, one or two who were insured. Nor was the sale of spells confined to adults; for among the numbers, that flocked to consult the trio, were countless County Council children. "Can you give me a spell to make teacher break her neck?" was the most common request, though it was frequently varied with demands such as— "I'll trouble you for a spell to pay mother out. She won't put more than three lumps of sugar in my tea;"—or, "Mother has got very teazy lately. I want a spell to make her fall downstairs"—or, "Father only gives me twopence a week out of what I earn blacking boots; give me a spell to make him have an accident whilst he's at work." And it was not seldom that the trio were petitioned thus: "Please give us a spell to make our parents die quickly. Teacher says at school 'perfect freedom is the birthright of all Englishmen,' and we can't have perfect freedom whilst our parents are alive." [22] The statistics of those who died from the effects of accidents for the week ending August 1, of this year, in London alone, were—over sixty years of age, five thousand; between the ages of twenty-five and sixty, six thousand; and, for the latter deaths, children alone were responsible. The greatest number of these accidents occurred in Poplar, West Ham, Battersea, and Whitechapel; and at length the working class applicants became so numerous that the Modern Sorcery Company could not cope with them, and were forced to raise their charges. Among other customers, as one might expect, were many militant Suffragettes; whom Hamar and Curtis palmed off on Kelson. "Give me a spell," demanded a hatchet-faced lady, wearing a half-up-to-the-knee skirt, "one that will cause the roof of the House of Commons to fall in and smash everybody—EVERYBODY. This is no time for half-measures." Had she been pretty, it is just possible Kelson might have assented, but he had no sympathy with the ugly—they set his teeth on edge—he loathed them. "Certainly, madam, certainly," he said, "here is a spell that will have the effect you desire," and he handed her a ring containing a magnes microcosmi fully charged with the essence of life of an idiot. "Wear it," he said, "night and day. Never be without it." She joyfully obeyed, and within forty-eight hours was lodged in a home for incurables. Another woman, if possible even uglier than the last, approached him with a similar request. "Let me have a spell at once," she said, "that will make every member of the Government be run over by taxis—and killed. They are monsters, tyrants—I abominate them. Let them be slowly—very slowly—SQUASHED to death!" "Very well, madam," Kelson said, carefully concealing a smile, "here is what you want—wear it next your heart;" and he gave her a locket, containing a magnes microcosmi charged with the essence of life of a leper, which he had procured at considerable risk and expense. "I consider your fee far too high," the Suffragette said. "You take advantage of me because I'm a woman." "Very well, madam," he said, "I will make an exception in your case, and let you have it for half the sum." With a good deal more grumbling she paid the half fee, and, fastening the locket round her neck, flounced out of the building. As Kelson gleefully anticipated, the spell acted in less than two days, and with such success, that he was more than compensated for the monetary loss. Shortly afterwards, Kelson received a frantic visit from another Suffragette—a woman whose virulent sandy hair at once aroused his animosity. "Quick! Quick!" she cried, bursting into the room where he was sitting. "Let me have a spell that will blow up every Cabinet Minister, and their wives and families as well." "Such an ambitious request as that, madam," Kelson rejoined, "cannot be granted in a hurry. I must have time—to—" "No! No! At once!" the lady cried, stamping her feet with ill-suppressed rage. "—to consider how it can best be done," Kelson went on calmly. "I must have time to think." The lady fumed, but Kelson remained inexorable; and directly she had gone, he made a wax image of her, and taking up a knife chopped its head off. In the evening, he learned that a lady answering to her description had been run over by a train at Chislehurst—and decapitated. Kelson grew heartily sick of the Suffragettes. They were not only plain but abusive, and he complained bitterly to Hamar. "Look here," he said, "it's not fair. You and Curtis see all the decent-looking women and shelve all the rest on me. I'll stand it no longer." And he spoke so determinedly, that Hamar thought it politic to humour him. "Very well, Matt," he said, forcing a laugh. "I'll try and arrange differently in future. After to-day you shall have your share of the pretty ones—anything to keep the peace. Only—remember—no falling in love." FOOTNOTES: [22] Lest the reader should query this, let him consult the police in any of our big centres, and he will learn that crime and prostitution is immensely on the increase among children. In Newcastle it is estimated that there are over two thousand girls, of under fourteen years of age, voluntarily leading immoral lives, and making big incomes. CHAPTER XXII THE PERSECUTION OF THE MARTINS Hamar's one great idea on reaching stage four was to utilize the torments as a means of getting Gladys. Though he saw crowds of pretty girls every day, none appealed to him as she did—and the very difficulty of getting her enhanced her value and stimulated his passions. "I will give her one more chance," he said to himself, "and then if she won't have me I'll plague her to death." He went to the Imperial, and passing himself off as her father to the new official at the stage-door entrance, was shown into the ante-room (which led to her dressing-room). It took a good deal to scare Hamar, but he admitted afterwards that he did feel a trifle apprehensive whilst he awaited her advent; and his anticipations were fully realized. "Why, father!" she began, as the door of her dressing-room swung open and she appeared on the threshold, clad in a shimmering white dress, that intensified her fair style of beauty, "what brings you—" The smile on her face suddenly died away. "You!" she cried, "how dare you! Go! Go at once! And if you dare come here again or attempt to molest me in any way, I'll prosecute you!" Hamar, dumbfounded at such an exhibition of wrath, slunk out of the room without uttering a syllable. "The vixen," he muttered as soon as he found himself in the street. "A thousand cats in one! Treated me like mud. Jerusalem! I'll pay her out. And I'll lose no time about it either. She'll look differently at me next time we meet." He hurried back to Cockspur Street and going into the laboratory, threw himself into a chair and—thought. That same evening at nine-thirty, in the interval between her first and second "going on," Gladys hastened to her dressing-room, and was preparing to partake of the light refreshments she had ordered, when—to her horror—she perceived crawling towards her, across the floor, a huge cockroach—a hideous black thing with spidery legs and long antennae that it waved, to and fro, in the air, as it advanced. It was at least double the size of any Gladys had hitherto seen, and her feelings can best be appreciated by those who fear such things—her blood ran cold, her flesh crawled, she sat glued to her chair, terrified to move, lest it should run after her. She screamed, and her dresser, startled out of her senses, came flying into the room. "What is it, madam? What is it?" she cried. Gladys pointed at the floor. "Kill it!" she shrieked. "Stamp on it! Oh, quick, quick, it is coming towards me." But the moment the dresser caught sight of the cockroach, she sprang on a chair and wound her skirts round her. "Oh, madam," she panted, "I daren't! I daren't go near it. I'm frightened out of my life, at beetles. And there's another of them"—and she pointed to the wainscoting—"and another! Why, the room's full of them!" And so it was. Everywhere Gladys looked she saw beetles crawling towards her—dozens upon dozens, hundreds upon hundreds—and all of the same monstrous size and ultra-horrible appearance. "Look!" she screamed. "They are climbing on to my clothes. One's got into my shoes, and another will be in them, in a second. There's another—crawling up my cloak—and another on my skirt. Oh! Oh!" and her cries, and those of the dresser, speedily brought a troop of actors and actresses to the door. The instant, however, the cause of the alarm was ascertained, there were loud yells, and a wild stampede down the passages. The Stage Manager was called, but one glance at the floor was enough for him—he fled. And in the end three of the supers had to be fetched. Hot water, brooms, ashes, and quicklime were used, and although thousands of the cockroaches were killed, thousands more came, and so hopeless did the task of getting rid of them become, that the room eventually had to be vacated, and the cracks under the door securely sealed. Before Gladys left the theatre, she was called on the telephone. "Who are you?" she asked. "Hamar," came the reply, in insinuating tones. "How do you like the beetles? You'll never see the end of them till—" But Gladys rang off. On her return home something scuttled across the hall floor in front of her. She sprang back with a scream. It was a gigantic cockroach. The hall was full of them. She summoned the servants, and they set to work to kill them. But they might as well have tried to stop Niagara, for as fast as they squashed one battalion, another took its place. They came out of cracks in the floor, from behind the wainscoting, from every conceivable place in the kitchens, and in a dense black ribbon some six inches broad, ascended the staircase. Gladys tried to barricade her room against them, but it was of no avail. They came from under the boards of the floor and poured down the chimney. They swarmed over the furniture, in the cupboards, chest of drawers, the washstand (where they kept continually falling into the water), in her clothes (her dressing-gown was covered with them), over the bed, and the climax was reached when they approached the chair she stood on. Too fascinated with horror to move, she watched them crawling up to her. She was thus found by her father. He had come to her assistance in the very nick of time, and after lifting her from the chair and taking her to a place, as yet safe from molestation, returned to her room, where, with savage blows, smashing, equally, beetles and furniture, he remained till daybreak. With the first streak of dawn the beetles decamped, and the fray ended. The work of devastation had been colossal. Corpses were strewn everywhere—and it took the combined household hours, before all evidences of the slaughter were obliterated. As for Gladys, she had not slept all night and was a wreck. "I can never go through another night of it," she said to Miss Templeton. "Do you think we shall ever get rid of the horrible things?" "We can but try, dear!" Miss Templeton said consolingly, and she accompanied Gladys up to town, where they inquired of doctors, and chemists, and all sorts of possible and impossible people; and returned to Kew laden with chemicals, and patent beetle destroyers. But though they tried remedies by the score, none were of use, and the beetles repeated their performance of the preceding night. Gladys did not go to bed: surrounded with lighted candles, she sat on the top of a wardrobe till daybreak. The following morning the house was fumigated with sulphur; and people were told off to kill the cockroaches, as they made their escape out of doors. By this means an enormous number were killed; but at night they were just as bad as before. An engineer friend then suggested a freezing-machine. The temperature of the house was reduced to ten degrees below zero; the pipes froze (and burst next day), the milk froze, the housemaid's toes and the cook's little finger of the left hand froze, everything froze; and presumably the beetles froze, for there was not one to be seen. However, it was quite impossible to resort again to this extreme measure. John Martin had the most agonizing attacks of lumbago. Gladys had neuralgia, and Miss Templeton—a slight touch of pleurisy. When Gladys reached the Imperial that evening, she found that the staff had been battling with cockroaches all day, and that they had at last succeeded in getting rid of them with a fumigation mixture of camphor, cocculus, sulphur, bezonia and assafœtida—suggested to them by a Hindoo student. For the next week not a beetle was to be seen at the theatre nor at the Cottage; and Gladys was beginning to hope that Hamar had ceased plaguing her (in despair of ever winning her), when the persecutions suddenly broke out again. She had been in bed about half an hour, and was falling into a gentle and much needed sleep, when a tremendous rap at the wall, close to her head, awoke her with a start, and set her heart pulsating violently. Thinking it must be some one on the landing, she got up and lit a candle. There was no one there. The moment she got into bed again, the rapping was repeated, and it continued, at intervals, all night. This went on for a week, during which time Gladys was never once able to sleep. A brief respite ensued; but it was abruptly terminated one morning, when Gladys awoke feeling as if some big insect were attempting to penetrate her body. Uttering a shriek of terror, she whipped the clothes from her, and sprang out of bed. Miss Templeton, who slept in the next room, came rushing in, and they both saw an enormous insect, half beetle and half scorpion, dart under the pillow. John Martin was fetched, but although he searched everywhere, not a trace of the insect could be found. That night, directly Gladys got in bed and blew out the light, she heard a ticking sound on the sheets, and a huge insect with long hairy legs ran up her sleeve. Her shrieks brought the whole household to the room, but the insect was nowhere to be seen. She was thus plagued for nearly a fortnight. One insect only—never a number, but only one, of prodigious size and terrifying form—appeared to her in the least suspected places, i. e. , on the dressing-table or chimney-piece, in her shoes, or pockets; crawled over her in the dark; and could never be caught. These perpetual frights, and consequent sleeplessness, wore Gladys out. She grew so ill that she had to give up acting, and go into a home to try the rest cure. Hamar then communicated with her, through a third person, and offered to leave off tormenting her, if she would agree to be engaged to him. "I never will!" she said. "Then I will never leave off persecuting you," was his retort. But he was wary. He had no wish to kill her or to damage her looks—so he let her get well and remain thus for a brief space. When she was once again in full vigour, acting at the Imperial, he recommenced his unwelcome attentions. At first he confined his new plague to the servants at the Cottage. The cook was one day turning out a drawer in the kitchen dresser, when she was horrified out of her senses to find squatting there, a large, black toad, which stared most malevolently at her, and then sprang in her face. She shrieked to the housemaid to help her kill it, but before a weapon could be got, the creature had bounced through an open window, and disappeared. After this incident the servants knew no peace. Their bedclothes were thrown off them at night, their dresses torn and bespattered with ink, their brushes and combs thrown out of the window, and the water they poured out to wash in was sometimes quite black, sometimes full of a bright green sediment, and sometimes boiling, when it invariably cracked both the jug and basin. Unable to stand these annoyances the servants left in a body. Their successors fared the same, and worse. Besides having to endure the above-named horrors, pebbles were thrown through the windows, their chairs were pulled away as they were about to sit down (the cook, who was one of those upon whom this trick was played, thereby seriously injuring her spine), and all sorts of obstacles were placed on the stairs, so that those who ran down unwarily tripped over them and hurt themselves (two successive housemaids broke their legs, whilst another sprained her wrist). The meat, too, was a constant worry—it went so bad that enormous maggots crawled out of it by the thousand and covered the table and floor; and the milk, of which a large quantity was taken daily, "turned" in a very curious manner. After being deposited, in its usual place, in the pantry, it began to darken; first of all it became light blue, then deepened into an almost inky blackness, exhibiting curious zigzag lines; and, lastly, the whole mass began to putrefy and to emit a stench so overpowering that every one in the house retched, and the whole place had to be disinfected. This occurred day after day. Nothing would stop it. The dairyman who supplied the milk did all he could to counteract it. He had his dairies constantly cleansed, he saw that the cattle had a change of food, he bought an entirely new stock of dairy utensils, and no milk was ever sent to the Cottage that he had not had carefully analyzed. The troubles continued for three weeks, at the end of which period John Martin received a telephone call from Hamar. "Hullo!" the latter said, "I guess you've had about enough of it by this time. Wouldn't you like some sweet-smelling milk for a change, or do you prefer to go on till you all get typhoid? The remedy, you know, lies in your own hands. You've only to tell that daughter of yours to accept me, and I'll undertake all your troubles shall cease." "I'll see you hanged first," John Martin answered. "Very well, then, you old mule," Hamar shouted, "look out for yourself—and Miss Gladys." CHAPTER XXIII LOVE To bring about plagues of insects Hamar had resorted to a very simple method. He had first of all made a wax image representing a cockroach—scorpion—centipede, or whatever other species came into his mind. Then, placing the image he had made in front of him, and repeating the prayer he had learned from the Unknown, through the medium of Mrs. Anderson-Waite's table, he had concentrated body, soul, and spirit on plaguing Gladys with the insect, which the image represented. When his concentration reached the highest degree, insects in their actual physical bodies were transported from the tropics; [23] but when he was unable to concentrate to the utmost, only the ethereal projections of the insects were obtainable; hence the hybrid—partly scorpion and partly beetle, that appeared and disappeared in Gladys's bed and bedroom. To produce the rappings on the walls of Gladys's room, he had made a wax representation of a wall, and whilst concentrating to the very utmost, had struck it with his knuckles. The plaguing of the servants Hamar had also accomplished by means of images and concentration. But in order to bewitch milk, he had been obliged to resort to other means. He had converted the mumia of an idiot into a magnes microcosmi; and bribing the man who delivered the milk, he gave him instructions to soak the magnes microcosmi, for a few minutes, in every portion that he left at the Cottage. [24] At length Hamar having failed to gain his object by plaguing Gladys and the servants, set about tormenting John Martin. He made a wax image of the latter, and after pronouncing the necessary prayer, stuck the image full of pins, crying out as he did so "John Martin, I hate you. John Martin, I curse you. John Martin, a plague on you." And each time Hamar stuck a pin in the image he had made of John Martin, the real John Martin felt an acute pain in the region of his body corresponding to that in which the pin was stuck. The doctor, who was called in, could make nothing of the malady, but, following the etiquette of the profession, cloaked his ignorance with a look of profound wisdom, and the pronouncement that he would tell them, in a day or two, what was the matter. In the meanwhile, he found it necessary and politic to prescribe a non-committal mixture of chalk and rhubarb, which, although disguised under the usual fanciful pharmacopœia appellation, did not, however, allay the pain. Sharp, agonizing pricks, now on the neck now in the chest, now in the most sensitive part of the knee-cap, now under the toe-nail, now—most painful of all—under the finger-nail—continued to torment John Martin, who, though as a rule fairly stoical, could not stand these attacks with any degree of composure. He screamed, and swore, and cursed, until the whole household was terrified—and Gladys, pretty nearly out of her mind. During a lull—an interval, wherein John Martin enjoyed a brief respite, the telephone bell rang. "Hulloa," called a voice, "I'm Hamar. Haven't you had about enough of it? Remember, you've only to say the word and I'll stop." "Tell him I'll do nothing of the sort," John Martin said, "that he'll never get the better of me this way." Miss Templeton gave the message, and Hamar replied "Wait! Wait and see!" He then thrust wool, pins, horsenails, straw, needles and moss into the mouth of the image, and John Martin had such frightful pains in his stomach that he went into convulsions; and, after an emetic had been given him, vomited up all the above-named articles, save the pins and needles which worked their way out through his flesh, causing him the most exquisite tortures. Gladys, having given up going to the theatre in order to be with her father during these attacks, now declared that she could no longer bear to see him in such excruciating pain, whilst it was in her power to prevent it. "Tell him," she said, "tell Hamar you'll accept his conditions. Don't think of me! I would rather do anything than see you suffer like this." "I can hold out a bit longer," he groaned, "at any rate I needn't give in yet." Every now and then there came a respite—perhaps for several hours, perhaps for several days—then the tortures recommenced. And always John Martin steeled himself to bear them. At last came the climax. Hamar, infuriated that his efforts, so far, had proved fruitless, resolved, since time was pressing, to play his trump card and either win, or lose all. He rang up Gladys on the telephone. "My patience is exhausted," he said. "I'll give you one more chance, and one—only. Agree to be engaged to me at once—or I'll smite your father with the most virulent form of cancer, and leave him to die." There was no question now in Gladys's mind as to what she should do. Of all things in the world, she dreaded cancer most, and after the many evidences Hamar had given her of his skill in Black Magic, she did not doubt for one instant that he could, immediately he chose, carry out his threat. "I have decided," she said faintly, "to—to—give in." "You accept me, then?" Hamar said. "Y-yes!" "When may I see you?" "When you like." "Then I'll come at once," Hamar replied. " Au revoir. " But Hamar, when he arrived at the Cottage, did not realize any of the gleeful anticipations he had indulged in en route . Gladys was ill—so Miss Templeton informed him—at the same time begging him, if he really had any regard for Miss Martin, not to ask to see her for the next few days; and to this request Hamar, seeing no alternative, was obliged to assent. Shortly after he had gone, Shiel Davenport called, and found Gladys alone in the garden. "I've been told that your father is ill," he said, "and should like to hear better news of him. How is he?" "I think he's all right now," Gladys replied, "but he has suffered frightfully. Indeed, we've all had a terrible time," And she told him what had happened. "Then you've not been acting at the Imperial lately?" Shiel asked. "Not for the past week," Gladys replied. "I couldn't leave father." "How has Mr. Bromley Burnham got on without you?" Shiel asked bitterly. "I don't understand you," Gladys said quietly. "I have an understudy, and from what I am told she has given every satisfaction. I have some news which I fear won't be altogether welcome to you." Shiel turned a shade paler. "What is it?" he faltered. "I'm engaged to be married." For a few moments there was silence, and then Shiel exclaimed mechanically "Engaged to be married! To whom?" "To Leon Hamar! I couldn't help it." And she explained the position. "But he'll never keep you to it," Shiel said. "He couldn't be such a brute." "I'm afraid he will," Gladys replied. "He's shown pretty clearly that he's capable of anything. I've given him my promise—I must keep it." "Then it's good-bye to all interest in life—for me," Shiel said, with a gulp. "I've thought of no one but you since we first met. For you—in the hope of someday winning you, I've struggled on; I've reconciled myself to a bare existence. Now I've lost you, I've lost everything. I hate life. I shall—" "You'll do nothing of the sort," Gladys interrupted, "unless you want me to regret ever having met you. I wonder that you say 'I've nothing to live for'—when we can still be friends; and when you can, at least, win my respect, by putting your shoulder to the wheel, and exerting yourself to the utmost to get on." "And you—what about you?" "Never mind me—I can well look after myself." "You'll live in Hell," Shiel cried, her eyes goading him to madness. "Even though you may not care for me, I do not choose to stand quietly by, whilst you spend your life in Purgatory. Hamar has won you through some diabolical trickery, and if I can't thwart him in any other way—I'll kill him. He shan't marry you." "He will," Gladys sighed. "No one can stop him. He is omnipotent." Apparently, Gladys's statement was more or less true; and ninety-nine men out of a hundred, in the same circumstances as Shiel, would have now recognized the hopelessness of the situation. But Shiel was abnormal. As he walked home from the Cottage that evening he kept on repeating to himself "Gladys is my goal. I want only Gladys. I'll have only Gladys." And having once made up his mind to get Gladys, it seemed to him, as if out of every obstacle, that lay between him and Gladys, he could and would merely make a stepping-stone. "Since," he argued to himself, "all's fair in love and war, I'll win Gladys through another woman." And he straightway telephoned to Lilian Rosenberg to have tea with him. The latter had already made an engagement for the afternoon; but, all the same, she accepted Shiel's invitation. "Will you do me a favour?" he asked. "If it is anything that lies in my power," she said. "What is it?" "I want you to find out how Hamar works his spells. I asked you before?" "I know you did and I've not forgotten," Lilian said, "but I have to be very careful. I've played the part of eavesdropper once or twice, and heard enough to confirm me in my suspicions that Hamar is in touch with evil, occult powers. I've heard him praying aloud to them on more than one occasion, and I've also a shrewd idea he performs, at least, some of his spells by means of wax images. But why do you want to know?" "Only curiosity. I am intensely interested in the occult." "You don't want to start a rival show, do you?" Lilian asked jestingly. "With a maximum capital of two pounds—and a minimum of knowledge!" Shiel laughed. "Hardly. I wish I could. I would offer you the post of manageress." "Partner!" "Well, partner, if you like. Would you take it?" "Perhaps!" she said, looking at him with a sudden shyness. "What a pity you are not rich. Can't you get a post that would bring you in about £200 a year for a start? I believe you really want something to stimulate you, to make you work in grim earnest—then you would succeed. There's grit in you—I love grit—but at present it's latent, it wants bringing out." "You are very kind," Shiel said, "but I'm afraid I'm a hopeless case, and, being such, have no business to be in your company. Will you come to the theatre with me?" "The theatre! When you've no business to be in my company, and when it is as much as you can do to pay the rent of a back attic!" "Oh, never mind that. I've had tickets given me. I've been doing odd bits of journalism lately, and a dramatic critic I know has given me two stalls at the Imperial!" "The Imperial!" Lilian Rosenberg ejaculated. "That's where Gladys Martin is acting, surely! I can't bear her!" "She's not the only person in the cast," Shiel observed drily, "and the play's a good one! Do come!" With a little more persuasion Shiel gained her consent; and both he and she enjoyed the play, or more correctly speaking, the occasion, immensely. So long as Gladys was on the stage Shiel's eyes never once left her; whilst throughout the performance Lilian Rosenberg saw only Shiel, thought only of Shiel. The interest she had taken in him, the interest she had so confidently asserted was only interest, had grown apace—had grown out of all recognition. It needed only a fillip now to convert that interest into something warmer; and the fillip was not long in coming. Shiel was seeing Lilian home to her lodgings in Margaret Terrace, a turning off Oakley Street, when a man knocked a woman down right in front of them. He was just the ordinary type of street ruffian—the whitewashed English labourer—and the woman, having without doubt been served by him in the same manner fifty times before, was probably well used to such treatment. But it was more than Shiel, who had spent so much of his life where they treat women differently, could stand, and before Lilian Rosenberg had time to remonstrate, he had rushed up to the prostrate woman, and was holding the man at bay. A scuffle now began, in which the woman, whom Shiel had helped to regain her feet, joined. Both man and woman now attacked Shiel, who, placing himself with his back against the railings, defended himself as best he could. The hour was late, there were no police about, and it seemed only too probable that the fracas would end in a tragedy. The labourer was a burly fellow, shorter than Shiel, but far broader and heavier, and any one could see at a glance that Shiel stood no chance against him. Lilian Rosenberg, at her wits' end to know what to do, ran into Oakley Street, and as there was no one in sight, she made for the nearest lighted house and rang the bell furiously. A man came to the door, whom, unheeding his expostulations, she caught by the arm and dragged into the street. They arrived on the scene of action, just as the ruffian, breaking through Shiel's guard, struck him a terrific blow on the forehead, which sent him reeling against the railings. The newcomer (upon whom, both man and woman, seeing Shiel incapacitated, instantly turned) would probably have shared the same fate, had not the occupants of several of the neighbouring houses—amongst whom were some half-dozen athletic young men—roused by the noise, come out into the street, and the ruffian and his companion, seeing the odds were against them, decamped. Shiel had not fully regained consciousness, when Lilian Rosenberg, regardless of propriety, led him into her sitting-room, bathed his forehead, dosed him with brandy, and making up a bed for him on the sofa, bade him rest there, till the morning.

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