The Gargoyle

Chapter 1

ALIAS CAGLIOSTRO.

Luke Porter had just ordered supper. His waitress, a chatty and pert young country woman, hesitated before departing for the kitchen; it was obvious that she had something on her mind. Luke’s light gray eyes twinkled at her half confusion; lie was enjoying the play of expression over her face and had no intention of helping her out. At his open amusement she took heart.

“There’s a party outside who wants to know if he can have his supper with you,” she told him finally. “He says you don’t know him, but he thinks he has something interesting to tell you.”

“He does, eh?” Luke laughed softly. “Why does he think I will be interested in his information?”

The young woman put her hand into her gingham apron pocket and drew out a newspaper clipping which she held toward him. She waited in silence until the young man had read it, and when he looked up, his face alight with interest, she had her turn at laughter.

“Huh! Changed your mind, didn’t you, mister? Shall he come in?”

“Tell him if he doesn’t come, I’ll go out and pull him in,” exclaimed Luke, and once more bent his gaze upon the clipping.

It was a rather astonishing adverf OCCULTIST.—I war

fine physique and ham completion of importai For particulars, addrei cera, 40 PaHc Row, Ne

k City.

As Luke stared incredulously, something happened to the print; it went blurry, and then cleared up to a few words in an expanse of white. For a moment he could not understand what had happened; then he read the visiting card that had been laid upon the clipping, and lifted his eyes to see the owner of that formidable and mysterious Cagliostro Moderno. Initiate Occultist.

Imagination had conjured up almost instantaneously a.,tall and slender figure of fearsome' dignity, with flashing black eyes. What confronted him as he rose instinctively to his feet was a black-cloaked form of hardly middle height but of heavy build. The individual enveloped in the cloak was so holding it that his face was almost hidden; all that showed was a small,

buttonlike nose, above which peered pale blue eyes squinting involuntarily as if in distaste at the light which flooded the room in true country hostelry fashion. Carrot-colored hair stood in a stiff pompadour above a sallow face.

“Mr. Moderno?” queried Luke unThe mysterious stranger bowed with tremendous dignity.

“Will you be seated, sir? And will you mercifully explain this? ’ ’

Luke lifted the newspaper clipping and his gray eyes searched the sallow countenance of the stranger, who seated himself opposite and at once became a figure of far more impressiveness, owing to the fact that his body was long, making him seem much taller, when seated, than he really was. He threw back the black mantle, displaying a flame-colored lining covered with symbolic figures embroidered in various shades. But in tossing back the mantle, he also uncovered his face, so that the combination of button nose, cupid’s bow mouth and squinting pale blue eyes made up an ensemble oddly at variance with his air of mystery and importance.

“Call me Cagliostro,” he commanded severely. “Young man, are you married?”

Luke parried.

“Well—what if I am?” he asked. “How can it matter to you?”

“It may matter much to me—and to you as well. Do not be flippant. Give me a direct answer. Upon your single status much depends. ’ ’

Luke’s firm lips curled whimsically at the corners.

"Good friend Cagliostro, I am still heart-whole and fancy-free.”

The unknown drew what was obviously a deep sigh of relief.

“Then you can serve as my assistant,” he exclaimed, pointing at the clipping which Luke still held between thumb and forefinger of one well-formed hand.

“But, my good chap, I don’t know anything about magic of any kind,” the young man retorted, humoring what certainly appeared to be a harmless madman. “All my magic consists of splashing colors on canvas.”

“But you are young—and goodlooking—and unmarried,” the unknown insisted. “And my nephew disappointed me at the last moment,” he confided, leaning across the table and unbending sufficiently from his high pose to look pleadingly at the

Luke Porter stared incredulously at his vis-a-vis, the impulse to shout with laughter seizing almost irresistibly upon him. The man was amusing in his gravity.

“Have some of this steak,” he offered. “Potatoes? As long as you are here, you’d better help me eat, good Cagliostro. And then, out with the whole story. You can’t expect me to be your assistant unless you tell me the situation, you know.”

Cagliostro Moderno hesitated, the squinting blue eyes searchingly upon Luke. Then he let himself relax comfortably in his chair, held out the plate the waitress had provided for the unexpected guest, and began to talk incoherently. Luke listened, and began to gather in details of an eery situation, the like of which he had never in his life believed possible.

S omewhere in the Pennsylvania woods near Shakerville, about a mile up Woddy Ridge from the main road between Shakerville and Spinnerton, there was the replica of a medieval castle, called Fanewold by the owners. This castle had been built by the present Madam Fane in her girlhood, as a surprize for her young husband. Madam Fane had had all the money, but the young husband had not remained with her long after the birth of their child, a boy; he had

deserted her, eloping with a country girl from a near-by farm. Since that time Madam Fane had shut herself up with her son in the castle, surrounded by faithful servants, rendered blind, deaf and dumb by the large wages they received.

It was the son, Guy Fane, who was a student of the occult, and who had advertised through the book concern for another occultist to aid him in his experiments. At this point in his recital, Cagiiostro grew somewhat darker of color, and drew out a smaller business card than the important one he had first given the artist. On it was printed in unobtrusive lettering: Herbert Binney. Rare books. Occult books a specialty.

"That is the name given me at birth,” explained he, the pale blue eyes watchfully on Luke’a face to detect the slightest tendency to amusement. “Cagiiostro is the name I have —ah—earned, by my research along occult lines. You can readily understand, Mr.—Porter—thank you—that ‘Binney’ is hardly a name to command such respect as an adept magi-

“Naturally, Mr. Binney,” agreed Luke, the mobile lips twitching.

"Cagiiostro, please,” corrected the mage pointedly. “Well, by reason of my correspondence with the book concern, it believed me to be the proper person to attend Mr. Fane in his experiments.” He lifted his round little chin; his chest swelled perceptibly.

"Astonishing!”

"I therefore selected my sister’s son, a young and handsome boy, to be my assistant, although what Mr. Fane wishes a green youth for is beyond my comprehension,” puzzled Cagiiostro. “But Bobby got cold feet just before I left, because he was invited to a costume ball and didn’t want to miss it, ’ ’ with cold disdain.

‘‘So you are in need of a handsome young man who isn’t tied to a wife?” laughed Luke, pushing away his plate

and leaning back in his chair easily. ‘ ‘ How are you to know I’m not lying, when I say I’m single?”

Cagiiostro stiffened. The squinty blue eyes narrowed.

"It would not be easy to deceive me, Mr. Porter,” he declared impressively. * ‘ I asked you, to be sure, but that was to give you a chance to declare yourself. I knew you weren’t married.”

“You did? May I ask how?”

"By your eagle look.”

“My—t” puzzled Luke.

"You look free—wild—ah—” and the mage, at a loss for appropriate words, waved his hands expressively, displaying on one pudgy finger an oddly carved ring with a heavy bloodred stone.

"I see,” murmured Luke, smiling.

"You will go with me after dinner,” asserted Cagiiostro, with the mien of one who has untold resources at his back to enforce his wishes, “to Panewold. Whatever emolument I receive for my occult services shall be evenly divided with you. But go alone I dare not, after my correspondence with Mr. Fane. The handsome, unmarried assistant is absolutely obligatory,” he finished pleadingly.

“My good Cagiiostro,” Luke retorted with a slight smile, “I am on my way to Bauers Ridge to visit an old college friend who spends his summers on a farm there. I haven’t seen him for four years. I certainly do not intend to give up my visit to go on such a wild goose chase as you have outlined. I am an artist, not a magiCagliostro rose from his seat, drawing the black mantle about him again with an impressive air. One arm held it across his face, hiding all but the small blue eyes that now flashed with a suddenly steely light at the imperturbable young artist.

"1 shall be on my way,” he announced, "in the taxi I ordered. But I warn you, young man, that before

the evening is old you will be at my side, acting in the capacity I have outlined. I need you. And when Cagliostro Moderno needs anything, the whole universe swings that thing toward him,” he finished majestically, and stalked toward the dining room

At the entrance he turned.

‘‘Shall I dismiss the taxi!” he insinuated, the mantle slipping sufficiently to discover the button nose that looked so childish on the small round face. “Then you can take me there directly in your roadster.”

Luke got up from the table a trifle impatiently. His gray eyes darkened.

‘ ‘ My good Cagliostro, when I say a thing I mean it, ” he remarked pointedly. “I am not going to Fanewold. I am going up the pike, down the third road to the right, and then the first road to the left.”

“Down the first road to the left!” repeated the occultist. A sudden flash of expression went across his face. He laughed outright. ‘ ‘ Good-night—or rather, auf Wiedersehen,” he said mockingly as he went out of the room.

“Now what the devil did he mean by that?” wondered the artist, as he drove his roadster down the pike half an hour later. “Too dam sure of getting what he wants, that fellow. If I weren’t afraid old Ralph might go back to the city in another week or ten days, I’d take up With friend Binney’s offer. It was mighty intriT he October dusk was gathering swiftly. Luke switched on his headlights and proceeded with caution along the country road, the third to his right. After going about three miles, he met another car, and the two cars had to manage rather carefully to avoid the deep ditches outlining the road on either side. As the other car passed, the driver leaned out and hailed Luke.

“Your name’s Porter, ain’t it? The old guy says not to forget the first turn to the left,” he yelled.

“Much obliged!” the artist shouted, as he got his car back on to the road and drove slowly away.

He was just a little irritated by the reminder from the occultist, who had only too evidently not forgotten the necessity of a young and handsome assistant, and was still hopeful that Luke might change his mind.

The first road to the left proved to be a dirt road with deep ruts, obviously one that did not see much traffic.

Luke turned down it, driving cautiously. The road led, winding, into the very heart of a forest. It went more and more deeply. The headlights darted weirdly between serried ranks of crowding trees, until the wood seemed full of awesome shades that slipt behind the shelter of tree trunks as Luke drove on into their midst. It was, somehow, strangely oppressive and ominous to the sensitive perception of the young artist. He told himself that he would not particularly care to pass the night in such a place, alone, among those slinking shadows. And then, in the glare of the headlights, there appeared another shadow, detached from those that slunk back, massing behind him as he drove on.

Black, with flapping ebon wings that waved on either side as it came toward him, like a tremendous bat running on hind legs down the roadway to intercept him, the thing advanced, stumbling, tripping, but ever

Luke felt his blood chill in his veins. He dared not drive directly upon that black thing in his way. He stopped the car, letting the engine run. What in God’s universe could it be?

And then it came into the full glare of the headlights, and it had a white face like a man’s.... It was a man.... The black wings were only the

flapping comers of a great mantle.... It was a man, and as it ran, it moaned

Luke stared, incredulous. Stopped the engine. Sprang out of the car to meet him. For he saw now who it was. It was the little occultist, staring-eyed, white face drawn into a Greek tragic mask of horror. He was moaning as he ran blindly along the roadway.

The artist stopped him with a hand on his shoulder as the little man would have fled back along the road toward the pike. And at the touch of Luke’s hand, Herbert Binney collapsed like a pricked balloon, tumbling all in a heap upon the road, with a quavering screech of unutterable fear and horror pushing between his distorted lips.

Chapter 3

AN APPEAL FOR HELP. 'C'ven in prohibition days a man can, " at a pinch, provide himself with brandy or whisky, if he knows where to go for it. And there are moments when such stimulants are grave necessities. The emergency called for Luke’s flask, and he had the satisfaction a little later of seeing the occultist’s pale blue eyelids flicker, then tighten as if apprehensive of what they might look upon if they opened.

“All right, friend Cagliostro?” queried the artist, giving the fainting man a slight shake.

The squinting eyes opened widely and fell upon Luke’s handsome face in the full glare of the headlights.

The squared mouth relaxed with obvious relief. Binney reached out convulsively to grasp Luke’s hand.

“God be thanked! You are real! Oh! Oh!” And then the thought of something came back to him, for he staggered up from the roadway, looking apprehensively in the direction from which he had been running.

“Did you see anything?” he quavered, very little of the impressive initiate left in his manner. “Did—was there anything after me?”

Luke shook his head. He peered down the road, but there was nothing now. The car stood quiet; the shadows which had but a few minutes ago been slinking from trunk to trunk now remained in ominous hiding. The roadway loomed darkly up a steep and stony slope, unlighted by the headlights because of its pitch.

“Can you—can you turn around here?” quavered Herbert Binney, one pudgy hand grasping Luke’s firm

“Why should I turn around?” disgustedly.

“Because—because—this isn’t the right road for you, Mr. Porter.”

“I took the first turn to the left,” disputed Luke. “This is the way to Bauers Ridge, isn’t it?”

Binney let out a squeak of nervous laughter, which he almost as instantly hushed, with that same apprehensive look up the road.

“You took the first turn to the left,” he explained, “but this is a private lane, not the first road to the left, which you should have taken about half a mile farther on. This is a private lane leading to Fanewold,” he finished.

Luke stared at him, half irritated, half amused.

“And you were careful to confuse me, so that I would take it and appear at Fanewold as your assistant?” he accused. “Well, now that I’m here, do you mind telling me if you were coming to meet me? If not, why were you running away?”

‘ ‘ Good God! I wasn’t meeting anybody!” cried the occultist wildly. “I was—well—not running away.” He stopped, then went on a little defiantly. “Yes, I was running away! You’d have done it, too, if you’d been in my place. God, if you’d seen what I did!” His voice rose in a shrill tremolo of emotion. “I saw—

the devil himself t Yes, I 'did/ Don’t dispute me, Mr. Porter, I beg of you. I’m not a lunatic. I’m a sane man. I’m a man who has seen many strange, supernatural phenomena. But —never before—never, I say—did I see the DEVIL in propria persona. Good God! it was horrible!”

“You’d better get into my car,” suggested the artist. “I’ll go along here and take a look at Beelzebub, friend Cagliostro. When we’ve found him, you’ll probably discover that you’re mistaken—”

“No, no, no!” denied the occultist hurriedly. “I couldn’t have been mistaken. The taxi driver left mo about a hundred yards from the castle draw, because he was superstitious. I walked up to the moat by myself, carrying my bags. And I was standing there, wondering how I could announce my arrival, when the moon came out from behind the clouds, and I saw that the draw was down.”

“Well?” prompted Luke, waiting impatiently, foot over the starter.

“And there was something—something uncanny about it—”

“About whatf The draw being open!” with irony.

“No, no, no! There was— somebody —leaning over the side of it, looking down into the moat. I—I went over to speak to him—to it — and it raised its monstrous countenance and looked at me—and—my God, it was the devil himself1” “Now, friend Cagliostro, you know as well as I that His Satanic Majesty isn’t in the habit of strolling around in flesh and blood, the way you’re telling me,” reproved Luke, starting the car.

“Oh, don’t go back! Don’t! Turn around, I beg you! If you drive ahead, you’ll meet— it —too!”

“I’m going to drive ahead, friend Binney. If you don’t like it, get out now and walk. I have a mind to see your devil for myself. At least, the

experience cannot fail to be stimulating,” Luke grinned to himself.

“But his terrible eyes! His hideous smile! That bloated, misshapen nose! The purple face, like decomposing flesh! The twisted, frightful mouth! Good God, Mr. Porter, you don’t know what a hideous thirty you’re going to confront! Turn back, while there is yet time! Turn—”

“Shut up!” snapped Luke. “A fine oceultist you are, to let a mere ugly demon terrify you to such an extent!”

_ This dig was too much for the dignity of the occultist, who sank back in his seat in silence, evidently trying hard to regain something of his previous composure and impressiveness.

uke was obliged to go into low up the slope, which was not only very steep but covered with large rolling stones over which his ear slipped and skidded unpleasantly. But when the summit of the rise had been reached, he was rewarded by an astonishing sight.

The moon was bright in an unclouded sky. Her light threw into high relief the battlements of what might have been an ancient medieval castle, while black shadows blocked out the approach to the great pile of massive granite blocks, so that the drawbridge of which the occultist had spoken remained in darkness. The headlights of the car fell upon this spot as Luke maneuvered the roadster for that purpose, disclosing a bridge across a moat at least ten feet wide. The bridge was solitary. No one stood there in the glare of the headlights. But just inside the portal of the draw a man waited, so impassively that he seemed a wax figure, arrayed in the ancient garb of an oldtime page, with doublet and hose.

“Is that your devil?” Luke laughed.

Cagliostro drew a long breath of relief.

“No, that isn’t the— thing —I saw. That was unutterably horrible. This is just a man, I imagine.”

The car went closer. As it approached the draw, the page came out, holding up one hand in warning. His voice fell clearly, in quite good English, on the night air. He, at least, was flesh and blood.

“Don’t drive over the bridge, sir, if you please. You will find the garage around at the side of the castle, to your right, sir. If you will be kind enough to put up your car and eome back here on foot, I’ll send a man to get your bags, sir.”

“Evidently we’re expected,” Luke murmured to his companion. “I’ve half a mind to go in, friend Cagliostro. ”

' * He thinks you are my assistant, ’ ’ whispered the occultist. His voice was under control now. "Are you— will you—t”

“Yes, I am, and I will,” decided Luke, curiosity getting the better of him. “Send a man for our bags,” he called to the servant, who bowed and disappeared within.

At the left of the castle there seemed to be no road, but -the roadway at the right had been given a little attention; ruts had been smoothed out, stones removed. Halfway down beside the castle moat, a large granite garage loomed up. Luke drove the roadster into it, and a minute later two men, also arrayed in medieval costume, appeared and picked up his bags. Painting paraphernalia he left in the car.

“Where are your bags, friend Cagliostro?” he inquired.

The occultist shifted the pale blue eyes uneasily from Luke’s amused

“I—ah—left them in front of the draw,” he admitted.

“When you—oh, excuse me—I understand, ’ ’ grinned Luke, as he followed the servants back to the draw.

T he thing that the artist did not like was that as they entered the courtyard within those lofty stone walls, a creaking sound announced that the drawbridge was being raised. A quick look behind him confirmed this suspicion. He and Cagliostro Moderno were now cut off from the outside world as completely as if they had been immured in a jail, in solitary confinement; those high walls meant no escape; that wide moat might not be deep enough for a plunge from the battlements.

Luke was suddenly glad to remember that in one of his bags was an automatic.

“If you have no objection, sir,” one of the men asked Luke, much to the occultist’s discomfiture taking the artist for the principal of the two, “the Master would like to have you wait for ton minutes on the roof garden, until your rooms are made ready. He cannot see you tonight, as he is occupied with an important experiment.”

“We will await his pleasure,” hastily exclaimed the occultist, assuming the lead with dignity.

He had once more swung his mantle about his plump form, and was permitting only the button nose and squinting eyes to appear above one edge of it.

Luke shrugged indifferent shoulders, as he followed the page up a winding staircase in a tower that rose on one side of the courtyard. They emerged upon what seemed to be a kind of roof garden, located on the broad top of one of the side walls of the castle, and wide enough to cover not only the wall but part of that portion of the building. Here the servitor paused, hesitated, then turned directly to Luke.

“The Master has directed me, sir, to ask that you pace back and forth along this central path, until I can come for you a little later.”

WEIRD

Luke stared, a quirk of amusement twisting his mobile lips.

“Is that a suggestion, or a command?” he inquired pleasantly.

“Oh, sir, the Master always has a good reason back of the most absurd —that is, apparently absurd—requests,” the man amended hastily.

“How about met” bristled the occultist. “Perhaps he means that it is I who am to walk back and forth? It is / who am the—”

“Pardon me, sir, but it is the younger man to whom the Master’s request is directed,” the page said respectfully.

Cagliostro retired, slightly peevish, to seat himself on a rustic bench at one side of the narrow path. Luke, with much inward curiosity and amusement, strode back and forth along the pebbled way. The page disappeared. Luke, passing the doorway as he walked, suddenly stopped short, his head jerking to instant attention without turning it in the direction of what he heard. It was a voice; a husky, pleading woman’s voice, whispering tensely.

“Don’t turn your head! Pretend to be looking at the moon 1 But if you are a gentleman, don’t leave this place without seeing Alden first! Alden. For God’s sake, don’t fail me! Look! The light—from the Master’s tower! I must go, or he will see me here. At 4 in the morning— on this roof garden is the safest place!”

The voice ceased. There was the slightest rustle, as of a woman’s garments. And then a blinding ray of light shot across the garden, disclosing everything as brightly as in broad daylight. Startled out of his astonishment at that mysterious and appealing feminine voice, Luke sprang out of the patli of the ray, only to find it following him persistently as he walked.

“Lord! What’s that?” gasped Cagliostro, jumping to his feet.

“Somebody’s turning a searchlight on us,” the artist decided, as he stopped to peer past the light. But it was too blinding.

“I think I understand,” gabbled the occultist, the pale eyes thrust up into Luke’s perplexed face. “It’s him. Taking a look at me,” proudly. “He asked you to walk, so that he could tell which of us was which.” After this reflection, he hurried to seat himself again on the rustic bench, posing importantly.

“Darned impudent of Mr. Fane,” Luke decided. “Must be an eccentric of the first water.” He deliberately turned his back to the searchlight, which played about the garden, then back to him, almost as if suggesting that he walk again. But he stood deliberately still.

W ithin five minutes the page appeared in the doorway and indicated that the two were to follow him. Winding passages gave place to steep and narrow staircases, dimly lighted by scattered candles guttering against dark walls; stairways led to corridors across which tiny slits in the stone of the outer walls threw occasional threads of faint moonlight. At last the servant threw open the door of a room, motioned Cagliostro to enter, left him standing there with a vaguely disturbed expression on his face, and led Luke to another room around a turn in the same corridor.

“If there is anything you’d like, sir, just ring for me—the electric button is here. My name is Mason, by the way, sir. It is the Master’s desire that you drink a goblet of hot wine, sir, after your cold drive. I will bring it presently.” He threw open a door at one side of the great apartment, disclosing a luxuriously appointed private bath. “I think you will be very comfortable, sir. ” Luke looked about him, observing the tapestry-hung walls, the thickly carpeted floor, the over-stuffed armTHE GARGOYLE

chairs, the immense antique bed. He nodded appreciatively.

“I think I shall,” he agreed. "Thank your master for the hot wine,” he added. "It will be doubly welcome.”

Mason bowed and disappeared. Urged by he knew not what motive, but with the feeling that he would like to be secured against intrusion in this strange place, the artist made a hasty examination of the room, lifting tapestries to peer behind them for hidden doors, and pulling up the bigger rugs for trap-doors. He grinned as he did so, feeling his actions absurd. But the absurdity of it did not keep him from making a thorough examination of his surroundings. The conclusion he arrived at was that he was seeure from intrusion from the bathroom, but that any of those blocks of granite forming the walls might be in reality secret doors. Anything, he felt, would be possible, plausible, in this 6trange castle.

His thoughts ran. to the voice of that unseen woman, who had asked him to meet her in the roof garden at 4 that morning. Was it a man or a woman whom he was to meet? A man—Aldent

Luke prepared for the night by slipping on a dressing gown and slippers, to blind Mason. When the man appeared with the steaming goblet of wine, he was told to leave it on the stand by the bed.

"I’ll drink it a little later,” the artist said casually. “Spiced rather heavily, isn’t it?”

“It makes a good nightcap, sir,”

Mason remarked, a rather odd expression passing over his face. This unguarded look was not lost on Luke, who inwardly decided not to drink the wine, although it smelled enticing.

"I understand from Mr.—ah— Moderno, sir, that you’ve both dined? Is there anything else I can do for you, sir? No, sir? Thank you, sir.”

Mason retired, closing the heavy door behind him. Luke at once went across the room, found a massive key, and turned it in the great hand-hammered bronze lock. That door, at least, should be impassable....

Then from his bag he took an electric torch and his automatic, slipping them into different pockets of his coat, which he now reassumed. The spicy odor of the steaming wine penetrated to every comer of the room, affecting Luke soporifically. He picked up the goblet, carried it into the bathroom, and emptied it He could not afford to sleep this first night in Fanewold.

Chapter 3. Behind The Arras

D espite his intention to remain awake, the artist caught himself on the point of dozing more than once as the night wore on. When a light tap sounded on his door, then he was sure for a moment that he had only imagined it, and looked at his watch with the electric torch, not wishing to turn on even the shaded electric night-lamp. It was half-past 1 o ’clock, and the rap on his door was no dream, for it came again, timidly, yet persistently.

Luke crossed the room and listened. Again the tap. With one hand in his pocket where the automatic lay, he unlocked the door and very quietly swung it ajar. A dark figure stood in the flickering light of the corridor candles, which contrasted oddly with the luxurious appointments, electric and otherwise, of his apartment. As he opened the door cautiously, this figure moved toward him with a slight rustle of starched garments. It was a woman who came in at the door, pushing it shut behind her. Luke touched the electric button; the room was flooded with light.

She stood without shrinking, her eyes narrowed at the sudden blaze of

illumination, an elderly woman with faded blue eyes, line features that must once have been very lovely but were now lined heavily with the wrinkles of secret anxieties and apprehensions. Her dress was simple, dark, nondescript, but her apron and the cap resting on her straightlydrawn gray hair were snowy and starched, modem to the last extreme. Evidently an upper servant.

“You are the unmarried young man?” she whispered, one finger warning him to keep his voice low.

Luke nodded, smooth brow contracted, gray eyes darkening with puzzlement.

“I am Alden,” the woman continued, still in that low, half-frightened manner. “Miss Fane's nurse. That is, I was her nurse; I have been her personal maid for some years, since she grew up from the baby I first cared for. ’ ’

“Who is Miss Pane?”

“She is the adopted daughter of Madam Fane, Mr. Porter. It is about her that I have come to you, risking God only knows how much, to get your help for her sake. If the Master discovers that I have been to you, he will dispose of me—somehow,” she said darkly. “At any rate, he would see to it that I could not help my little Sybil in this moment of dire need. Mr. Porter, ”—she laid her worn hand on Luke’s arm appealingly—“do not trust Guy Fane. He is a monster who will stop at nothing to gain his own ends.” She shuddered convincingly.

“Still I do not understand,” Luke said gently.

“Guy Fane is planning some monumental crime against Sybil,” the woman whispered tensely. “Just what it is I can only surmise, but my barest imaginings of it are so horrible that I dare not put them into words. It is against her immortal soul that he is plotting, Mr. Porter. What use he wishes to make of an innocent girl,

I cannot—dare not—think. But she must be saved—she must!”

“If there is anything I can do,” Luke began, vaguely—when Alden seized his arm convulsively between her nervous, working fingers.

“Listen!” She remained in apprehensive silence for a long moment. Then she drew Luke toward the inner wall of his room.

"Lock your door. Now please follow me, in absolute silence. I am going to take you through a secret passage into Miss Fane's room, and hide you behind the tapestry so that you can understand something. ’ ’ Her finger went to her lips again in warning. She took a pocket flash from her apron and turned it on. Lifting one heavy hanging, she motioned Luke to follow. He did so, feeling as if he were in a strange dream. She pushed something somewhere in the wall. A part of what had seemed solid stone swung slowly away on a central pivot. Into the opening thus discovered she stepped, with beckoning finger. The artist walked behind her closely. Through a short passage, and then she once more hunted for and found some secret spring, which swung back a smaller stone like a window. Again that warning for silence. Then she took Luke’s hand in hers, pushed it through the window, until he touched a swinging, heavy material, which he realized was a tapestry hanging similar to those in his own room. As he made the discovery, he heard voices again, and strained against the small opening to hear them better, at a gesture from the woman, who then shut off the flashlight.

T hrough the chinks in the woven stuff came glints of light. Luke was impatient now to see, and as if she had divined his wish, Alden whispered cautiously that if he had a penknife he might be able to cut out a small piece of the tapestry. The

artist took the suggestion, and after a minute’s awkward attempt, succeeded, and his eye went to the small opening.'

He was looking into a charming boudoir, furnished in modern French fashion with pale blues and pinks, and lighted by a brilliant chandelier of crystal drops. On a bed opposite, a girl was sleeping deeply, a girl whose fair blond loveliness stirred the artist’s soul and made his fingers itch to depict her on canvas. On either side of the sleeper’s bed stood a figure, and either was ominous to a terrifying degree. One was short, squat, ungainly; draped from head to foot in swathing folds of somber black so thick as to conceal effectually whatever was beneath them. Not even the face of this individual showed under double thicknesses of black chiffon that left only the flashing of dark eyes to be glimpsed occasionally.

“She sleeps!” came from the thick folds of the veil, in a voice singularly rich and melodious. “Yet for a moment I thought she was only feigning sleep. My fearful imagination! But she sleeps soundly; the opiate never fails to do its work. ’ ’

The second being—a woman, tall, black-garbed—bent over the sleeping

Snow-white hair was piled above a face of singular but repelling pride and much devastated beauty; mingled in that speaking countenance were the traces of battling emotions that must have been going on in her soul for years, to have altered her face so terribly. Now across it writhed in sequence fury and reluctance; hate, and a kind of disdainful pity.

The man had been watching her attentively, for his voice issued now from the swathing folds of black.

“My dear mother, is it possible that you are considering withdrawal at this late moment 1 Now, when all lies ready to my hand! When the final act of this stupendous drama is

ready to be played out? When —He —has promised to grant my prayers? Impossible 1 ’ ’

“I cannot look upon so much innocence and purity without experiencing something of remorse at the part I must play,” cried the dark woman. “Iam not withdrawing, Guy. But— she is so beautiful—so unsuspecting—

“Oh, yes, I grant you all this, my dear mother. It is very tender and womanlike for you to feel such sympathy for her. But what about met” terribly. “Do you not owe me some reparation for what you have done to me? I, who am what your deliberate desire for revenge upon a husband’s infidelities made me—a thing so utterly horrible that I dare not look at my hideous mockery of a face lest I perish at my own temerity, my flesh creeping at the revolting and grisly monster that would confront me in my mirror?”

“Enough, Guy! Enough!” The mother wrung her attenuated hands.

“Oh, your revenge upon my father was complete, my dear mother! Yet the worst part of it fell upon me, who was innocent of any wrong. My forbidding deformities have served your purpose. Now you must expiate your crime against me. You must pay, mother. You must pay.”

She pressed both hands to her wrinkled cheeks.

“I never dreamed what it would mean to you,” she pleaded. “For-

“Forgive you? Perhaps I may find it in my heart, if there is a human heart within this unsightly, monstrous mass of flesh, to forgive you when the final act of the drama has been played out. Oh, when I have gained the grace and comeliness of which your revengeful hate robbed me, perhaps I may forgive you,

She held her outstretched hands toward him pleadingly.

“Hare I rebelled, Guy? Have I not put myself utterly in your hands, even to the extent of endangering my immortal soul!” wailed she, as if in

“Tour soul endangered, my dear mother?” The man laughed a short, sneering laugh. “You should have considered your soul—and mine, dear mother, mine.—long ago, when you prepared Lucifer’s chapel, and frequented it during those months before my hateful birth, thinking only of your unspeakable revenge upon my father. You had your wish; you drove him away in horror at the sight of the monstrous prodigy that would be his heir. Now, I must have my wish. It is only to undo what you did, sweet mother,” in mocking tones.

“I sometimes wonder if a demon inhabits your frame, Guy—”

The squat individual chuckled horribly.

“Perhaps it is so, dear mother. Who can tell? But my wish is so modest. I only ask that the exquisite loveliness reposing on this couch deliver up to me some of its charm. And with generosity, I am willing— anxious—to give all, all my own ugliness, all my forbidding deformity, in exchange 1 ’ ’

“But you told me you would use the man,” hesitated the woman.

The short figure gave a shrug of its shoulders.

“I tried to see him in the searchlight, but I couldn’t tell whether or not he had the physique, the features, that would interest me more than these,” motioning toward the girl. “It is the more subtle way, to take them from him, and wreck her soul — afterward, ” he observed thoughtfully. “Well, tomorrow I must see him and decide.”

“Guy, spare her soul! Let it be a stranger! Not this poor child I I tell you, I am afraid! She is too pure, too innocent. The very stars in their courses will fight for her.”

“And is not her purity, her innocence, what make her more acceptable to Himt Ah,” and he lifted blackswathed arms above the sleeping girl in terrible invocation, “Lucifer, Son of the Morning! Only Thou canst understand how great is my impatience at the delay of these last preparations that will make the sacrifice acceptable unto Thee! I tell you, mother, not until this girl sees her purity and loveliness turning into ugliness, her innocence of thought replaced by the lowest, vilest passions that can enter the human mind, not until then will Lucifer exult in the sacrifice.”

“There you err, wretched boy!” cried out the mother passionately. “Her beauty may pass, but her soul is in a higher keeping.”

“I have made no mistakes, my mother. Her soul will yet bo Lucifer’s. He who has been instructed by a prince of the fallen hosts of heaven cannot err.”

“But don’t you see that because He is a prince of darkness He has failed to take into His calculations the power of light? Guy, Guy, beware of putting overmuch trust in Lucifer. He only seeks to draw down to Himself, not to exalt. It is your mother, your wretched mother, who warns you. Your mother, who has paid ten thousand times in agony and tears for her crime against her unThe veiled figure made the travesty of a cross by folding its arms and resting its hands upon its own shoulders. Then the head bent upon the folded arms, while a mocking, ironical laugh issued softly from the folds of

“You don’t believe yet, do you, mother? Well, you shall! In spite of what you have already experienced, what you have seen with your own eyes, you remain incredulous? You persist in your skepticism? Oh 1 ” he cried out with strange passion;

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woman. “Until then, I beg one thing only: Do not trust the Master.”

She unlocked the hall door, listened for a moment, then opened it quietly and slipped out into the light of the flickering oandles.

Chapter 4. The Master

F rom the deep slumber into which his vigils finally plunged him, Luke wakened to hear someone rapping loudly at the door. He got up lazily and unlocked it.

“If you please, sir, the Master has ordered breakfast for you and tho other gentleman on the roof garden. The morning is mild and warm, sir. Of course,” and the voice altered subtly, “if you prefer to breakfast in bed, I am sure the Master will alter his arrangements.”

“Let it be the roof garden, Mason,” Luke' acquiesced. “I’ll be out in ten minutes. Is Mr. Binney— that is, the other gentleman—up?”

“He is already out, sir. A light sleeper, sir, I’d say. Didn’t touch the spiced wine, sir,” irrelevantly.

“You may as well take out my empty goblet,” Luke suggested, “now you’re here. That’s some wine, Mason. But it makes a fellow sleep,” he said casually. Under his heavy eyebrows the keen gray eyes watched Mason’s face.

“You may well say so, sir. Miss Sybil always sleeps heavily after drinking it. The Master gives it to her whenever she complains of insomnia.”

Mason appeared innocent enough, but Luke fancied that the man was studying him curiously behind that impassive gaze.

“May I give you a hand, sir, with your dressing?”

“Thanks, no. Not used to being valeted, Mason. I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes,” dismissed Luke.

“Wanted to drug me last night,” he murmured to himself. “I’ll have to watch out for these quieting nightcaps,” he told himself as he dressed, but his thoughts were more on the mystifying remarks he had heard the night before, hidden behind the tapestry of Sybil Fane's room.

He was anxious to meet the girl, and wondered if she would appear at breakfast. There was no one in the garden but the occultist, however, and the little man was pacing nervously up and down the path when Luke appeared at the doorway.

“This is a strange place!” was his greeting. “Did—did you sleep last

“Like a top,” Luke replied careCagliostro jerked his carroty head from one side to the other and after hip squinty eyes had gazed watchfully about him, he said in a low

“Well, I suppose you drank that wine, didn’t you?”

Luke laughed.

“No, my good Cagliostro, I didn’t. What do you take me for? A babe in arms? I poured it down the lavatory in the bathroom, and sat up for hours to find out why I’d been offered the potion.”

“Then you knew about itt” babbled the occultist, marveling. “How did you know?”

“How did yout” parried Luke, smiling. “By the way, I see our breakfast is ready, and it looks mighty appetizing.”

He drew up a chair and would have seated himself so that he was facing the forest, but Mason hastily interfered, pulling out a chair that seated him facing the interior towers of the castle. Slightly puzzled, Luke took the place. As he helped himself to crisp bacon and golden marmalade, his watchful eyes went over the towers that he faced. Within the castle walls there rose a great roof of

corrugated glass, admitting sunlight but shutting out all intrusive glances. This translucent roof was built in a series of terraces culminating in a central tower at one end, which style of architecture permitted the insertion of ventilators in the shape of metal blinds set with the openings downward, again with the very obvious end of shielding the courtyard from curious eyes while at the same time affording free access of fresh air.

“That’s an odd sort of thing,” he started to say to his companion, when he was suddenly half blinded by a brilliant flash of light from the tower above the glass roof, a flash so sharp and sudden that he flung up one hand to protect his eyes. It was as if some mischievous urchin had manipulated a mirror to deflect the sun’s rays into his face. When he looked to see what had occasioned the flash, his curiosity was piqued, and at the same time he was slightly irritated. It was a repetition of last night’s occurrence with the searchlight. The flash had been occasioned by the reflection of sunlight from glass, but the glass had not been a mirror; it was from the barrels of a field-glass in the act of being once more leveled in his direction. Some curious individual was looking him over in this manner.

“Darned impertinence,” Luke said aloud. “Cagliostro, what would you take that to bet” He pointed out the two barrels of the field-glass which he could observe distinctly between the shutters of a window in the central tower.

The occultist looked back across his shoulders without much interest, obviously preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"Somebody is looking us over, my friend. He didn’t get a very good look at us last night, so he’s trying it in daylight. And I know who it is,” Luke added in a low voice.

The pale blue eyes shifted to look into Luke’s. Somewhere in their depths flickered a keener perception than the artist had supposed the little Binney capable of.

“It’s—he,” whispered the occultist.

“How do you know 1 ’’

“I feel it, Mr. Porter.”

“Well, I know, because—” and then Luke broke off, remembering that the information he had gained by listening behind the hangings in Sybil Fane's room was not to be imparted in this fashion.

“Did you feel it, toot”

“Why, yes, that is about what I’d think,” Luke stumbled awkwardly.

“We are supposed to meet Mr. Fane this morning,” the occultist volunteered, as he finished his second cup of coffee with gusto.

“Mr. Fane wishes Mr. Porter to go up to his study first,” said Mason’s suave voice over Luke’s shoulder.

Cagliostro bristled with indignation. His pouting mouth stuck its lips out in protest.

“There’s some mistake,” he scolded, peevishly. “This young man is merely my—my assistant. / am the occultist, not he.”

The major-domo did not smile. He spoke seriously and respectfully.

“Quite so, sir. But Mr. Fane undoubtedly wishes to see if your assistant is satisfactory, before bothering you with an interview. He would not care to take up your time needlessly, I’m sure, sir.”

The occultist was satisfied. He seated himself, wrapped in his dark mantle, upon the rustic bench, with immense dignity.

“I will wait here, until you return, Mr. Porter,” he announced.

“Will you kindly come with me, sir?” Mason requested. “The Master has asked me to tell you that he hopes you will make allowance for him, if you find him irritable. He is tired and nervous from a sleepless night.”

W ithout giving the artist time to reply, Mason led the way down long corridors and staircases, that led, Luke surmised by the general direction, into the very heart of Panewold Castle. At last they paused before a door; Mason opened it noiselessly, stepping to one side and motioning the artist to enter. No announcement was made; indeed, as the room was in complete darkness, Luke could hardly believe that anyone was waiting there.

He stepped across the threshold of the room slowly and paused, hardly knowing whether to stop where he was or to feel his way forward through the Stygian darkness. The outer corridor had been dimly illuminated by occasional tall and narrow windows, shadowed by climbing ivy, but this room apparently had no windows, and the only light was that of a single candle standing so far back in the depths of the apartment that it served but to make the darkness visible.

Luke took another step forward. He stood stock-still and waited. He had no intention of breaking a rib by a fall over unseen pieces of antique furniture. He had half a mind to step back out of that uncanny blackness that seemed to be closing in like innumerable invisible presences, alive with inconceivable and strange malevolence. As he stood, half exasperated and half unnerved by the oddity of his bizarre reception, a voice sounded on his ear, so unexpectedly near at hand that the startled young man went back several paces.

The soft and musical notes of that plaintive voice did not move Luke from his quick indignation, and although the first words spoken were in apology, the artist gulped hard to swallow his resentment at those tricks of darkness and an unseen speaker. Memory of the previous night’s revelations also angered him.

“Pardon me, my dear sir, I beg of you, for what must seem a strange and inhospitable reception,” said the voice. “I am, alas, inflicted with a malady which precludes your reception in other than the dim light of this room. My eyes,” went on that melancholy and touching voice plaintively, “cannot bear more than the pale light of a single candle at a dis-

“Such a reception is hardly reassuring,” Luke remarked coldly, his nerves yet throbbing. “But since you have been so kind as to explain that it is due to a misfortune, I can not of course do other than extend sympathy for a malady which shuts you away from the glorious light of day. I am speaking, I presume, to Mr. Guy Fane?”

“I am Guy Fane. Your name, I am informed, is Luke Porter? If you will step forward, Mr. Porter, your hand will find a chair already placed. I would like to ask a few questions of you, if you do not object.”

Luke found the indicated chair and sat down uncomfortably. This conversation with an unseen person in the dark was not just to his taste; he loved sunshine and space, not this black, crowding darkness.

“I understand that you have come with—ah—Cagliostro Moderno, as his assistant? Have you ever studied— ah—magic?”

Luke consulted himself hastily. He dared not deny knowledge of the subject entirely, for this might result in his being shut out completely from the strange experiments he was now burning to witness. Moreover, he did not wish to leave Panewold without first meeting Sybil Pane, and seeing how he could be of service to her if she really needed, as Alden had declared, his help.

“I have not gone very deeply into the subject, Mr. Fane,” he admitted with apparent frankness. “But you must know that it is too tremendous

in scope for anyone to say that he has done more than—studied—it.”

“Then it is our Cagliostro who is the real adept, the initiate?”

A laugh followed the words; a laugh so eery that Luke had much ado to keep his nerves from throbbing uncomfortably again. The cachinnation broke off as suddenly as it had burst forth, leaving in its wake a silence yet more uncanny. Luke felt that through the gloom the unseen Master was gazing at him with keen eyes that pierced the darkness and was cynically enjoying his manifest discomfort. He took himself in hand

Guy Fane spoke suddenly then, taking up the current of his thought as if he had not broken it off by his uncanny laughter.

“He really doesn’t look the part, do you think, Mr. Porter?”

“One doesn’t have to look the part, does he, to accomplish what he sets out to do? I don’t wear flowing ties and long hair, but I’ve managed to achieve a small success at painting, and I don’t look the part, I’ve been told often,” Luke retorted.

“You are not slow at a parry, Mr. Porter,” complimented the invisible host. “What I wish to know is: do you feel skeptical about magic, or have you reason to believe that it exists?”

“I’ve seen black magic worked in Haiti,” Luke said slowly. “After that, can I deny it?”

“Right to the point, aren’t you? What docs it represent to you?”

The reply came slowly, for Luke felt that Guy Fane laid much stress upon it. The whole affair savored so much of the outri that he felt extreme dislike to discuss such a subject under such conditions. Yet the very silence appeared to wait upon his answer.

“In its final analysis, magic is no more than the power of the imagination, utilized along lines with which

the masses are not conversant. The imagination possesses potentialities fraught with more far-reaching influence and potent force than is realized by the average man,” he said

“Ah! Your opinion interests me immensely. It coincides with mine. You would concede, then, that under conditions where the human mind has been wrought up to a high tension, incidents ordinarily termed miraculous might take place?”

“Admittedly.”

“What would you consider the conditions most favorable for the working of so-called miracles? ’ ’ asked the Master, eagerness discernible in his mellow voice.

“The Bible states plainly that the first condition is that of ardent demand. The second is that of earnest belief that the demand not only will be fulfilled, but is already fulfilled.”

“Then you think results will be quicker and more powerful in proportion to the strength of the faith involved?”

“Assuredly, Mr. Fane.”

“I am much gratified to find that we are so deeply in accord on such an interesting subject, Mr. Porter. I am conducting an experiment along magical lines, and shall later on expect some very important assistance from you. My good mother cannot assist me as much as she used to; growing ill-health makes it impossible for her to concentrate mentally.”

Luke remained silent. There was a short pause.

“In the meantime, may I ask you to do what you can to make the hours pass agreeably for my cousin? I shall consider as a personal favor all that you do for her. In fact, you will be doing me a great service, which you may understand better, later on. Mason! ’ ’

The major-domo appeared in the dim entrance.

“Will you kindly take Mr. Porter to Miss Panel And bring me the— ah—adept, who must have been waiting impatiently for this pleasant little chat with Mr. Porter to end.”

Luke followed the servitor into the corridor, as Guy Fane's velvety voice sank musically into the darkness and died away. But after he had taken the few steps which would bring him to comparative light, he paused, with a vivid impression that something stood before him, blocking his way and staring up at him with eyes that mocked subtly.

“How extremely psychic you are, my dear Mr. Porter,” murmured Guy’s voice, vibrating with gentle amusement. As he spoke, a soft rustle betrayed the movement of someone near at hand. The way was clear.

Luke followed Mason down the corridor, beneath the light of the guttering candles. As he went, he heard that strange laugh again, full now of what seemed to his sensitive ear malicious enjoyment. The sound of it struck an angry chill through him. As he groped along, he continued to feel strange, peering eyes following his slow progress, and the sensation did not serve in any way to retard his steps.

Chapter 5. Sybil

C onducted by Mason, Luke found himself back in the roof garden after the usual traverse of twisting, winding corridors. The impatient Cagliostro arose immediately, anxious for his own interview with the Master, but on his way out stopped to whisper in Luke’s ear:

“Well, is he satisfied? What did he ask you? What did you say to

Luke’s lips twitched with amusement. His gray eyes danced.

“Friend Cagliostro, I was asked if I believed in magic, and I said I did.”

The oecultist’s pale blue eyes stared incredulously at him.

“Well, you’re rather surprizing, Mr. Porter. I had no idea that you were far enough along on the road to believe in the tremendous underlying powers and forces which the average individual doesn’t even suspect, let alone believe in. Well, well, well!”

Down the corridor behind the retreating Mason, Luke could hear that astonished echo, of “Well, well, well! ” as Cagliostro went to his interThe breakfast table had been removed. A gaily red vis-a-vis swing had been stood up in its place, as if in preparation for someone. Luke dropped into one side of it and began mulling over his experiences of the past night and that morning, swinging back and forth as he thought.

That Guy Fane was a monomaniac on the subject of black magic he could see readily. What he disliked was the implication that the innocent Sybil Pane was to be involved to her own injury in some of Guy Fane’s villainous or criminal practises. Moreover, Luke himself was also being drawn into them, if he was to believe the hints contained in the words of the Master the night before. Just how he could be useful to the black magician, he could not imagine, and he wondered how much of his knowledge on the subject could safely be imparted to Cagliostro Moderno, whose ingenuous nature he had sensed even at their first meeting. Luke did not believe that the little Herbert Binney cared to be drawn into such vile practises as Guy Fane would be guilty of. To a certain extent, then, Herbert Binney might be trusted, and if his knowledge of black magic was more than merely theoretical, perhaps he would understand why Guy Fane imagined he could rob another man of fine physique, handsome features, for his own vicious purposes.

Sunken in his puzzled thoughts, Luke did not see a slender, girlish figure that tripped from the doorway across the garden path toward him and came to a stop before the swing. Then he looked up, startled for a moment. Sybil’s blond hair had been cut in a modem boh, but with its fluffy curls it made a soft frame about her face. She lifted her eyes to him, and the artist almost cried out with exultation, so beautiful was their purple-pansy velvetiness. The play of alert and arch intelligence lightened the lovely face that he had seen the night before in soft repose. Only one defect, if defect it was, made Sybil’s eyes seem deep with mystery; the eyebrows that outlined them above were much darker than her hair, making her eyes and her crimson lips stand out with startling prominence on her pale skin.

The artist sprang to his feet.

“Miss Fane?”

The girl put out both hands in such friendly fashion that Luke dropped formality at once. Her charm, her poise, her absolute ingenuousness, made their impression upon the man as well as upon the artist. He took the slender hands in his. They stood for a minute in silence, looking at each other with interested eyes. Then Sybil spoke in a soft, repressed little voice with a nervous undertone trembling through it.

“Are you—are you —my lover?”

The artist remained silent for an astonished moment, his mobile lips parting slightly with the shock of her words. Some movement in the doorway drew his eyes; the gray-haired Alden was standing there, duennalike, one finger ever so slightly uplifted as if in warning. He remembered her words of the previous

“May I be your—lover?” he said quickly.

She nodded with sweet simplicity, honest purple eyes still upon him.

Her hands clung with a soft pressure that stirred his heart strangely; he swore to himself that no harm should touch this innocent, ingenuous girl, if he could foresee and prevent it.

“Let us sit on the parapet,” proposed Sybil, gayly, drawing him to the garden wall, which overhung the black moat. “There are so many things I want to ask you. And I am so glad you are handsome, dear lover. 1 have always been afraid you wouldn’t look the way I wished.”

“And I dot” smiled Luke, letting himself fall in with the mood of the girl, as one humors an innocent child.

“Oh, I love your gray eyes!” she said honestly. “And your teeth are so nice when you smile. And you have a kind of air.... You see, lover, I’ve never yet seen any man but the servants here. My cousin Guy never lets anyone see him, because he has weak eyes, poor dear, and cannot come out in the sun. And you are so different from Mason and the other

“I should hope so!” was Luke’s fervent, though unspoken, comment.

Mrs. Alden advanced from the doorway. Sybil turned toward her old nurse with a welcoming smile.

“Oh, Alden dear, isn’t my lover beautiful?”

The ardent admiration in her voice brought color to the artist’s tanned cheeks, but he met the unsmiling gaze of Alden with frank sincerity.

“Isn’t Sybil the loveliest thing the world has ever seen?” he asked of no one in particular, but his voice vibrated with an emotion that Alden noted, if the girl did not.

' ['he older woman stood near the two as they sat on the parapet; she looked down into the moat below. Luke, still holding the girl’s slender hands in his, artist eyes feasting upon her blond loveliness, enhanced by the crude embroideries on the white woolen sports frock, did not realize at

first what Alden was saying. Then, when she repeated her words, he gave them alert attention, realizing that she spoke with a hidden meaning.

“Nobody could hope to swim unhurt through that black water,” she was saying significantly. “Ten feet wide, and eight feet deep, is that sluggish water, Mr. Porter. And—look!”

She leaned across the parapet, pointing urgently at something whitish that floated in the turbid water. As Luke leaned over to look, there was the movement of some long, slimy thing below, and the whitish article went whirling in the eddies caused by the abrupt movement of that watersnake. It was the body of a dove. The poor thing’s plumage was soiled with viscid green and darker stains that might have been dried blood.

Luke’s eyes went to Alden's in mute inquiry. The woman shook her head, as if she either could not, or would not, explain. Sybil, however, was not so backward.

“You’re wondering about that poor dove?” she asked softly. “Oh, that is one thing I don’t like! I don’t, indeed! I’ve told my cousin Guy hundreds of times that I just couldn’t bear it to have my doves killed for sacrifices, no matter how great the cause. ” Her voice trembled slightly, and Luke saw that the pansy eyes were moist. ‘ ‘ But he is above worrying over the life of a dove, when he is seeking wonderful things that are so much more important.”

There was a dreamy look now in the purple eyes. Alden looked at her charge, a tragic impotence on her wrinkled face.

“Now it is a dove,” she said, not directly to Luke, but as if she were talking to herself. “The other day it was a young lamb. And it may some day be—another—lamb.”

Luke felt cold chills traversing his spinal eolumn. This black magician, then, was actually sacrificing lives to his devilish gods. Could it be possible

that Sybil—and he himself—were already devoted to that devil worship t Luke told himself that in future he would hot stir without the automatic in his pocket. The tenseness of his gray eyes did not escape Alden’s observation; she sighed as if in relief.

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” hastily interpolated Sybil, with a shudder. “I just can not get used to it. I’ve told cousin Guy many times that I’m sure the High Powers would appreciate fine fruits, or choiee flowers, or incense, as well as a poor little dove’s life.”

"Shall we talk about painting you, Sybil?” suggested Luke, the artist in him gaining the mastery.

She clapped her hands gayly.

“That would be fun, lover.”

“Call me Luke, my dear. That is my name.”

“Luke? How odd! But I like it. Where are your canvases and brushes and colors, Luke?”

Luke turned to Alden.

“I left the whole business in my car, outside in the garage. Can I manage to get outside the castle?”

A mysterious smile came over A1 den’s face.

“No, Mr. Porter, you can not, ”

“What?” exploded Luke.

Alden’s finger went to her lips

“It would be better for you to ask Mason to send a man for your painting things,” she suggested pointedly.

Reluctantly, Luke assented. He did not like the idea that he was virtually a prisoner in the castle, but in view of more important things he put that thought aside for the time being. Mason sent a page for the artist’s paraphernalia; the easel was set up in the garden, and Sybil seated herself on the parapet, little pointed chin on drawn-up knees about which her arms were clasped in childish fashion. Luke, silent, prepared his palette and began to paint. In this manner the ( morning fled, and when luncheon was announced he hardly cared to leave his work, which was shaping up in a

“After luncheon, I’ll pose again,” Sybil promised, fluttering around the easel in delight at the more than vague promise Luke had given to her portrait. “Come, Luke. Let’s hurry with lunch.”

'"pHE dining room in Fanewold Castie was extraordinarily handsome. Luke betrayed his artist’s interest the moment it burst upon him. It was beautifully paneled with solid mahogany, to judge from the massiveness of the carving that decorated the wood. Around the entire room ran a jutting balcony, enclosed in a marvelously carved balustrade. Above this was a lattice-work screen. For just what purpose this screen had been designed, Luke did not know, but he concluded that it afforded a fine vantage point from which an invisible observer could look down into the room.

Sybil waited, standing by her chair at the table. Presently a woman entered the room, a woman of proud dignity, tall, stately, but a wreck of what must once have been magnificent womanhood. Flashing black eyes gleamed under heavy brows still black, making a strange contrast with snowy hair, piled high. Never had the artist seen a more melancholy and interesting countenance than that of Madam Fane. He could the better observe it now, than at a distance as he had the night previous. The simplicity of her coiffure made more pronounced the sophistication of the concealed fires smoldering in the twin volcanoes under her heavy brows; those occasional brilliant flashes betrayed the vivid and powerfully restrained personality.

Rarely, however, did she raise her heavy lids to look anyone directly in the eye; rather did she turn her face slightly, replying in monosyllables which discouraged direct conversation with her. A strange, silent woman, who gave the impression of forces illspent in coping vainly with something bigger than herself, and hence chary of so little energy or vitality as might escape her in a single word.

Sybil seated herself after Madam Fane, and motioned Luke to pay no attention to her aunt, as the girl called the older woman.

Conversation during luncheon lagged. This might have been Madam Fane’s cold abstraction, or Sybil’s intimation that Guy Fane lunched on the balcony, hidden behind the lattice. There was something, too, ominous and oppressive in the older woman’s heavy glance, which Luke more than once found fixed with strange intensity upon either Sybil or himself.

Nor was this all. He felt as if a thousand mocking, evil eyes were watching his every movement from behind that lattice, although the brilliantly lighted dining room must have been hard on Guy Fane’s weak eyes, unless the Master was posing with.regard to his mysterious malady. Luke was glad when the meal was over, and Sybil drew him back to the garden to finish her portrait.

An inquiry as to the whereabouts of Herbert Binney led to the response from the girl that he was probably, with her cousin, preparing himself for the greatest experiment of all, the subject of which she was ignorant about, but for which her cousin had prepared her mentally to look forward joyfully. Cagliostro, in effect, did not show up all the afternoon. At dinner, however, he apWEIRD TALES

Are You Afraid To Love?

Life’s Mysteries Revealed

33 SKSJ 5

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prescious in the vicinity of this veiled being, an atmosphere weighing so heavily upon his spirits that he felt his throat choking physically. But the sensation was also of a moral cast, a shrinking of the higher senses with repugnance. Another figure, tall and thin, impressed him with deep, shuddering pity, such as one might feel for a soul that regards its own deliberate ruin with affright, yet holds to its terrible course as if chained by bonds too powerful to be broken.

“He is a handsome fellow,” a voice murmured. “These fine shapely limbs please me well.”

A hand touched Luke lightly. At the loathsome contact he shrank with a half moan. There was a grim laugh. The speaker leaned more closely over the sleeper, who began to draw gasping breaths as if oppressed beyond endurance.

"How my very nearness affects this youth 1 The spells of Lord Lucifer have indeed been powerful. They have made me another and loftier being than mere man.”

Awful pride rang in the words.

“Tell me, dear mother,” mockingly, “how long it will be for this youth to grow so ardent in his wooing that Sybil’s susceptible heart, so carefully prepared, will yield to his lovemak-

“If they are not for each other, it will be never,” declared Madam Fane.

“Oh, how you love to croak your woful prophecies! Lucifer, Lord Lucifer, grant my prayer soon! I can wait no longer! My monstrous—my execrable—body is poisoning my soul with detestation!”

"You will waken him,” warned the other. “He is starting and muttering in his sleep. Come! ’ ’

Both figures melted into nothingness. Luke fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

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II

Chapter 6

MEPHISTOPHELES

M ASON, appearing at Luke’s door in the morning, brought another message from the Master, who sent word that he would like a few words with Mr. Porter, if possible, directly after breakfast.

“He has arranged to receive you in his study, sir. You may find it more agreeable, sir, as it is fairly well lighted. I may say, sir, that this is

most unusual on Mr. Fane’s part; he rarely receives visitors except in complete darkness,” beamed Mason.

“Where is Mr. Moderno this morning?” Luke inquired. He was anxious to get in touch with Herbert Binney at the earliest occasion, to see how much the little man knew of Guy Fane's plans.

“I believe he is in the chapel, sir, busy with something for the Master. ’ ’

With this Luke had to content himself, and immediately after breakfast, at which Sybil did not appear, he followed Mason again down winding stairs and through mazes of corridors.

The room into which he was finally ushered was a spacious apartment, fairly well lighted by carefully shaded candles in sconces on the walls. To a height of four feet from the floor, the walls were lined with solidly packed bookcases. Padded armchairs invited. At the farther end of the room, in a niche in the wall, a great crystal globe, hanging on a hardly discernible, silvery chain, caught, reflected, and broke into shimmering rainbow colors the soft radiance of the shaded candles. The light, however, was not the honest golden glow of the average candle, but a sickly

reddish light, augmented by the shades, which were dull red. At the side of the room, far back, a delicate lattice extending to eight feet in height, carried with its presence the inference that the Master was there.

“Pray forgive me if I startle you,” begged Guy Fane's voice with plaintive intonation. “I know it must seem strange to converse with a man who remains hidden from sight, but alas, my infliction has laid this heavy cross upon me. You will note that I have done my poor best to light the room better, Mr. Porter. Please try to do me the justice of believing that I am not a mummer who attempts to mystify by such cheap methods as darkness and an unseen speaker. My magic is of an entirely different type, I assure you.... Won’t you draw up a chair near this screen? Thank you so much! Ah, I feel sure that we shall get along famously, and that your presence here will be fraught with much satisfaction to me.”

Luke sensed the undertone of something not in accord with the words. Guy Fane was amusing himself by conveying one meaning to the artist, while he laughed inwardly at a significance in his words intelligible only to himself. Instinctively, Luke was on guard. But in settling the chair, he seated himself in such a way that his face was partly in shadow; he did not intend that the unseen watcher should startle him and read that astonishment on his face.

“When you came here as Cagliostro Moderno’s assistant, it was understood that you were heart-whole and unmarried. I must reassure myself on this point. It is the basis of a plan that furnishes the reason for Sybil’s existence. I cannot explain fully now, but you shall understand all within a comparatively short time, when I have every reason to hope you will be furnished with the key to the mystery. The first important thing you are here for is to become the suitor

of my cousin Sybil. And I shall not frown upon your addresses.”

Luke sprang from his chair in some

“That is too much! What do you take me for, that you make such a cold-blooded proposal? I am not the man to fall in love at your behest, I assure you—to say nothing of the implied disrespect toward the young

“Calm yourself, my hot-blooded and enthusiastic young friend,” soothed the Master’s voice, reaching out after him as he paced the floor, with almost tangible forcefulness. “I take you for a gentleman. But consider.... I know Sybil’s prospects. I have her interests at heart. Her own father desired that she be immured within these walls until I considered it wise for her to emerge; he did not wish her to fall victim to some fortune-hunter who might rob her of all and leave her broken-hearted. Her private fortune, Mr. Porter, is im-

“Which doesn’t interest me in the slightest,” cried Luke angrily.

“Ah, but consider! I have thonght long and gravely how to provide a suitable husband for my pretty little innocent cousin. Through my occult relationships, I tried to find a man— young, handsome, healthy, heart-free —who might find it easy to love such a girl as Sybil, and save her from the suffering she might otherwise experience in less worthy hands. Be honest, Mr. Porter. If you could gain the love and respect of Sybil Pane, would you—granted that you grew to love her—feel it a wrong done the girl, to provide her with a good man who loved her first of all for herself?”

Luke stopped him abruptly.

“I cannot deny that your words are couched in a sophistry that carries reluctant conviction to my intellect, But something tells me—”

“Oh, how yon weary me, you cautious and particular man! With your

‘somethings’ that tell you quite nothing! Forgive me if I point out that you are meeting honest frankness on my part with intellectual distrust on yours. Can sincerity be so rare to your experience, that you cannot recognize it when you meet it face to

The speaker’s voice was so earnest with deep feeling that Luke almost discredited his own intuitional misgivings and his knowledge of the speaker’s nefarious schemes.

“On the surface you may be right in what you propose, Mr. Fane, but there is something despicably small in discussing Miss Fane in such a way.”

“There you are again!” the voice reproached him. “You know that the thing is innately right, but you hold that to discuss it is indelicate. What strange reasoning! Perhaps—perhaps you are not the man I thought you to be, sir? Would you like to retire from this indelicate situation?” Fine irony in the intonation. “If so, you have only to ring for Mason; he will get your belongings; you can shake off the dust of Fanewold Castle from your too-delicate person.”

L oke sat down abruptly. This would not be what he wanted. Not now.... The die was cast. He knew that he could not leave the castle leaving Sybil to the tender mercies of this strange monomaniac. He spoke quickly, abruptly, and with sincerity.

"I admire your cousin heartily, Mr. Fane. She is a most unusual girl for these modern, flapper days. I can hardly say that my admiration will ripen into something warmer—but— I ardently wish to remain.”

“Mr. Porter, I cannot find words to thank you for your decision, with all that it implies,” significantly. “For it, I believe I shall owe you a lifelong debt. Credit me with not being as lacking in delicacy as you may have been led to believe by this brief conversation. You will, I am sure,

entertain other and stronger feelings toward me as our acquaintance progresses to its destined end.”

Luke sensed again some subtle significance in the words that as yet he could not understand.

“It is to be hoped I will,” he retorted pointedly.

The unseen laughed softly as if to himself, and that thrill of strange distrust shot through Luke’s mind again.

“Look, young man, and say if such an innocent and legitimate temptation was ever offered you before in your life?”

The wall above one bookcase seemed to become misty. It faded more and more. In its place there grew the soft light of an autumn morning. And as the picture grew clearer, Luke realized that by some legerdemain or hypnotic trick he was looking directly at Sybil Fane, as she stood among her doves in the roof garden.

“Is it not easy to love such a woman?” whispered the voice of the unseen. “And easy to win her regard? Could you find a fairer woman in the world? Or one more easily molded to your ideal? I warn you, sir, to make haste with your wooing. In two weeks that girl comes of age, with the right to go out into the world she longs to see. Will you let her fall into unscrupulous hands? Save her, if you are a true man, from those unknown perils that otherwise await her!”

Luke replied from his heart;

“Mr. Fane, what you are and what your designs and motives may be, I do not know. But I warn you, if I fall in love with your cousin, nobody, not you yourself, shall ever lay a finger on her to harm or even to startle

“Ah! There speaks the kind of man to whom I can gladly give my cousin’s hand,” applauded Guy Fane approvingly. “I know you will protect her from everyone but yourself,” ambiguously. Before Luke could reWEIRD

sent the delicate insinuation, the Master continued: “If you do not mind, I shall be excused now, as I have much to do. I hope to see you again within a few days, Mr. Porter, and I hope that then all my warm wishes shall have come to fruition.”

Chapter 7. Alden’S Secret

A carefree day passed in Sybil’s company. The portrait Luke had begun was growing into a vivid likeness of this charming, ingenuous girl, who in no way concealed the interest she felt for him, firmly believing the artist to be her accepted lover and future husband. As the picture came to completion, Luke realized that he was devoted to Sybil Fane's service, body and soul, no matter at what cost.

During the early evening he managed to get a minute’s conversation with Herbert Binney. The little man, draped in a black mantle, was just emerging from his room as Luke happened to be passing. The occultist drew back with what seemed real resentment, when Luke almost collared him in his eagerness.

“Do not touch me!” he cried hastily. “I am engaged in work of such a lofty character that I dare not come in contact with souls as immersed in materialism as yours.”

“You needn’t shout so, my good Cagliostro,” the artist protested. “I’m not deaf, really.”

Without, however, lowering his voice, the adept continued, as he tried to slip past the young man:

“Purblind fool! Who are you, to accost one who has been favored by the great Lord Lucifer himself? Stand aside and let me pass!”

“Are you crazy?” Luke managed to ask, in astonishment.

“Stand aside!” shouted Cagliostro Moderno fiercely. “The Master

TALES

“But I have something important to tell you, my good Binney. ’ ’

“We shall meet again, Mr. Porter, I assure you, ’ ’ loudly declared the occultist. “Until then, beware how you approach me uninvited.”

With that, he slid off down the corridor at a pace that closely resembled flight, leaving the artist staring after him with the conviction that magic, either black or white, had turned the little man’s brain.

Thoughtful, Luke returned to Sybil’s boudoir.

“Don’t know what’s come over Cagliostro,” he confided, more to Alden than to the girl. “He’s simply fed up to the neck with mystery and refuses even to shake hands with me!”

Alden’s wrinkled face grew tense. She moved across the room so that she would pass close to Luke, and as she walked nearer, she murmured in low

“Pour o’clock this morning. The roof-garden. Don’t fail me.”

Luke nodded his head casually as if in time to the music Sybil was now bringing out of the harp, but Alden, catching his eyes, understood.

At dinner that evening Luke avoided with suspicion any food that might serve as a conveyance for an opiate, but the only thing that fell under his suspicion was a highly spiced pudding with wine sauce. He noticed that Madam Fane ate no sauce, but Sybil, fond of sweets, called for a second helping of it. His doubts were confirmed later that evening, as Sybil complained of drowziness, and retired

E xcitement and anxiety served Luke in good stead. Sleep apparently had deserted him; he was wide awake and alert in every fiber of his being. Understanding that no locks could keep him from inspection by visitors, he decided to feign sleep. He therefore threw himself upon the bed as if overcome by drowziness. UnTHE GARGOYLE

der his pillow he slipped his automatic and his electric flash. Well for him that he took this course, instead of going directly to the garden to wait there for his appointment with Alden! In less than half an hour after he had flung himself upon the bed, wholly dressed, the tapestry stirred vaguely in the light, which he had left on by the bedside, and the tall form of Madam Fane emerged and advanced to his side.

She bent over and regarded him keenly; he could feel that fixed gaze penetrating, even with his eyes closed.

After a long moment, she sighed involuntarily, said, “Poor fellow!” and her muffled footfalls died away.

It was some time before he dared open his eyes, but when he did so, the room was quiet and he felt that he was alone onee more. Evidently she had wished to make sure that he slept soundly. That meant there was something afoot.

Luke lay with relaxed muscles for what seemed ages before he very cautiously consulted his wrist-watch to find it close upon midnight, that mystic hour when tombs open and unhappy spirits leave their moldy beds for a brief space. An uncontrollable presentiment gripped his heart with intolerable foreboding. Luke was intuitive; just now he could have sworn, without knowing precisely what he meant, that Evil was stalking abroad. He could not stand it any longer to lie supinely on the bed—waiting.

He got up, deciding to slip out into the garden before something happened to detain him. If he chanced to be missed, was it likely that he would be sought out there? And if discovered there, what more natural than that the moon, the starry vault, and a sentimental temperament had combined to attract him to enjoy the romantic beauties of the night? Luke, with the electric flash and the pistol, searched his apartment as thoroughly as he could, to satisfy himself that at

least his departure would go unnoticed. He then slipped the pistol into his pocket, retaining the torch, which was heavy enough to make a formidable weapon, at a pinch.

He unlocked the door and opened it cautiously. Not a sound did it make; evidently it had been well oiled by some interested person. Up and down the corridor he glanced; the flickering candles guttered in their sockets but disclosed no one in sight. But he was not a dozen paces from his door before he heard the unmistakable rustling of garments—from which direction he could not tell. He sprang back, regained the shelter of his room, and with the door ajar peered out into the corridor.

A figure draped in flowing, trailing garments of white glided into view. As it approached almost noiselessly save for the frou-frou of its robes, Luke’s blood congealed with strange surmises. In this strange place, anything was possible. Was he indeed looking with starting eyes upon a visitant from another sphere? His flesh crept at the unearthly suggestion conveyed by the gliding movement of that white-robed creature, whatever it might be. He shrank back into the welcome shelter of his gloomy room, hoping that if this were a manifestation of life from beyond the grave it would pass on its uneasy way without stopping. His blood curdled in his veins. Heart-beats died into sluggish thuds.

Nearer glided the wraith. Breath almost failed the young man, cold sweat standing out in beads on his icy brow. It passed, still with that soft whispering sound of garments, and whipped around a comer of the corridor. Everything was still again.

Luke flung the cold perspiration from his forehead. Reaction set in. With a sudden revulsion of feeling, his blood ran hot in his veins again and he sprang out to make sure just what it was that he had seen. After

all, a spirit’s robes would not have rustled as did this wraith’s. He gained on the gliding specter, which approached the door of the Master’s study, entering as the portal opened silently. As it turned, Luke drew back with a half-stifled groan, so severe was the shock which he received. The face that he saw was the face of Sybil Pane. The door closed upon her, the girl whom he now knew he loved, the girl who had stolen to visit her mysterious cousin in secret while the world slept. Ugly suspicions crowded upon him. Was it possible that she loved her cousin and secretly passed the nights in his company, this girl upon whose innate purity and innocence Luke would have staked his life a few minutes before? Why, then, was Guy Fane so anxious to secure for her a husband? To cover up his own derelictions toward this girl whom he had wronged?

The incredible fact remained. Luke had seen, with his own eyes, Sybil Pane creeping at midnight to her cousin’s study. He turned back down the corridor, feeling his way along the Avail in the half light almost stupidly. When another figure crept up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder, he whirled, bringing the pistol out into position with a lithe movement. The Avrinkled, sad face of Alden looked pityingly at him in the dim light.

“VTou saw?” she whispered.

‘ “My God, yes!” he groaned.

He had never been so unutterably wretched in his life. It was a revelation that something outside himself could so stir the depths of his being.

“Just like that, when the moon comes to fullness, for months past,” whispered Alden cautiously, ‘ ‘ has she walked like a dream woman to that room. I do not know if she walks in her sleep, or if he has hypnotized her by his magical arts and his influence

Luke caught at the woman’s arm impulsively.

“Say it again!” he got out hoarsely. “Say it again! She is not mistress of her own actions!”

Alden shook her head mournfully.

“How like a man! Always ready to believe the worst! You imagined that my lamb went, like a bad woman, to meet her cousin? Oh, I could not forgive you for your suspicions, did I not know how one’s confidence in everything good and true is shaken after a short residence here. One even comes to doubt the Almighty. It is in the air, this Evil that is supreme here. But to believe my Sybil, the poor innocent lamb, guilty of—oh, you of all men should have believed in her against the entire world! ’ ’

Luke listened in shame to Alden’s arraignment.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “But —for a moment I thought how easy it would be for him —. Good heaven! While we stand talking here, who knows what is happening to Sybil?” He whirled around and pulled the woman Avith him. ‘ ‘ I have my pistol.

We’ll see whether his magic will protect him from that!”

Alden caught at him with her free

“Hush! Don’t be rash, Mr. Porter. Trust me that no harm has yet befallen my lamb. Madam Fane is with her, also. And—only a virgin can be of use to the Master in his experiments. She is safe.”

“But there must be something Ave can do?” begged Luke, almost frantic Avith apprehension, in spite of Alden’s attempt at reassurance.

‘ ‘ Yes, there is something we can do. Pollow me.”

She withdrew her hand and walked noiselessly but swiftly dotvn the corridor. At last she entered what seemed a blind passage, glanced both up and down the corridor to make sure no one else was in sight, then pressed upon a knurl of the rich

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wretched mother for having loved not wisely but too well?”

Luke emitted a low whistle.

da^grr^wT^I^

Ald^stuWmmly W “^^d < now < ^tell d m^ her my wife as soon as we can get her

Yet e MadTm e °P^e h knows* XTand what Sybil is. That is the reason

at the pith of it, can’t you?”

The artist’s pity rose for the unSSStHEljIi

mother could have been mistaken— but not wicked.”

Porte,

S he began the story, telling it in short, terse sentences, each word of which was fraught with signifi-

“ Finding himself in financial straits, Arthur Fane married a wealthy heiress, who tried in vain to win the love of her handsome husband. Madam Fane discovered that her husband had married her for money and that he was intimate with the daughter of a near-by farmer, a girl whom she had never seen but whom she believed to be the commonest of the common. In a fury of insensate rage, the wife planned revenge. She was a woman of strong passions. Within the castle she had happily built for her husband and herself, she had a strange chapel equipped, and there she spent all her time alone.... After the birth of his son and heir, Arthur Fane left the castle, renouncing with a kind of horror the young mother, the child, and the money he had married to pro-

“Until that day, Mr. Porter,” Alden declared with simple dignity, “Mr. Fane and I had been friends only. But when I found that Madam Fane had revenged herself upon him in some secret and horrible way that revolted him to such an extent that he would no longer live tinder the same roof with her, I gave myself to him gladly, proudly, and have never regretted—for myself—having taken that step to lighten a little the burden of his remorse and grief.”

She continued: “Only onee did he refer to the reason for his desertion of Madam Fane. ‘My God,’ he said to me, ‘I can never banish that sight from before my eyes! She lifted the cover and showed me my child—. It was not mine. Before God, it was not minel It was the offspring of some devil out of hell, but not my flesh and blood, I swear.’ ”

Arthur Fane fled with the farmer’s daughter. Untrained to any work

that fitted him to support a wife, he struggled along with his faithful and devoted companion for several hard years of poverty and suffering. Typhoid fever attacked his enfeebled frame, robbing Alden of the father of her child, then a lovely little girl of two years. Broken in health, unable to care for herself and still less for the child, Alden permitted an appeal to be made to Madam Fane for the offspring of Arthur Fane.

“I was sick, hopeless, miserably unhappy, longing only to die. Madam Fane sent word that she naturally did not care to see me, but that if I would give up the child to her absolutely, she would bring it up as if it were her own, in expiation of some wrong which she admitted she had done her husband. Sybil was sent to her. But as I grew stronger, my longing for my baby grew. I applied to Madam Fane, under an assumed name, for a position as maid in her household. She needed a nurse for Sybil, and God let me stay to watch over my little girl.”

“And then He must have sent me, also,” the artist murmured in low tones, “and the sooner we start to get her out of this hellish place, the

“We can do nothing tonight, Mr. Porter. Sybil has disappeared in this manner for months now, always at the full of the moon, or near that time. Madam Fane assists the Master, which fact in a measure is a safeguard for my little girl. And I know —how I cannot explain—that for tonight she is guarded.”

“Where is this devil’s chapel where Guy Fane performs his experiments?” asked Luke grimly. “I’d like to take a look at it.”

Alden mused thoughtfully.

“It might be managed, if they are still in the Master’s study. But they may have gone into the chapel to perform invocations, and then—”

“I’m not afraid of that silly rot,” Luke snorted scornfully.

Alden regarded him with. pity.

“That is because you do not know how powerful the Master is,” she asserted sadly. “You would be a babe in his hands.”

Luke laughed, regarding his strong, capable hands meaningly. She answered quickly.

“Oh, that isn’t what I mean, at all. He can look at you, with his face unveiled, and you would be frozen, at his mercy. You don’t know—. ’ ’

“Nonsense! I’ll risk it, anyway. It’s quite possible that I can outstare him,” Luke suggested, with grim humor.

“Perhaps—but I doubt it,” she answered quite seriously. “And now I must ask you to restrain your impatience until I tell you it is time to act in safety. Tomorrow you can, if you will, try to get word to anybody you know, outside. Perhaps you may be successful, where I have found the attempt futile,” sadly. “One thing you must promise me, Mr. Porter. Sybil must never know the secret of her birth. She must never learn that I am her mother.”

Her pale blue eyes pleaded with him. The artist, sensing her fine desire for sacrifice, acquiesced unwillingly.

“We can go, then, and see if the chapel is unoccupied.”

She opened the secret panel, showing Luke how the button worked, and the two emerged hastily, closing it behind them.

Chapter 8. Lucifer’s Chapel

“Follow me. Make no sound.”

^ Luke followed down dark passages, up and down winding stairways. At last a closed door at the end of a long corridor was reached.

Alden turned with a warning gesture.

“I am now taking you where you can, unseen, look down into the interior of the chapel. I found the place years ago, by accident.” She shuddered convulsively. “Good God —it was— horrible! I have not been there since. And I cannot face the Evil that dwells there. You must go

Luke’s hand was turning the knob with caution, but he whispered

“If I do not return within a half hour, you must open the door and come for me. For Sybil’s sake!”

To himself he was thinking resentfully that if Herbert Binney’s mind were not so easily unbalanced, the little occultist might have been of assistance. As matters stood, however, Cagliostro Moderno would be a nuisance instead of a help, owing to his blind, mad devotion to occultism.

Luke opened the door. A stream of brilliant ruby radiance shot out through the chink, casting a lurid and ghastly gleam upon the white face of the poor mother, who dropped to her knees with a terrified gasp, and began

The artist looked within. There was a long, narrow gallery, with apparently no discernible outlet save the door by which he was now entering. A lattice-work screen rose from the solid stone balustrade, forming a shield for him while permitting at the same time an unobstructed view of the immense room below. Through the lacy interstices of this screen there poured that intolerably brilliant red light.

Luke closed the door quietly and stepped close to the screen. What he saw below filled him with unutterable horror and loathing.... He was looking upon one of those unholy places which have been desecrated to mocking ceremonials, by the foul imaginations of perverted men and women, devoted body and soul to the worship of Evil. The room was a

large one, and the crimson light illuminated it sufficiently for him to distinguish fairly well the decorations and furnishings, all of a character so bizarre, so vile, as to force upon him the conclusion that they must have been designed and carried out by diseased imaginations. Walls and hangings were black, absorbing the radiance of that ruby illumination, but here and there the artist could distinguish what he felt must have been, in a white light, embroideries of occult symbols upon the hangAgainst this background stood, at irregular intervals, great white crosses before which were sculptured figures in black, figures that made him shudder with uncontrollable horror at their repulsive and abhorrent ugliness. It seemed as if the human imagination had here attained the climax of revolting, horrific distortion and deformity in sculpture and pictorial art. Not a statue, not a painting, but showed the human face and form in such revolting deformity as to send sickly shudders through the observer’s shrinking frame. The purpose of this ghastly place was obvious....

The red light shining everywhere now attracted Luke’s attention. It originated in a crystal sphere, hung on almost invisible chains in a shrine just back of the altar. The gleam was not a quiet one; it played about the heart of that globe like darting flames of unquiet, unholy fire. And as these tongues of ruby light played in and out and licked the surface of the sphere uncannily, the shadows in the chapel moved and danced, until it seemed to Luke’s excited gaze that they actually possessed life and only waited the right moment to move from their pedestals and go horribly forward to worship at that altar. Evil —unutterable Evil—hovered about that glowing sphere....

A fugitive gleam of golden light came from behind a draped doorway at one side of the altar. The light grew stronger. A short squat figure voluminously veiled in black emerged, carrying a tall candle of black wax that burned with a yellow flame. The figure advanced to the lower steps of the altar, paused, made a deeply reverent genuflection. Then Guy (for Luke surmised that it was he) placed the candle in a ready holder at one end of a long marble slab which formed an altar. Again he bent deeply, then faced about behind the altar as if waiting.

The curtain swung aside again, this time admitting a processional of three persons. In the van strutted with inconceivable pride and dignity the short, stout form of Cagliostro, draped in trailing red robes embroidered with black symbols of mysticism. The occultist bore another candle, which he as solemnly placed at the lower end of the altar, taking his place then beside the Master. The other two worshipers were women. Madam Fane was the first, kneeling upon the steps before the altar with a kind of shrinking dread discernible on her face. She was in black, but the other figure was white-draped. Luke, a choking sensation in his throat, recognized the tranquil, unmoved face of Sybil Fane.

The girl went forward to the steps of the shrine, bowed deeply, then mounted the stairs until she stood above the two adepts, and immediately before the crystal globe, which began to shimmer vaguely with the violent agitation of those red and evil tongues of lurid light. Madam Fane arose; from a great casket at one side she took double handfuls of some powder, casting it upon a tripod censer that up to now had apparently been unlighted. But at once, following her action, that crystal sphere shot out its tongues of flame—longer —longer. One reached— ignited —the

incense; tall spirals of smoke poured out, heavy with some Eastern fragrance that rose almost overpoweringly to Luke’s nostrils. As he inhaled it reluctantly, it seemed to him that the obscene sculptured figures below began to stir uneasily, coming to life at last.

Madam Fane sank once more upon her knees, her forehead resting on the stair above her. Sybil continued to stand, immovable, before that glowing sphere, from which an occasional tongue of flame shot out toward her, but retracted before coming in contact with the girl. Behind the altar the two magi now raised their arms in frantic invocation toward the shrine of the ruby globe.

“Lucifer! Lucifer!! Lucifer!!! Son of the Morning, we offer Thee that sacrifice Thou has demanded. Give us a sign! Appear, we implore Thee!

“The hearts of doves and young lambs have I offered Thee, oh Lord of the Fallen Hosts! Tonight I offer the soul of a virgin, a virgin maid. Lord Lucifer! A sign! A sign, that my sacrifice will be acceptable!”

Cagliostro was stirring uneasily, carroty head lifted from between his outstretched arms. Luke could see inexplicable emotions following each other over that eupid’s bow mouth that twisted so oddly. The squinty blue eyes were new upon Sybil as she stood motionless before the great

He leaned toward Guy Fane and whispered something hurriedly. The Master bent a dark gaze upon him through the folds of the veil.

“Hush, fool! Do you not see that Lord Lucifer is showing Himself to His worshipers?”

Cagliostro, offended, shrank back.

Prom the sphere shot those quivering tongues as of living flame, licking its surface in gracious curves and reaching out on either side of Sybil’s quiescent form like the groping

tentacles of an octopus. The still air began to stir with murmuring sounds. A soft, whining hum vibrated on the atmosphere as if some unearthly visitant were cleaving the ether with sweeping wings as it passed through

Luke’s knees suddenly gave way under him. Some potent influence against which he was powerless to resist had pushed him down. He knelt because he could not stand up. But he could still stare through the lattice with starting eyes. Sybil was moving, as if impelled by some irresistible force. She moved slowly backward down the steps of the shrine until she reached the marble slab. Upon this she bent back, until she lay upon it, arms stiff at her sides.

Guy Fane was throwing his hands into the air with wild and triumphant gestures. Then he fumbled under his enveloping garments and drew forth a knife. As the blade flashed upward, Cagliostro Moderno, awaking from his trance, flung himself forward and knocked the knife clanging and whirring, down into the middle of the room. His face, a mingled materialization of stupefaction and horror, writhed into that squared semblance of a Greek tragic mask which he had worn on the night he had fled through the forest from the monster he had seen bending over the bridge.

“I forbid it!” shouted the little occultist frantically.

“Pool! Let me alone! How dare you interrupt? Lord Lucifer, I imMadam Fane had come to her feet and was watching the two, who swayed back and forth as they struggled on the steps of the altar. The shrouding veils that concealed her son’s face were in the hands of the other mage, who tore at them frantically. They parted—. Prom his vantage point, Luke strained to see, but Guy Fane's back was toward him. Only the tragic mask of Herbert

Binney’s round face was visible, and that was frozen into a horror so dreadful, so unbearable, so nearly verging upon utter madness, that Luke’s blood congealed in his veins. What was the little man seeing, that he should shrink back, letting the veil fall again over Guy Fane's now motionless figure? Could it be true that the Master could blast with a look of his terrible eyes?

There was a frightful wailing ery from the occultist’s widened lips. He staggered away from the altar, down the steps, stumbling as if blinded, and plunged out of sight behind the drapery that hung before the door by which the procession had entered. Luke tried to get to his feet. He managed to rise and cling to the screen. How to rescue Sybil was his overmastering thought, but until he could conquer that strange weakness which had overcome him, it was useless to do other than try, if necessary, to shoot from his concealment, in the hope of at least terrifying Guy Fane enough to stop the present ceremony. With this in mind, he fumbled for the

M adam fane, however, had run up the steps of the altar. She bent over the girl. After a moment, she lifted the golden head upon her arm, regarded Sybil’s face intently, and then addressed her son, who watched without changing the position he had held as the horrified Cagliostro fled his presence.

“She is coming out of the trance, Guy,” said Madam Fane, almost with eagerness. “You can do nothing more tonight. Let me take her back to her room, my son.” she almost pleaded.

A hard laugh issued from the

“I would have won tonight—by now—had not that fool—may ha be blasted in soul and body forever!— prevented me. I thought him pliable

enough to serve my purpose. Now I must get him out of the way, or he may try to balk me in my plans. Pool! To trust any other human being!”

Madam Fane lifted the supine form into her arms, but as she turned to go she spake again.

“You lied to me, Guy. You told me you would not resort to the knife —with her. The knife I will not suffer, I tell you. You must find some other way to your purpose. Is not Lucifer powerful enough to give you what you seek, if you defiver over this girl’s soul, instead of her body?”

“Oh, mother, mother! How often must you stand in my way, just when I see it clear? Yes, it can be done without blood, but the experiment is difficult, and who knows when, she will love enough to build the foundation for her own destruction?”

“As to that, my son, all is ready,” asserted Madam Fane.

‘ ‘ Mother! Are you sure? ’ ’

Madam Fane walked away, carrying the fight form carefully. At the door she turned back for a minute.

“Guy, if you do not play me false in this matter, I will serve you to the bitter end. But I will not have the girl’s fife given, to Lucifer, not while I can prevent it. All shall come as you desire, but with her a living sacrifice.”

“Do you feel the prophetic spell upon yon, my mother?”

“I am not sure.... But, you can eonsult—her—later. ’ ’

Guy Fane, thinking himself alone, leaped up the shrine steps and prostrated himself before the crystal globe. The tongues of ruby flame grew paler. The ehapel’s dusk inLnke found himself able to walk, and managed to get to the door. Outside knelt Alden, still praying. He touched her gently on the shoulder, and she started, opening her closed eyes to look at him questioningly.

“Madam Fane has taken Sybil back to her room,” Luke told the anxious mother. “But tomorrow we must get her out of this devilish place. I have seen her tonight stretched upon the altar, and Guy Fane would have buried a knife in her heart had not Binney been there to prevent the crime.”

“Give me your pistol, please,” whispered Alden tensely. “If they try to take her from me again, I can at least save her from such a horrible death.... Better she should die innocent at her mother’s hand than a bloody sacrifice to the Powers of Evil.”

Luke hesitated a moment, then laid the pistol in the mother’s hand.

“I can get along without it, I fancy. And now that Binney seems to have come partly to his senses, perhaps we can enlist him on our side. Unless he is sent away,” he added, remembering the Master’s words. “And between ourselves, I think it would be wise to warn Sybil of the danger that lies ahead. She ought to know. It might be dangerous to spring it all upon her at the last moment. She believes her cousin a kind of god, doesn’t she?”

“She shall know the truth about him,” promised Alden grimly.

Chapter 9

THE MASTER CONSULTS AN ORACLE

L uke’s first thought now was to see Herbert Binney immediately and make sure of the little man’s coming to his senses. He therefore went from the chapel to the occultist’s room, while Alden hurried back to look after her charge.

At his first knock, the artist was sure that he heard smothered moans and incoherent exclamations within the occultist’s room. He rapped a little louder. A voice behind the door

answered, tremoling with some strong emotion.

“Off with yon, Sathanas! Get thee behind me, accursed one! I will have no more to do with your evil work.”

The voice died away in confused babblings.

“Binney! It isn’t Pane. It’s Porter talking. Let me in! I must

“Away with you! You can not deceive me again, Beelzebub!”

“Open this door!” Luke said, lowtoned but forceful. “Pull yourself together, you little idiot! This is Luke Porter speaking. I must see you on a matter of life and death. Open up!”

The door knob rattled feebly. There was a short pause.

“I’m afraid!” whined the occultist from within. “What if you aren’t what you claim to be?”

“If I’m a mage, I could slip in through the keyhole, you little jackass!” Luke exploded, thoroughly out of patience. “Open this door, or I’ll shoot off the lock!” (A futile threat, when he had given his automatic to Alden!)

The door knob turned slowly, and the door opened, the pallid face of Herbert Binney appearing in the opening, pale blue eyes squinting in shrinking dread at the artist, who jerked the door from the other man’s hands, slipped inside, closed and locked it behind him.

“Thank God, Mr. Porter, it’s you!” whined Binney in his seared relief. * ‘ Oh, ’ ’ and he clutched at the artist’s coatsleeve frantically, “we must get out of here, immediately! Without waiting for anything! This place is a hell, Mr. Porter, with living demons haunting it! I—I’ve just met— him —face to face again! Oh, my God, shall I ever be able to brush the awful memory of his horrible countenance from my mind? My blood froze in my veins, I tell you! My—”

WEPRD TALES

Luke reached crat, took the little man by the shoulders, and shook him so hard that the fellow’s teeth actually played the castanets against each

“Keep still for a minute, you incredible idiot!” he snapped, in a low voice. “I saw the whole business, just now, in the chapel. What I want to know is: where do you stand?”

The pale blue eyes stared into Luke’s flashing gray orbs with astonishment.

“You —you saw—?” stammered Herbert Binney, stupidly. “How— how could you have seen? Then you saw—his—face—? ” The voice broke pitifully, and the occultist began to tremble as if seized by an ague. “Good God, Mr. Porter, you must realize how important it is for us to get out of here immediately!”

“Will you shut up?” Luke apostrophized him through clenched teeth.

He looked distastefully at the terrified magician. “You stopped Guy Fane at a critical moment, Binney—’ ’

“I know,” assented the other, his breath catching. “But I never dreamed that he would dare do such a thing. To attack that sweet girl with a knife! Why, only the most evil of spirits would ask for, or expect, such a devilish proceeding, and Mr. Fane assured me that he had no intention of injuring her physically. I haven’t been quite sure myself just what his intentions toward her were, but he explained that she wasn’t— you understand” — he tapped his forehead significantly with one forefinger—“just right. He thought he could, by giving her a severe shock of some kind, bring back her wandering

“He lied to you, you ass! And you’re so fed up with your importance that you swallowed everything he told you, of course,” Luke grunted disgustedly. “Now that you’ve seen something of what he’s capable, do you intend to go on with that rotten

mummery, or will you help me get Sybil Pane out of this devil’s den?”

“Oh, I’m only too anxious to get out myself, ” the occultist assured him hastily. “But—how do you propose to manage it?”

“I don’t know, yet. Tomorrow I shall tell him that Sybil is to be my wife, and that I wish to leave, with her and her maid. If he refuses to let me go, I’ll have to think up something else.”

“I—I could help you, perhaps,” offered Cagliostro, trying desperately to regain something of the ground he felt he had lost in the artist’s esteem and respect. “I—I’m not as silly and stupid as” (resentfully) “you think I am. I can meet Guy Fane on his own ground—on magical lines —and hold my own. I know I can,” he added, more firmly.

“We don’t want any magic,” Luke negated, rather unkindly. “It’s all rot. Guy Fane knows how to utilize natural forces to make an appearThe squinty blue eyes regarded the artist now with assurance. The button nose wrinkled, as Cagliostro asked pointedly:

“You can say that, after seeing that ceremony in the chapel tonight? Mr. Porter, there was much more in it than I care to admit, myself. Guy Fane is a true adept; a Master of supernatural powers and forces, but of a nature to make a Child of Light shudder sickly.”

Luke let go the little man’s shoulders and stepped back from him.

“Listen, Binney! Are you going to let yourself go again, the way you did tonight in the chapel? Just because another human being happens to be more than ordinarily ugly? ’ ’

“Listen, Porter!” retorted the mage disrespectfully, but with a measure of return to his old proud impressiveness. “When you find yourself face to face, without previous warning, with the Devil himself, you

are apt to let your weak flesh gain the mastery. But when you know beforehand what you’re up against, you prepare for the ordeal and—and you conquer—or—die,” he finished with a plaintive gravity.

“Then you are ready—T”

"You will have to trust me to help you in my own way,” stipulated Cagliostro seriously. “But I can assure you that I am ready, even for death—if by dying I can thwart that devil from hell!”

Luke clasped the little fellow’s hand and gave it a hearty grip.

“Then I can look upon you as an ally, tomorrow,” he said, rather relieved to find the occultist himself

“I shall get to work along my own lines,” assured the mage, with earnestness. “I shall have much to do, to prepare myself for a battle of will with that—with— him. But I shall win. Never fear, Mr. Porter, X shall

L uke left him then, and hurried through the corridors to Sybil’s boudoir, at the door of which he tapped cautiously. The door was opened by Alden, whose white face met his questioning gray eyes with agony written on it.

“She hasn’t come back! Oh, dear God, she is with Guy Fane in his study, and I am afraid—afraid!” Luke whirled about.

“I’m going there,” he announced. “This thing has got me. I can’t sit down quietly while Sybil is in that devil’s power. I’m going for her. Never fear, I’ll bring her back with me, Alden.”

He dashed up the hall, leaving her leaning weakly against the door

The door of the Master’s study swung open silently at his approach, in a sinister fashion which the young man disregarded in his anxiety. He

rushed into the room, and all at once stopped, midway to the glowing crystal globe that burned threateningly in the shrine at the farther end of the apartment. It was as if some giant hand had been placed against his breast, holding him to the spot against his will. He struggled vainly to advance. Perspiration poured down his face and streamed from every pore in his body.

“Rash man, beware of too much daring! You have seen how easily I can thwart your impotent purposes. Beware, lest I raise my veil and wither you where you stand,” intoned the ominous voice of Guy Fane.

Luke restrained himself by an effort, and all at once that force which had held him back was gone. Before he could move, Guy Fane’s voice spoke again.

“It is not well to cross swords with me unadvisedly, Mr. Porter. My door opened to yon, because I am not afraid of you, or your petty personal desires and intentions. Remain, if you will, but interrupt at your peril!

Interruption will only result in terrible evil to Sybil, who is entranced. To arouse her with any shock might put to flight forever that which forms her individual soul, her personality. There would be left a maundering idiot, Mr. Porter. I have warned

Luke had learned something of the practise of modem spiritualism and psychic phenomena; he dared not stir for fear, therefore, of wakening Sybil from her trance. Guy Fane had stopped him most effectually by that warning, which Luke knew to be well founded. He stared about the room.

On a couch under the ruby sphere lay the entranced girl, hands crossed upon her girlish bosom, motionless save for the even rise and fall that showed her still alive and breathing. Before her stood the black-veiled form of the Master, with uplifted arms, in invocation.

“Sybil! Answer! Where are you now?’’ he exclaimed in a voice of dignity and with an air of high authority.

Prom the girl’s lips came a low murmur, seeming another voice than her ordinary one.

“I "hover here, Master, above the clay housing of my spirit, awaiting your commands.”

“It is well. I have stripped from your eyes” (he made a sweeping gesture over her face with both hands) “the veil that hides the future. Tell me, shall I soon be free from the hideous and loathsome covering of flesh that conceals my shrinking spirit?”

Without hesitation, that mild voice declared:

“Yes! Before another night shall have passed, you shall shed your monstrous husk and step from it into glorious freedom.”

“Lucifer! All-powerful Prince!” exclaimed Guy in wild triumph, tossing his hands high in invocation toward the shining ruby globe. “Not in vain have I called upon Thee, Lord and Master. Oh, I shall serve Thee well, when I shall have won to that face, that form, that are to be mine! —Sybil! Tell me if I shall offer your pulsing heart to the Lord and Master of your destiny, as I have long intended?”

A struggle seemed to be going on in the body of the girl. Her face distorted painfully. Luke clenched his hands, to keep from rushing to her side. Then from the tortured lips issued the reply:

“My heart has already gone forth, and is in the safe keeping of the master of my destiny.”

“Strange! Strange! Most strange!’’ muttered Guy Fane, bending to examine her face closely. “Tell me truly, Sybil, plainly. Shall I offer your heart soon to Lucifer? Your beating, pulsing heart? I conjure you, give me the truth!”

Again the girl’s face showed that disturbance, that conflict. Then her voice issued, hardly audible, from writhing lips:

“Proud and presumptuous man, you command the truth! It shall be yours. You have attempted by futile magic arts to alter the decrees of destiny. All that has happened is that you have become a tool in the scheme of greater forces than your puny soul can imagine. You believe you have seized upon the prerogatives of the Ruler of the "Universe. You have associated with the evil Fallen One. Harken, Master of Evil Arts! It is your soul that lies at stake, and not your body. Less yet is there danger to the body of this poor girl through whose lips I speak.”

“Lucifer! Who is talking now!” gasped Guy Fane.

Luke could plainly see the trembling of that squat body.

“It matters little who I am. But this innocent girl is protected as you can never imagine. Spare her of your own free will, before she is snatched out of your hands! Show that your hideous body conceals but poorly a noble soul! Mortal, this is your last opportunity for your own salvation!”

The voice ceased. Luke, although realizing that something must have gone WTong, and that Guy Fane was gravely disturbed by the upsetting of his calculations, felt no slightest disturbance, but on the contrary a profound conviction seized upon him that all would yet be well.

“By Lucifer and His seven fiends, you unknown speaker, I shall carry out my plans or die in the attempt! I know not who you are that speaks to me unbidden through the lips of this entranced girl, but I dare you to thwart me, mysterious oracle! Sybil Fane is devoted to expiation of that which her father’s sin brought upon me. The Almighty and all His angels

cannot hold me back now! I know too much to be disregarded!”

“Then Lucifer must receive that for which He has waited patiently these many years! Farewell, wretched worker of ill spells! You have doomed yourself, when you might have worked a noble magic!”

Silence, terrible and oppressive, reigned after these last words. Then the Master called with fierce energy:

“Sybil! Return to this clay before that intruder shall have robbed you of it before what is foreordained shall have come to pass! Return, I

He made frantic passes over that blond head. The girl sighed. Then one hand went up sleepily to rub her

y With a contemptuous gesture, Guy Fane beckoned the artist.

“She is normal now. Take her to her maid. I have finished with her— for the present,” ominously.

Lube needed no further invitation. He picked Sybil’s slender form up and held her close.

“You shall never lay a finger on her again,” he said to Guy Fane tensely, his gray eyes like thunder clouds shot with lightning.

The Master paid no more attention to him. He went to the shrine where swung the ruddy globe, and sank on his knees before it, his forehead touching the marble step.

Chapter 10. Shut Out

L uke carried his precious burden directly to Alden, who, after she had carefully brought Sybil back to consciousness, sat beside her, listening to the artist’s recital of that strange possession by some unknown entity of the girl’s unconscious body.

Sybil herself, enlightened now by her old nurse and by her lover as to her cousin’s nefarious designs upon her, lay with wide violet eyes upon

Luke’s face, her expression that of one who refuses to believe what appears incredible to intelligence.

“I shall see Guy Fane tomorrow,” declared Luke firmly. “I intend to make a formal demand for Sybil’s hand, and as he has already given me his permission to marry her, I don’t see how he can refuse to let me take her away, especially if we go right down into town and get a license, and hunt up a minister immediately.”

Alden shook her head, a bitter smile curling her kindly mouth.

“Don’t you think cousin Guy will let us go?” demanded Sybil. “Why, Alden, I’ll be of age in another ten days, and then he must let me go. He’s told me as much himself, often.”

“There is something mysterious about it all, my lamb. But I feel sure he will let none of us go until he has carried out his own plans.”

“Then I shall appeal to Madam Fane. She is a woman, with a woman’s heart,” began Luke, when Alden interrupted him.

“First of all, she is Guy Fane’s mother, and she owes him a terrible debt, too horrible for me to put into words,” the older woman said unwillingly. “She will think first of her son’s plans, Mr. Porter. The rest of us are pawns, to be moved by him as he pleases.”

“He makes a mistake, I’m afraid,” Luke murmured.

“Perhaps Mr. Binney can suggest something,” Sybil offered. “He’s a magician, isn’t he? ”

Luke couldn’t help smiling at Sybil’s ingenuous conclusion.

“For some reason your cousin has terrified Cagliostro Moderno almost into spasms,” he told the girl. “But for all that, he’s promised to do what he can. In his own way,” he amended.

“But his own way may be the best way,” the girl declared.

“Mr. Porter, I think my lamb ought to get a little sleep while she

TALES

can,” AJden suggested darkly. “Do you mind—T”

“Luke, don’t go away!” begged Sybil, violet eyes suddenly wide with fright. “Oh, Alden, don’t send him away! Let him sleep on the chaise longue in my boudoir. Then he’ll be here, if—if anything should happen.”

Luke and the older woman exchanged glances.

“Perhaps that isn’t such a bad idea, Mr. Porter,” conceded AJden. “But I’d hate to have Mr. Fane

“There can be no possible harm,” Luke decided. “Certainly, the man who is as devoted to Sybil’s interests as her future husband must be, can watch over her welfare; Especially after such an experience as she has had tonight,” he finished grimly. “Sybil, my darling, sleep. AJden and I will both be here to see that no harm comes to you. ’'

Sybil pouted her crimson lips, and Luke bent, stirred to the depths by her innocent trustfulness, and very tenderly gave her their first kiss.

L uke’s resolve to see Guy Fane early that next day was forestalled by the Master himself, in a fashion that made the artist resentful, as it put him in the wrong at once. Mason brought the message, and he brought it to Luke, before the young artist had left Sybil’s boudoir.

The major-domo wore a certain knowing air for which Luke would have liked to call him to account, except that it was too vague an expression to base such a proceeding upon.

“Mr. Fane asked me to inquire if you didn’t think it would be well for you to see him at once, under the circumstances,” the man said.

Luke was furious, but there was, after all, nothing upon which he could put his finger. Controlling himself as best he could, he answered shortly:

“Tell your master that after last night’s occurrences I feel I have a right to make certain demands of him, and I am only too happy to make them immediately.”

Ten minutes afterward, he walked into the open door of Guy Fane’s study, his mouth set in a grim line as he advanced toward the protecting screen at the farther end of the room.

“Be seated, Mr. Porter. Pray do not come any farther. As you have had reason to learn, I am—protected.”

Luke paused involuntarily. He remembered that giant hand which had stopped his progress the night before....

“That’s better, Mr. Porter. Now, if you will be seated, we can get down to business more comfortably. I presume you wish to inquire, with what I must consider characteristic curiosity, my dear sir, into my private affairs?”

“I have come to tell you that I wish to take Sybil away from this— this devil’s den,” the artist jerked out furiously.

“Ah! How thoughtful of you, dear Mr. Porter! And so you have come to this unwarranted conclu-

“Unwarranted?” snapped Luke. “When only by a hair’s breadth did that poor girl escape your knife last

A tense pause succeeded upon his words. When Guy Fane spoke now, it was in measured accents.

“ I begin to understand. You managed to gain access to the chapel, then?” The troubled note left his voice, and he continued with his wonted imperturbable suavity: “You took the liberty of going where you had no business to enter, and then you jumped to silly conclusions, because you imagined,”—and the voice grew icy with disdain—“I presume, that I was about to take the life of my cousin, a girl who has been brought up unTHE GABGOYLE

der my own eyes, and nurtured as tenderly—. Why, my dear Mr. Porter, I believe you have the instincts of a budding occultist, yourself! I must see to it that you are present at my next experiment,” the voice continued with a musing lightness and that hint of double meaning that made Luke writhe.

“If there are any further experiments, you may be sure I shall be present,” the artist declared. “But I do not think there will be any more.

At least, not with my wife as the subject of them.”

“Your wife?”

There was a sudden note of alarm in the Master’s voice that did not escape Luke’s notice.

“Perhaps I should have said, my promised wife,” he amended.

“Oh!”

The exclamation escaped the Master’s lips in a gust of breathy relief.

And then, as if to cover his momentary lack of restraint, Guy continued smoothly:

“You are certainly what is called, in vulgar vernacular, a quick worker, Mr. Porter. So Sybil is in love with you, and you with her? So quickly! ’ ’ Admiration in the voice; again Luke writhed.

“Sybil wishes to go with me, and her maid, today,” Luke asserted.

“Why such haste, dear Mr. Porter?” soothed Guy Fane.

He laughed softly.

“But there, young love is always impetuous, isn’t it? Have you realized that there must be a license? And that I certainly will not permit my charge to go from here until I see her properly married to you by a regularly ordained clergyman?”

“Are you insinuating—?”

“My dear Mr. Porter, you have acted so like a child that I feel I must take the proper steps to safeguard my innocent cousin. You are afraid that the ceremony—so sadly interrupted by the misunderstanding with the little Cagliostro—was aimed at my cousin’s life. No, Mr. Porter, she must live. Live, do you understand? Only a life—but there, you would never understand.... I presume you are in a hurry now to rescue the fair lady and make your escape from the roof that has been her safe shelter from childhood?” he pursued plaintively.

“So be it, Mr. Porter. Will this afternoon suit your plans?”

Luke’s face altered in spite of himself, at this unexpected acquiescence. Guy Fane laughed again.

“You can leave all details to me, impetuous lover. I shall send a couple of servants to impersonate you two at the license bureau, so that you won’t have to go down into town until you leave here for good. I shall have a clergyman sent for. If you don’t like him,” negligently, with an undertone of mild amusement, “you can get married again after you leave here. We will have a wedding supper, and tickets ready for the 10 p. m. New York train. If this suits your plans?”

Bewildered to the last degree, Luke managed to get out:

‘ ‘ I hope I have misjudged you. But —but what did you intend to do with that knife?”

“My mother, and that foolish magician, have both demanded explanations on this point,” Guy said wearily. “Nothing I tell them seems clear to their blinded imaginations, which must have run away with them. I can use the girl living; of what use would she be dead? I had but started a ceremonial—” and he interrupted himself to cry with enthusiasm, “Ah, my dear Mr. Porter, one time you shall see such a ceremonial as I doubt has ever been carried through in its entirety before in the history of the worldj You shall be there, I promise

Something sinister troubled the artist vaguely, but he dared not let his imagination start working on the

Master’s veiled insinuations. He told himself that by evening he and Sybil would be well out of the purlieus of that strange castle.

“Well, now that we’ve settled everything,” proceeded Guy Fane gayly, “suppose you tell Sybil that you have my permission, and that tonight she will see Fanewold Castle for the last time—unless you are so kind as to bring her back to visit a lonely and afflicted man, some day. No, do not thank me, Mr. Porter. I am still a little hurt at your unfounded suspicions of me and my motives. You shall know more of me before another twenty-four hours,” he promised. “And now, if you will excuse me—”

T tjke took the hint and went out,

' the door shutting behind him, apparently of its own volition. He lost no time in telling Sybil of Guy’s ready capitulation. Alden’s forehead wrinkled more than ever as she lis-

“I don’t know why Sybil’s marriage to you should fit in with his plans,” she said in a troubled voice. “And I feel positive that he does not intend to have her leave Fanewold tonight as your wife. ’ ’

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Alden dear,” begged Sybil prettily. “Come and help me pack. If we’re going away tonight,” and she turned to Luke gayly, “we must get everything ready. There’ll be lots to do. Come, Alden!”

Alden did not follow the girl immediately. She stood looking at Luke irresolutely. At last she said:

“Mr. Porter, if you find it difficult to get away from here with Sybil, don’t bother about me. To them I am nothing but a servant who loves her. They won’t do anything to me. You can see about me later on.”

“Depend upon it, that if I get Sybil safely away from here, my next thought will be for you,” Luke said determinedly. “And now, I must

pack my bags and painting materials.”

I t was guite evident to Luke that there was something going on in the place, later that afternoon. Alden whispered to him that all the servants had been sent away. She was white with apprehension, but the artist thought it quite possible that Guy Fane had ordered a lot of marketing done for the wedding supper, and that the castle people had been sent to do these many errands. Going back to his room, he almost collided with Cagliostro Moderno, who was hastening down the corridor.

* ‘ Hello, Binney! What are you doing now!” the artist demanded.

“I’m going with Madam Fane to town on an errand,” the little occultist replied. He lowered his voice: “Once I get there, I’ll get in touch with the authorities and see that some of the police are sent out here, to get you and Miss Fane out. That—devil —tried to explain his stunt with the knife, but I don’t trust him. He is sheer fiend.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“I’m not the fool you think I am, Mr. Porter,” returned the little man with dignity. “I let him think I believed all he said, with the result that I’m now getting the chance to go to

“What is he sending you fort” persisted Luke.

With an apprehensive glance up and down the corridor, the occultist whispered:

“He’s sent a maid and one of the men to impersonate you and Miss Fane, to get a license. And I’m supposed to take the license, and then get a minister. Madam Fane is waiting for me,” bitterly, “but I shall evade her, if I can. Even if I have to make

“Don’t make a scene,” advised Luke, thoughtfully. “Get the clergyman, and when he is here, we’ll make

him see how the situation is, and that will tie Guy Fane’s hands. Besides, we may need you. Never can tell. ’ ’ “I’ll do my best,” promised Herbert Binney, with dignity, pulling his black mantle about him to conceal his insignificant features.

Luke smote him mightily on the shoulders.

“Go to it, old man,” he said heartily.

T he minutes fled, became hours.

Darkness was falling, now, butHerbert Binney did not return. Moreover, instead of the stir of festive preparations a heavy and oppressive stillness brooded over the castle.

“Come out on the roof garden,” Sybil half whispered, the spell of the waiting upon her also. “I think I’d feel better out in the air. ”

The three went out, just in time to see another part of the mysterious drama played before their eyes.

There was the sound of the drawbridge lowering, and simultaneously the galloping of horses’ hoofs. Then a carriage swung into sight, dimly outlined by the carriage lights. It whirled to the draw, and stopped. A woman—“Madam Fane!” cried Alden—sprang out and ran across the draw. The bridge creaked—rose in the air. The driver of the carriage whipped his horses around and back in the direction in which he had come.

And as the three stared with straining eyes, the sound of someone shouting fell upon their ears.

“Help!” cried a masculine voice several times, as a little figure came stumbling and sobbing up the road, only to be brought to a short stop by the sluggish water of the impassable moat.

“Who is it?” shouted Luke through cupped hands.

But he knew only too well who it was.

“It’s me—Binney!” wailed the voice, admission of failure in the very

use of that hated, commonplace name. “It’s me! They’ve shut me out! They’ve shut me out!”

Luke recovered from his amazement and wonderment after a moment’s astonished exchange of glances with Alden, whose wrinkled face held a deep significance, which he did not like.

“How’d it happen?” he shouted back, abandoning caution, convinced now that matters were not as they should be.

“Minister wasn’t at home,” wailed the occultist from below. “Madam Fane left word that we’d go there for the ceremony tomorrow. I tried to leave the carriage, but the driver managed to be in my way—and it’s cold out and there weren’t many people around—and—”

“To make a long story short,” Luke told the two women dryly, ‘ 1 our little friend didn’t succeed in getting word to anyone of our plight, and now he’s been shut outside, so that he can’t help us. Hey, Binney, can’t you tramp it baek to the town? You might bring help, that way.”

In the growing darkness the occultist was shaking his head in furious negation.

“No, no, no!” he called up, with more caution. “I must get inside at once. It would take me hours to get back—I’m no walker. And magic must, be fought with magic.”

“The only way you can get in, Mr. Binney, is by swimming across the moat,” began Alden.

“What?” almost screamed the occultist. “Swim among those water snakes and other things? Woman, do you think I’m crazy?”

“Not crazy,” coldly called down Alden. “Just a wretched coward, if you will have the truth, Mr. Binney.”

She retired from the parapet scornfully, but Luke saw that her face was melancholy with apprehension.

“What made you get out of the carriage?” inquired Luke.

“She dropped her handkerchief outside and asked me to get it for her,” confessed the duped magician, mournfully.

“I understand. And the driver whipped up his horses, and they left you in the road, twelve miles out of town! A fine idiot you’ve shown yourself to be!”

“Oh, Lord! Don’t I know it 1 And now, what am I going to do!”

Alden came back to the parapet, and bent over, speaking with cautiously lowered voice.

“You go to the garage, and when it’s dark bring Mr. Porter’s car

around. Can you drive? All right. Have it near the draw. And then go back to the garage. My room is opposite there, and I may think up some plan to get you into the castle, if I know you will be waiting. ’ ’

“Whatever you say,” agreed the little man submissively. “But get in I must,” he added determinedly, “for I am the only one of us who knows how to handle supernatural forces,” mysteriously.

Luke felt like saying “Fiddlesticks!” but in grave silence watched the occultist walk off down the side of the moat and disappear into the night.

III

Chapter 11

THE MASTER PREPARES

Will Mr. Porter be kind enough to step to Mr.

Fane's study for a minute?” asked the suave voice of Madam Fane, as her tall, blackgarbed figure appeared in the doorway.

Luke and Alden, standing close together, exchanged a look of apprehension. Could Madam Fane have heard their conversation with the occultist outside the castle? Whatever she might have realized, Madam Fane’s chalky face was impassive with what must have been a deceptive composure, for her smoldering eyes all at once flamed at Luke’s momentary indecision.

“Are you aware, Mr. Porter, that my son is awaiting you with considerable eagerness?” she demanded coldly. “The failure of the plans he laid so carefully for you has disturbed him immensely and he wishes to learn your desires in the matter, now that you and my niece can not be married tonight. You stand in your own light, with your despicable suspicions. ’ ’

Luke reached out in the dusk to give Sybil’s hand a reassuring pressure.

“I’m with you, Madam Fane,” he said briefly, and followed her down the corridor, pulling every faculty into alertness for the coming ordeal, be it what it might.

The door of the study was closed, but it opened silently at their approach. The ominous glare of that sickly red light streamed out into the corridor, flickering across Madam Fane’s ordinarily pallid face until it appeared transformed, as if writhing with unmentionable emotions.

The black-veiled figure of Guy Fane stood before the crystal globe, facing the door. At the entrance of

Luke and Madam Fane, he held up both hands to check their further advance.

‘ ‘ Mr. Porter, I beg of you, no words now on the subject which I know is burning on your tongue. Your marriage must be postponed until tomorrow, and if Sybil then wishes to go on with it”—there was a smooth something in Guy Fane’s voice that sent Luke’s heart to beating irregularly— “I shall let you both go, with Alden, early in the morning.”

“ ‘Let’ us go?” exclaimed Luke hotly.

“Poorly chosen words, my dear Mr. Porter. Believe me, just poorly chosen. Forgive me for my maladroitness with language. I am not as stupid and awkward in other ways, I assure you. And as proof of this, and of the harmlessness of my innocent ceremonials, I am asking you to accompany me to the chapel with my mother as well, and observe one from start to finish. It can not but be instructive to you, who have said that you believe in magic, under certain conditions...

“Supper is being served to Sybil and Alden, in my niece’s boudoir,” murmured Madam Fane. “Do you mind waiting until later for yours, Mr. Porter f”

“Yes, yes, Mother, that will be best,” agreed Guy Fane, eagerly. “First our ceremonial and then the feast to celebrate its success! Ah, Mr. Porter, little do you dream what all this means to me, tonight! To have you present — young, handsome, strong, vital.” — Guy’s voice died away as if in an ecstasy of pleasure; it affected Luke unpleasantly.

“I would like to know, Mr. Fane, why that harmless little Binney has been shut outside the castle by ruse,” Luke demanded, his gray eyes darkening.

“Harmless? Why, my dear Mr. Porter, that charlatan threatened to ruin one of the most astonishing experiments mortal man has yet made along magical lines. When you have witnessed—and shared—the tremendous thing that is fated to come to pass tonight, you will realize that I could not risk having Herbert Binney”—what infinite scorn over the poor little man’s name!—‘ * get excited in his ignorance, and ruin everything! Too risky, my dear young man. But come, let us be on our way to the chapel!”

The squat figure of Guy Fane swept in its rustling black garments ahead of Luke and Madam Fane, who followed in the direction of the chapel. Luke hastened his steps a little and reached the side of the Master.

“I warn you, Mr. Fane, that I have no intention of taking part in any obscene devil-worship,” he began, when Guy interrupted with an involuntary burst of laughter that to his sensitive ears sounded almost hysterical.

“Devil-worship, sir? What the devil do you mean by that? Do you dare insinuate that I would have used an innocent girl in such vile practises? But you shall see for yourself!” And he laughed again as he moved down the long passages.

At last he opened a door, pulled to one side the somber hangings that veiled it from within, and entered, with a backward gesture of his head for Luke to follow. The artist entered warily, to find himself in the body of the chapel upon which he had gazed once before. He looked about him, strange apprehensions creeping into his mind at sight of the monstrous decorations of the chapel, which made their subtle suggestions to his over-strained nerves, now at their highest tension.

“Look about you, Mr. Porter!” cried the high, mellow voice of the Master genially. “Is it not astonishing that the mind of human beings could have imagined and wrought such bizarre creations as these?”

“Guy, Guy, no more, I beg of you,” pleaded Madam Fane, her voice deep with tense emotion. “I—I can not bear it if you say more!”

“My poor mother, you dislike to have it known that yours was the moving mind? Or is it just modesty? * ’

Madam Fane’s lips emitted a groan. Her son laughed heartily.

“Sit you here, my mother, and when the time is ripe, throw on the incense,” he commanded bruskly. “And no more interruptions, when I start to consecrate the holy blade of sacrifice,” he added, sharply.

“I didn’t understand before, my son,” the dark woman murmured as she kneeled with bowed head near the tall censer that swung on its tripod at one side of the altar steps.

“Come up here, Mr. Porter, and see if the mechanism of this globe is not interesting,” invited Guy Fane.

“See how lightly it hangs on its network of fine platinum chains—oh, yes, they must be of platinum, for occult reasons—and then tell me, if you can, why it should start swinging of itself in response to the fragrance of burning incense and the chanting of strange incantations. Tell me, too, why those lapping tongues of flame should shoot from its vibrating surface. Why it should hum and sing its unearthly music.”

Accepting the Master’s invitation, Luke advanced up the steps of the altar, conscious all the time of an inward arming against some unexpected wile on the part of Guy Fane, whom the artist could not trust. He looked at the crystal globe gingerly; simple enough in appearance, without observable mechanism to produce the sound, the movement, the lifelike flames, it was an interesting thing in itself.

“Remain near it, if you choose, Mr. Porter, and watch it. See if you can detect chicanery in my simple methods of bringing it into startling life. But I would advise, my dear

young man, that when you see it spring into glorious ruby life, you step back out of the reach of those tongues of flame. They are very real, I assure you, and I do not care to have you tell me that I did not warn you.”

Once again, Luke Porter had the experience of watching the Master at his incantations. But this time it was close at hand, standing behind the very altar itself, close to the crystal ball, watching it closely. Madam Fane tossed great handfuls of incense upon the smoking tripod censer; volumes of faintly acrid haze began to rise and float m fitful currents of air through the gloomy chapel.

“Lucifer! Lord Lucifer! Grant a sign!” implored Guy Fane, bending low with imploring arms outstretched before him.

The still air began to crowd with murmurings, soft, whining sounds that vibrated through the air. The great globe in the shrine began to move, even as Luke watched it; to swing slowly at first, but with increasing rapidity, in a circle within the shrine. As it swung, the humming grew louder. Ruby flames leaped from the crystal’s heart, seeming every moment to stretch farther, until the artist hastily stepped back and down the stairs to be out of their way.

From an undertone that merely stirred the atmosphere, vibrations grew in resonance until the entire chapel was vibrating with that rhythmic, sonorous cadence. The sibilant hum beat against the unwilling ears of the artist with an intolerable sweetness, as cloying as the sickening sweet odor of ether to the nostrils.

The dim red dusk only half cut the gloom, through the elouds and eddies of whirling, vaporous incense. The ruby glow at the heart of the sphere grew and grew, until it, too, seemed

intolerable with its strange crimson brilliancy. Luke went down one more step, but his dazzled gray eyes were on that swinging, humming, ruby thing, which shot out its sweeping, octopuslike feelers of living fire, that elongated and retracted in every direction. The humming sounded louder again, a dire suggestion of vague and intangible, but none the less potent, evil. The vibrations increased in force and volume. At the foot of the altar lay the Master, prostrate; only muttered exorcisms reached Luke’s straining ears. The tongues of flame now shot forth fiercely, and the artist, with a muttered exclamation of alarm, went backward another step—came in contact with the great marble top of the altar—reeled slightly—and crumpled back upon it, weakly, horror on his agonized face.

Guy Fane sprang up the altar stairs with a cry of triumph and leaned over 'the recumbent young man.

“You are mine, now!” he cried wildly. “Your youth shall fill my veins anew with vitality! Your handsome features shall bring me pleasure where my gruesome mask of horror has brought me only loathing.

Your fine limbs—ah, Lucifer! Lucifer! here lies the youth from whom I am tonight to recruit that for which I have so long yearned!”

Ctruggling with the despair into which his impotent and unconquerable weakness had plunged him, Luke stirred ever so little. The flashing eyes of the Master were upon him through the folds of the chiffon veil. They threatened...

“Lie still, fool, else I lift my veil! He who looks upon my face can never be the same again!” cried the Master terribly. “Ah, that is better!”

The unhappy artist felt weakness creeping inexorably through his

limbs—through his very veins, until it seemed that the beating of his heart was stilled. He could hear— see—all about him, but move he could not; it was as if he were chained to that cold marble slab. He strove to keep his senses, but was sick as he realized that he could not now spring to Sybil’s aid, should the girl again fall into the hands of the evil mage.

The Master turned to his mother.

“Woman, the hour is close at hand. Fetch the maiden! Her presence is necessary for this last rite.”

There was the sound of rustling garments. Luke realized that he and the Master were alone.

The swinging and humming of the ruby sphere had somewhat lessened, but there was a compelling sound to it now that sent a languid feeling of sensuous and delicious enmtion through Luke’s body. He coul^diot fight this as he might have done a little since; perforce yielding to it, he felt no repugnance when the ungainly hand of the Master began to pass gloatingly up and down his arms, his legs, over his firm young chest, his youthful face. A glow of thrilling eagerness began to rise hotly throughout his being—eagerness for he knew not what.

The Master leaned closer. Through the veiling chiffon he kissed the smooth cheeks of the helpless man, kissed them in a sheer voluptuous passion of delight. Luke’s body trembled sickly....

“Ah! How can I wait, even minutes? To possess these fine limbs! Lucifer, mighty art Thou above all other angels! How can I thank Thee enough for this most splendid gift?

I tingle with mad expectations! Already I feel the racing of his youthful blood through my veins!”

The black velvet curtain parted again, interrupting the Master’s rhapsodies. Luk.e, straining eyes in his motionless head, soon saw the

source of the interruption. Advancing before Madam Fane, like a lamb before the slaughterer, came the trembling Sybil, widely awake at last to the horror of her situation...

Chapter 12

CAGLIOSTRO TO THE RESCUE

ybil, the Master needs you!” Alden whirled to confront the black-clad figure of Madam Fane, whose dark eyes rested with superb disdain upon the wrinkled face of the devoted nurse.

“Sybil—do not go!” whispered Alden tremulously, twitching at the girl’s sleeve.

Madam Fane spoke again, imperiously.

* * Sybil, your lover lies in the chapel across Lucifer’s altar. Will you leave him there, alone?”

“Luke in Lucifer’s chapel?” cried the dazed and horrified girl, her pansy purple eyes roving from one woman to the other.

“He lies on the altar, Sybil,” repeated Madam Fane grimly. “Do you intend to leave him there?”

The veiled significance of her words pounded into Alden’s whirling brain.

“My darling, my lamb, don’t believe her! Don’t go!” she implored.

Sybil drew her arm away from her nurse with dignity and decision. Her pale face grew whiter, but she stepped to Madam Fane’s side.

“Alden, if he isn’t there, tell him at once that I have gone to find him,” she murmured. “If he is—oh, no! I won’t believe that my cousin could be so vile, so wicked! — Aunt, I am coming.”

Before the agonized Alden could detain her, the girl had swung down the corridor after the swiftly retreating figure of Madam Fane, and their footsteps died away into silence.

A lden would have run after them, but her thoughts went suddenly to the little occultist waiting outside the castle walls. If only she could devise a way to get him inside, perhaps he might be able to cope with Guy Fane; Alden knew that she alone would be helpless, for she stood in horror of what she might see if the Master were once to lift that protecting veil...

She ran to the wall and looked down. The headlights of Luke’s car were on, and to judge by their position, the car stood near the drawbridge. Alden leaned over and called softly.

“Mr. Binney!”

At once she discerned the little man’s squat figure as he ran in front of the car so that she could see him, and called back:

“Who is it?”

“Alden, Mr. Binney. Listen!” Her voice cut through the whispering dusk sharply. “Mr. Porter is lying on the altar in the chapel, ’ ’—a husky intake of breath from below apprized her that Cagliostro had heard—‘ ‘ and Miss Fane has been called there, too. I can do nothing alone...”

The little figure moved away from the car and close to the edge of the moat, the black waters of which were troubled by swirling things that passed across where it gleamed somberly in the car’s illumination.

“Mrs. Alden, if you have anything to make a rope of, I can catch one end of it, and you can fasten the other securely up where you are. Then I can manage to swing across the moat.”

“Oh, I can fix something with sheets,” called back Alden eagerly.

“Get in I must,” declared the occultist, ominous grimness in his voice. “There’s devil’s work going on in that chapel, and we must make haste. If I can get there in time, I may be able to help those poor young things, ’ ’

finished Cagliostro, his voice breaking.

“I’ll be back in five minutes!”

Alden rushed down the corridor to the linen closets and secured a number of sheets. It seemed a century before she had tom and knotted them to make a rope of sufficient length to go, she hoped, across the moat. As Madam Fane unlocked supplies of linen only for each day, Alden was unable to get enough, to her dismay, for when she had fastened one end to the parapet and had flung the other out across the moat, the occultist could not reach it. There it hung, barely touching the surface of the murky water that seemed to mock at both would-be rescuers with a thousand twinkling evil eyes.

She hauled in the improvised rope, gathered it into a bunch, and tossed it out again. Cagliostro, springing to catch at it, just as it fell short of his grasp, slipped and almost fell into the moat.

“Oh, what shall we do?” lamented Alden, trembling with sick apprehension as the precious moments slipped by. “You—you wouldn’t dare to risk—?”

Cagliostro grasped the thought that she had hardly dared put into words. He could drop into the moat and swim across to where that rope hung dabbling in the black water. His flesh crept shudderingly on his bones as he bent down to inspect the slimy surface of that repulsive viscid liquid. As he leaned over, something shining writhed out of the blackness and across the light from the car headlights; something that glistened with a nasty slipperiness that struck nausea to his stomach. He caught his breath with a quick gasp of repugnance; was there no other way?

His gaze swept the steep and slippery sides of the moat. If it should happen that he could not pull himself out of the water up to that knotted rope of sheets, or if the knots

should give way, or if Alden had not fastened the other end securely, he would slip back—and a horrible death inevitably awaited. His body would fester in the deeps of that stagnant slime, and the things that flourished in it, as vile as its waters, would feed upon his shrinking flesh and pick at his bones...

“Have you decided?” pleaded Alden. “Oh, every minute is precious! Will you try—?”

“You don’t happen to know which switch on the switchboard in the Master’s study controls the workings of the draw, do you?” countered the shuddering Herbert Binney. “He explained some of them to me, but I am not sure now that I know which one to tell you—and if you touch the wrong one, you will open trap-doors all over the castle... and another one lights a five-minute fuse to a powder cache that would send FaUewold into the air in ruins!”

Alden moaned and wrung her wrinkled hands frantically.

“I’ve seen it, but I don’t know which switch would be right. Oh, can’t you—?”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated the little man piously. “Alden, I’m going to swim the moat.”

“Don’t make any more commotion than you can help,” warned the woman, ominously. “The—the things —would surround you at once. I’ve seen doves, and once a lamb, floating, half devoured—

TTerbert binney dared not hear more. He took off his shoes and discarded his coat. Then he dropped quietly over the edge of the moat and slipped gently down into the black water. Ugh! How coldly, how hungrily, it closed about him! With an effort he managed to keep his face above the slimy surface. With shrinking strokes he struck out for the castle wall from which dangled the sheet-rope. The water about him

seemed alive with evil things, foul things, venomous things. He could feel the stirring of that evil life as he shot through the turbid waters. Once his hand touched something that slithered across it hastily, leaving him with a sickening nausea. Every moment he expected to feel the fangs of some unknown and hideous reptile fasten in throat or arm.

At last, the final stroke—. He caught quickly at the drabbled end of the rope, and for a moment his faint heart sank, for it gave easily in his grasp. Momentarily he thought the knots had given way. Then he realized with relief that the material was only stretching under his weight.

He pulled himself up the wall, bracing himself against it, and in a few minutes felt the outstretched hands of Alden helping him over the parapet.

His gaze, turned downward to the water he had just quitted, showed what seemed myriads of tiny shining points. He realized with a shudder of disgust and loathing that those points were the eyes of the horrors that had waited for him to slip, to fall, that they might crowd in upon him, pull him beneath the slimy water, and tear the shrinking flesh from his bones.

“Dry clothes, first of all,” the occultist exclaimed, as he felt himself safely on the parapet.

“But—”

“You must trust me, Alden. I know what I have to do. I can not go before Guy Fane a dripping scarecrow. Where would be my dignity, the lofty impression that must surround me like an aura, if I am to make the right impression upon him? I have another mantle and other clothes in my room; also, I can not go in my stocking feet,” the little man declared decidedly.

Alden, who would have run at once to the chapel, was obliged to wait for Cagliostro. While she waited, she

remembered the pistol Luke had given her. She. put it in her apron pocket, a grim look about her mouth.

When the occultist emerged from his room, he looked the part of the serious magician he wished to appear, until he let the mantle drop from his face, when the absurd button nose and the squinting pale blue eyes somewhat dulled the new dignity that drew the lines of his cupid’s bow mouth into something strange and hard.

“The Master’s study,” he said tersely, and led the way.

Behind the screen he shoved Alden a switchboard with fifteen buttons.

“One of these operates the draw,” the little man said. ‘ ‘ I think it is the first one.”

“If you don’t know; why do you touch it? ” cried out the alarmed Alden, catching at his hand.

He shook off her restraining touch imperiously. The next moment he had pressed the first button. She strained her ears to hear the creaking of the drawbridge, but there was no sound to break the night’s silence. Cagliostro shook his head, his brow scowling at the switchboard. Then he deliberately put his hand over and pressed the second button. Alden’s wrinkled face whitened. Then she uttered a soft exclamation.

“The draw! The second button was right! The way is open! ”

“The chapel next,” commanded Cagliostro bruskly. He strode on ahead of Alden, who could hear him muttering to himself. “Now, what could that first button have been?” the occultist kept asking himself aloud in perplexity. To Alden he addressed one more observation: ‘ ‘ Keep close to the edges of the corridor,” he said warningly.

She understood, shuddering. Perhaps the first button had opened yawning traps that would let them down into black gulfs when they, stepped upon them.., Perhaps—.

<384

perhaps that first button had meant that Fanewold would fly up into the air, carrying them all to sudden death...

As if this thought had gone home to him, also, the occultist now exclaimed:

“Let us run! If we can get there in time, perhaps we can—.” He let the sentence go unfinished, as the two of them, careless of what that first button might have done in the way of opening trap-doors, began to run through the winding halls.

Chapter 13. Lucifer Takes Toll

B etween the heavy black curtains that shielded the entrance to the chapel, Alden stumbled like one suddenly dazed. The loud humming of the ruby globe dominated the atmosphere, and like one bereft of all will power, all strength, the woman sank down behind one of the evil statues near the doorway, helpless to aid in averting the tragedy that now seemed imminent.

The occultist, more wary because he, perhaps, knew what he would have to confront, stood just inside the curtains, opt of sight of the Master but in a position to take in everything. On the marble slab lay the supine figure of Luke Porter, motionless. Before it, with hands outstretched against the nearer advance of the Master, stood Sybil, as if frozen stiff by horror and her impotence. Guy Fane, his arms lifted to the swinging, flame-tongued sphere, was wrapped in ecstasy, as he cried his invocations:

“Behold the spotless sacrifice! Today she was supremely happy, and tonight her abandonment to grief is just as keen. Lord Lucifer, is not this broken spirit meet for a sacrifice unto Thee? ’ ’

Madam Fane emptied a handful of incense upon the tripod censer. Her

garments rustled like wind in the trees as she turned to her son.

“Guy!" trembled her voice imploringly. “Do not forget your promise to me!"

A hard, triumphant laugh issued from the chiffon swathings that hid the Master’s face.

“Woman, what are promises to me, the favored one of Lucifer? I am a free man. Promises cannot bind me!”

“But you told me Sybil should live—"

“She shall live, to endure a living death," he pronounced oracularly. “Unless she stands in my way, when Lucifer tells me her lover’s youth and beauty are ripe for my taking. Then—’’ and the voice was ominous with unspoken threats.

He swept aside his mother’s entreating hands.

“Stand aside, woman!" he thundered. “This is no time for your silly chatter. This is my hour!"

Again he lifted both hands in invocation.

“Lucifer! Son of the Morning! I have obeyed Thee. I give Thee the soul of Sybil Fane, once a happy, light-hearted girl, now a sad and agonizing woman. Thou hast promised me in return these limbs—these features,"—and he gestured toward the quiet form on the altar.

‘ * No—no—no! ’ ’ screamed Sybil, finding voice at last. “I do not know what you intend to do, but you shall not harm Luke! Not while I live to prevent it!"

“Perhaps you will not—live to prevent it, Sybil," responded the magician, pausing in his invocation to address her. “But if you will stand out of my way, I will spare his life."

“Oh, I knew you couldn’t be so cruel!’’ the girl gasped. “You won’t hurt him, will you, then?”

Again a laugh issued with malevolent hardness from the veil.

“I shall take that shell of his, and give him mine in return, Sybil. If

you can love him still—why, perhaps you can be happy with the monster that he will be.”

He turned once more to the globe.

The perfumed incense had created clouds of heavy fragrance redolent of the East and its esoteric mysteries. The Master was plainly on the verge of his diabolic experiment. The whimpering hum of the glowing sphere sounded continuously with a drowzy, numbing effect on the senses. The Master cried out.

“Lucifer! Lucifer!! Lucifer!!! I dedicate to Thee the broken heart of this spotless maid! I offer Thee the pulsing heart of this sturdy man whose youth and comeliness are to be mine!”

The humming of the ruby globe grew louder, heavier, sweeter, until it seemed as if the very atmosphere were charged with some foreign, supernatural potency to draw the vitality out of those who had braved the horrors of that eery chapel. The occultist heard a little sigh, and saw Alden crumpling into a tumbled heap at the foot of the sculptured horror; the automatic slipped from her pocket to the floor. Cagliostro salvaged the weapon; he would try material magic on the Master first...

TV/Tadam fane’s voice rang out *-*-* loudly with sudden sharp reproach.

“No, Guy! You shall not, I tell you! Let her alone!” Her voice rose in a shrill treble of excitement, ending in a shriek that pierced the eardrums with poignancy. “No, Guy, no! Her blood must not be on your hands! She is your own half-sister! ’ ’

The Master had swung about, the keen blade of a flashing knife in one hand. With the other he held back the struggling form of his mother, who caught vainly at the deadly blade, her face convulsed with horror and dismay. Sybil, pressed backward across her lover’s motionless

form, had spread her hands behind her for his protection, and it was this thwarting of his intention that had infuriated Guy Fane, who was threatening her with the knife even while he held’ back his mother’s struggling body.

That shrill scream had acted like a powerful tonic to the other mother, lying apparently unconscious at Cagliostro’s feet. Alden was up, and had crossed with a bound the space separating her from the altar. The knife swept downward toward Sybil’s breast as Guy flung his mother to one side. Alden met it full.' As it clove its way into her unresisting flesh she laughed aloud, a terrible laugh that rang out through the atmosphere with ominous import. Then she slipped to the feet of the dazed Sybil, gasping as she fell five pregnant words:

“Fools! I am her mother!”

It was over in a moment. The actors in the tragedy stood as if paralyzed by this swift movement of events. Then Madam Fane broke into a weakly wailing cry.

“Her mother? Oh, now I understand much. Much! I knew Sybil was protected. Her mother1”

Burning eyes through his veil, the Master turned to look upon the dying woman.

“Her mother!” he echoed numbly. “Oh, I knew something, someone, was watching over her, to thwart me. But I shall not be cheated out of my bargain with Lucifer! The offering which purchases my freedom from this horrible and monstrous form shall yet be his. And it shall be a triple one tonight!”

He took the dead woman’s shoulder and drew her to one side roughly. Cagliostro took a step forward from the protection of the statue, but Madam Fane had caught again at her son’s arm, this time with a purpose and nervous strength that took him by surprize.

‘ 4 Guy, you shall not! In that Name I dare not utter in this evil place, I swear that I shall perish before you stain your hand with more blood tonight. Another crime on your soul, my son? Let these poor helpless creatures go—”

“Are you mad?” he shouted, brutally pushed her aside, and reached for Sybil’s shoulder.

The terrified girl shrank back, but not for an instant did she forget to shield her lover’s body with her own, her purple eyes ablaze with fearless purpose.

Crying: 44 Give me the knife!” Madam Fane caught at Guy’s hand and by sheer force of sudden surprize wrested the blade from his fingers. Then she moved away from him— backward—down the altar steps— holding that horridly dripping thing away from contact with her rustling garments as she backed off, step by step.

The horrified occultist had been paralyzed by the swift march of events, and unable to do even so little as lift the pistol into shooting position. Alden’s astonishing and tragic death had happened so quickly that he knew he could not have saved the unhappy mother. He stood rooted to the spot now, watching this other mother who had snatched the deadly knife from the hands of that worshiper of Lucifer.

Madam Fane backed away, holding the weapon from her in mingled repulsion and dread. For a moment her son followed her with his eyes, and then realization that without the knife he could not go on with the sacrifice came to him. He took a step toward her.

44 Give me the knife!” rang out the stern command.

She shook her head slowly from side to side, continuing her retreat toward the corridor door. Cagliostro lifted the pistol and waited for her to pass him. He intended then to cover

Guy Fane, make him stand beside her....

Down the altar steps sprang the Master toward his mother. And then that took place which Providence decreed. As Cagliostro peered cautiously around the statue, watching Madam Fane, he drew back involuntarily at her loud cry of consternation and dismay. He leaned out to stare incredulously. She had disappeared from view as if the earth had opened to swallow her.

T he Master stopped short. The paving of the chapel had yawned at his very feet, had swallowed up the sins and sorrows of his mother, and had closed relentlessly upon her. The Master turned his head from side to side uneasily; he knew that someone had tampered with the buttons of the private switchboard.

“And I cannot punish her,” he murmured in a low voice. “She has gone beyond my reach, that other mother. It was Sybil’s mother—oh, if I could bring her back to life, how I would punish those meddling fingers! ’ ’

He turned and retraced his footsteps to *the altar, testing each stone on the way with his foot to be sure that it would bear his weight. Muttered words fell from his lips as he once more confronted Sybil.

‘‘There are too many mothers here tonight! Too many mothers.... And my knife is gone—but it shall not matter. These hands shall tear his pulsing heart from his breast, Sybil, while you watch him change into my ugliness. ’ ’

He came closer to her, while she leaned away from him, terrified, but without leaving the man she loved. His thoughts went at random then, and Sybil watched him, fascinated, as he sank upon his knees before the altar.

“Unhappy mother! And that other mother! How could I know that the

THE GAEGOYLE

mothers would ruin everything? Lucifer, why didst Thou not warn me that the mothers would ruin all? Must I remain an eternal prisoner in this monstrous shape, because of the mothers?” His voice rose in plaintive melancholy. “And did not the oracle promise me that tonight I should step from this loathsome body into freedom? Oh, Lord and Master, give me a sign!”

Cagliostro had been creeping closer to the altar. As he went, he managed to make some gesture that caught Sybil’s eye. As soon as she saw him, his finger at his lips imposed silence upon her. But he glowed at the look of relief that swept across her pallid face.

The heavy, incense-laden atmosphere vibrated. Flickering lights and shadows danced evilly on the pavement as the ruby tongues of flame darted from the swinging, humming globe of fiery crimson in the shrine. Cagliostro did not wish to wait longer. The moment had come for him to act.

“Lucifer! Grant a sign! The sacrificial knife has been wrested from my fingers. I have but these naked hands. Touch the altar with Thy fire. Lord Lucifer, that I may know it is acceptable!”

Into the radiance of that mystic ruby brilliance sprang the short, heavy figure of the little occultist.

“Hands up, Guy Fane! I have you covered!”

The veiled man rose, turning in a dazed manner that betrayed eloquently how far unaware the Master had been of other presences in the chapel. He came down the steps of the shrine with reluctant dignity but without lifting his hands as Herbert Binney had commanded.

“Put up your hands, Mr. Fane!”

With contemptuous gesture and scornful laugh, the Master folded his arms on his breast so that the hands rested on opposite shoulders.

“Do you really imagine, silly little mummer, that I— I —am to be constrained like any common man, to comply with your very rude demand? I, who can lift my veil again, and blast you where you stand? Has not one lesson been sufficient? Must I repeat it? ”

The little man shivered. His pale blue eyes squinted from Guy to the eager, strained face of Sybil, and back again.

“Shoot, if it pleases you,” observed the Master nonchalantly. “The experience may teach you another lesson. Your bullets cannot penetrate my charmed flesh. None but a silver bullet can harm me, and your bullets are of lead, foolish magician; lead. What, afraid? Am I not a broad target?” He sneered.

“You’re unarmed, Mr. Fane,” retorted the little man with as much calm as his jumping nervous system would allow him to demonstrate. “I can’t shoot an unarmed man. But I want you to undo your spells on that young man, and then you can stand aside while both of those young people go out of this hellish place. I’m not afraid of you,” stoutly. “I know now what to expect. You—you took me by surprize before.”

The Master laughed soft and long.

“I am not an unarmed man, Mr. Binney. There are occult forces at my disposal, as you have witnessed, that would strip you of the power to press the trigger, but I scorn to use them against such a miserable and puny opponent.”

The words stung. Caglioslro Moderno, stepping forward v/ta the pistol pointed at the Master’s stomach, said bruskly:

“Move to one side.”

Instinctively the Master gave way. Cagliostro sprang past him and up to the altar. He drew Sybil gently to one side and leaned ever the prostrate young man. He breathed against the

closed eyelids. He whispered into the ears. And then he took both hands and drew Luke Porter into a sitting position.

“All right?” he queried briefly.

Luke drew a long breath of relief.

“Knew what was going on, all the time!” he exclaimed. “But just couldn’t speak or move. Give me that pistol, Binney.”

The occultist shook his head.

“You take the young lady and run as fast as you can to the draw. It’s open. Get out quick. Your car’s in front. Never mind me. I can take care of myself. Go, while the draw is open!”

“How wise is our great Cagliostro Moderno!” drawled a mellow voice.

Luke and the occultist both turned like a flash. They had, for the time, forgotten Guy Fane, who had slipped quietly to the entry door and—carefully avoiding the pavement which had swallowed up his unfortunate mother—stood there, leaning against the lintel negligently.

“Do go, while the draw is open!” He laughed. “How long do you think it will take me to reach my study? I, who am acquainted with every passage, every stairway, here? Five minutes after I have reached my study, I shall have the pleasure of going on a long journey, and I think you three will go with me, in fire and flame from the altar of Lucifer! No, do not stir! You can not escape. I shall close the draw first—and the fuse will burn exactly five minutes.”

“Stop him!” shouted Luke, reaching for the pistol.

“You have ruined my hope to be as other human beings are. Perhaps, if I had gained what I desired, I might have acquired a heart as well. Who knows? But now I am harder than the very nucleus of the crystal sphere. You shall not live to triumph over me.

This castle will make a splendid funeral pyre, will it not?”

The little occultist stood stupidly while Guy Fane turned to go.

“Give me that pistol!” cried Luke again, snatching at it, and firing after the disappearing Master.

T he shot echoed and re-echoed along the chapel walls and out through the adjoining corridors. As it died away, they could hear Guy Fane’s eery laughter ringing mockingly through the doorway, mingled with his rapidly retreating footfalls. The Master had gone, unharmed, to carry out his threat!

“The draw! Sybil, give me your hand! Binney, I can’t forgive you for not giving me that pistol before. If I’d shot the monster, we would be safe now,” snapped Luke, drawing Sybil after him along the pavement blocks that had appeared sound when the Master had retreated.

Cagliostro stared mournfully but did not follow them. A sudden white light of determination broke across his face. He spoke quickly:

“7 can stop him—hold him—long enough for you to escape.... Run! I’ll get at him in his study!”

“Don’t be a fool!” shouted Luke, pulling Sybil along down the corridor that led to the courtyard giving upon the draw. “You’ll be trapped!”

A strangely transfiguring smile rested on the little occultist’s face, transforming it into something finer, bigger, than it had ever appeared before.

“Good-bye!” he said simply, and was gone.

There was no time to dissuade him. Luke swept the panting Sybil up into his arms. Twice she had stumbled in their mad flight. He covered the short remaining distance with his precious burden in record time, and as he emerged into the courtyard saw with

grateful heart that the draw was still open, lighted by the headlamps of the waiting car. His limbs braced themselves for the final effort. He staggered out upon the drawbridge, holding the girl closely to him.

“If we go, we go together,” he told himself grimly.

At the middle of the draw, it began to tremble and jar.... The draw was rising slowly! Guy Fane must have reached his study and have closed it. The cables creaked and groaned. For a moment Luke’s heart almost stopped beating, as he flung himself face down—Sybil beside him —on the rapidly perilous slope of the draw. They clung together. In another moment they would lose their hold and slip down, back, into the courtyard, to perish by the explosion.

The jarring recommenced. The draw—miracle of miracles!—began to lower again. Sybil got to her feet dazedly. Luke rose, caught at her hand and drew her along. In another minute they. had reached the edge. Another, and they were across the moat and Luke was pulling the girl into the seat of the little car.

H e slid in behind the wheel, started the engine. Then he turned and honked several times, watching to see the little occultist in the doorway. A fine column of smoke was rising from midway in the building.... A loud crackling... The waving hands of Herbert Binney from the window over the draw.... “ Good-bye! Don’t —forget—Cagliostro!” The little

man was smiling wanly....

Rumbling. A heavy, thunderous roar that rose in terrible crashing explosion, shaking the earth, rocking the car’s occupants from side to side. Blinding light flashed from the castle on all sides. The landscape stood out distinct as in broad daylight.

It was sheer stupidity to linger in the open. Luke, sick at heart for the fate of the little occultist, who had so nobly risen to that great opportunity of his life, drove off down the steep roadway as rapidly as he dared, to get beyond the radius of falling stone and debris.

Guy Fane had been right. The oracle had spoken truly. The Master had left his monstrous body and stepped out into freedom at last.