her, and she said, looking at It as before:--'Of all thy crimes which
one is the worst? Speak, I command thee!'
"Then the fiend told how once It had killed every soul in a house of
holy women and buried the bodies in a cellar under a heavy door.
"Where was the house?'
"'At No. 19 Rue Picpus, next to the old graveyard.'
"'And when was this?'
"Here the fiend seemed to break into fierce rebellion, writhing on the
floor with hideous contortions, and pouring forth words that meant
nothing to me, but seemed to reach my sister's understanding, for she
interrupted from time to time, with quick, stern words that finally
brought It to subjection.
"'Enough,' she said, 'I know all,' and then she spoke some words again,
her eyes fixed as before, and the reverse change came. Before us stood
once more the honest-looking, fine-appearing gentleman, Richard Burwell,
of New York.
"'Excuse me, madame,' he said, awkwardly, but with deference; 'I must
have dosed a little. I am not myself to-night.'
"'No,' said my sister, 'you have not been yourself to-night.'
"A little later I accompanied the man to the Continental Hotel, where he
was stopping, and, returning to my sister, I talked with her until late
into the night. I was alarmed to see that she was wrought to a nervous
tension that augured ill for her health. I urged her to sleep, but she
would not.
"'No,' she said, 'think of the awful responsibility that rests upon me.'
And then she went on with her strange theories and explanations, of
which I understood only that here was a power for evil more terrible
than a pestilence, menacing all humanity.
"'Once in many cycles it happens,' she said, 'that a _kulos_-soul pushes
itself within the body of a new-born child, when the pure soul waiting
to enter is delayed. Then the two live together through that life, and
this hideous principle of evil has a chance upon the earth. It is my
will, as I feel it my duty, to see this poor man again. The chances are
that he will never know us, for the shock of this night to his normal
soul is so great as to wipe out memory.'
"The next evening, about the same hour, my sister insisted that I should
go with her to the _Folies Bergere_, a concert garden, none too well
frequented, and when I remonstrated, she said: 'I must go,--It is
there,' and the words sent a shiver through me.
"We drove to this place, and passing into the garden, presently
discovered Richard Burwell seated at a little table, enjoying the scene
of pleasure, which was plainly new to him. My sister hesitated a moment
what to do, and then, leaving my arm, she advanced to the table and
dropped before Burwell's eyes the card she had prepared. A moment later,
with a look of pity on her beautiful face, she rejoined me and we went
away. It was plain he did not know us."
To so much of the savant's strange recital I had listened with absorbed
interest, though without a word, but now I burst in with questions.
"What was your sister's idea in giving Burwell the card?" I asked.
"It was in the hope that she might make the man understand his terrible
condition, that is, teach the pure soul to know its loathsome
companion."
"And did her effort succeed?"
"Alas! it did not; my sister's purpose was defeated by the man's
inability to see the pictures that were plain to every other eye. It is
impossible for the _kulos_-man to know his own degradation."
"And yet this man has for years been leading a most exemplary life?"
My visitor shook his head. "I grant you there has been improvement, due
largely to experiments I have conducted upon him according to my
sister's wishes. But the fiend soul was never driven out. It grieves me
to tell you, doctor, that not only was this man the Water Street
assassin, but he was the mysterious murderer, the long-sought-for
mutilator of women, whose red crimes have baffled the police of Europe
and America for the past ten years."
"You know this," said I, starting up, "and yet did not denounce him?"
"It would have been impossible to prove such a charge, and besides, I
had made oath to my sister that I would use the man only for these
soul-experiments. What are his crimes compared with the great secret of
knowledge I am now able to give the world?"
"A secret of knowledge?"
"Yes," said the savant, with intense earnestness, "I may tell you now,
doctor, what the whole world will know, ere long, that it is possible to
compel every living person to reveal the innermost secrets of his or her
life, so long as memory remains, for memory is only the power of
producing in the brain material pictures that may be projected
externally by the thought rays and made to impress themselves upon the
photographic plate, precisely as ordinary pictures do."
"You mean," I exclaimed, "that you can photograph the two principles of
good and evil that exist in us?"
"Exactly that. The great truth of a dual soul existence, that was dimly
apprehended by one of your Western novelists, has been demonstrated by
me in the laboratory with my camera. It is my purpose, at the proper
time, to entrust this precious knowledge to a chosen few who will
perpetuate it and use it worthily."
"Wonderful, wonderful!" I cried, "and now tell me, if you will, about
the house on the Rue Picpus. Did you ever visit the place?"
"We did, and found that no buildings had stood there for fifty years, so
we did not pursue the search."[1]
[Footnote 1: Years later, some workmen in Paris, making excavations in
the Rue Picpus, came upon a heavy door buried under a mass of debris,
under an old cemetery. On lifting the door they found a vault-like
chamber in which were a number of female skeletons, and graven on the
walls were blasphemous words written in French, which experts declared
dated from fully two hundred years before. They also declared this
handwriting identical with that found on the door at the Water Street
murder in New York. Thus we may deduce a theory of fiend reincarnation;
for it would seem clear, almost to the point of demonstration, that this
murder of the seventeenth century was the work of the same evil soul
that killed the poor woman on Water Street towards the end of the
nineteenth century.]
"And the writing on the card, have you any memory of it, for Burwell
told me that the words have faded?"
"I have something better than that; I have a photograph of both card and
writing, which my sister was careful to take. I had a notion that the
ink in my pocket pen would fade, for it was a poor affair. This
photograph I will bring you to-morrow."
"Bring it to Burwell's house," I said.
* * * * *
The next morning the stranger called as agreed upon.
"Here is the photograph of the card," he said.
"And here is the original card," I answered, breaking the seal of the
envelope I had taken from Burwell's iron box. "I have waited for your
arrival to look at it. Yes, the writing has indeed vanished; the card
seems quite blank."
"Not when you hold it this way," said the stranger, and as he tipped the
card I saw such a horrid revelation as I can never forget. In an instant
I realized how the shock of seeing that card had been too great for the
soul of wife or friend to bear. In these pictures was the secret of a
cursed life. The resemblance to Burwell was unmistakable, the proof
against him was overwhelming. In looking upon that piece of pasteboard
the wife had seen a crime which the mother could never forgive, the
partner had seen a crime which the friend could never forgive. Think of
a loved face suddenly melting before your eyes into a grinning skull,
then into a mass of putrefaction, then into the ugliest fiend of hell,
leering at you, distorted with all the marks of vice and shame. That is
what I saw, that is what they had seen!
"Let us lay these two cards in the coffin," said my companion
impressively, "we have done what we could."
Eager to be rid of the hateful piece of pasteboard (for who could say
that the curse was not still clinging about it?), I took the strange
man's arm, and together we advanced into the adjoining room where the
body lay. I had seen Burwell as he breathed his last, and knew that
there had been a peaceful look on his face as he died. But now, as we
laid the two white cards on the still, breast, the savant suddenly
touched my arm, and pointing to the dead man's face, now frightfully
distorted, whispered:--"See, even in death It followed him. Let us close
the coffin quickly."
THE GREAT VALDEZ SAPPHIRE
(ANONYMOUS)
I know more about it than anyone else in the world, its present owner
not excepted. I can give its whole history, from the Cingalese who found
it, the Spanish adventurer who stole it, the cardinal who bought it, the
Pope who graciously accepted it, the favoured son of the Church who
received it, the gay and giddy duchess who pawned it, down to the
eminent prelate who now holds it in trust as a family heirloom.
It will occupy a chapter to itself in my forthcoming work on "Historic
Stones," where full details of its weight, size, colour, and value may
be found. At present I am going to relate an incident in its history
which, for obvious reasons, will not be published--which, in fact, I
trust the reader will consider related in strict confidence.
I had never seen the stone itself when I began to write about it, and it
was not till one evening last spring, while staying with my nephew, Sir
Thomas Acton, that I came within measurable distance of it. A dinner
party was impending, and, at my instigation, the Bishop of Northchurch
and Miss Panton, his daughter and heiress, were among the invited
guests.
The dinner was a particularly good one, I remember that distinctly. In
fact, I felt myself partly responsible for it, having engaged the new
cook--a talented young Italian, pupil of the admirable old _chef_ at my
club. We had gone over the _menu_ carefully together, with a result
refreshing in its novelty, but not so daring as to disturb the minds of
the innocent country guests who were bidden thereto.
The first spoonful of soup was reassuring, and I looked to the end of
the table to exchange a congratulatory glance with Leta. What was amiss?
No response. Her pretty face was flushed, her smile constrained, she was
talking with quite unnecessary _empressement_ to her neighbour, Sir
Harry Landor, though Leta is one of those few women who understand the
importance of letting a man settle down tranquilly and with an
undisturbed mind to the business of dining, allowing no topic of serious
interest to come on before the _releves_, and reserving mere
conversational brilliancy for the _entremets_.
Guests all right? No disappointments? I had gone through the list with
her, selecting just the right people to be asked to meet the Landors,
our new neighbours. Not a mere cumbrous county gathering, nor yet a
showy imported party from town, but a skillful blending of both. Had
anything happened already? I had been late for dinner and missed the
arrivals in the drawing-room. It was Leta's fault. She has got into a
way of coming into my room and putting the last touches to my toilet. I
let her, for I am doubtful of myself nowadays after many years'
dependence on the best of valets. Her taste is generally beyond dispute,
but to-day she had indulged in a feminine vagary that provoked me and
made me late for dinner.
"Are you going to wear your sapphire, Uncle Paul!" she cried in a tone
of dismay. "Oh, why not the ruby?"
"You _would_ have your way about the table decorations," I gently
reminded her. "With that service of Crown Derby _repousse_ and orchids,
the ruby would look absolutely barbaric. Now if you would have had the
Limoges set, white candles, and a yellow silk centre--"
"Oh, but--I'm _so_ disappointed--I wanted the bishop to see your
ruby--or one of your engraved gems--"
"My dear, it is on the bishop's account I put this on. You know his
daughter is heiress of the great Valdez sapphire--"
"Of course she is, and when he has the charge of a stone three times as
big as yours, what's the use of wearing it? The ruby, dear Uncle Paul,
_please_!"
She was desperately in earnest I could see, and considering the
obligations which I am supposed to be under to her and Tom, it was but a
little matter to yield, but it involved a good deal of extra trouble.
Studs, sleeve-links, watch-guard, all carefully selected to go with the
sapphire, had to be changed, the emerald which I chose as a compromise
requiring more florid accompaniments of a deeper tone of gold; and the
dinner hour struck as I replaced my jewel case, the one relic left me of
a once handsome fortune, in my fireproof safe.
The emerald looked very well that evening, however. I kept my eyes upon
it for comfort when Miss Panton proved trying.
She was a lean, yellow, dictatorial young person with no conversation. I
spoke of her father's celebrated sapphires. "_My_ sapphires," she
amended sourly; "though I am legally debarred from making any profitable
use of them." She furthermore informed me that she viewed them as
useless gauds, which ought to be disposed of for the benefit of the
heathen. I gave the subject up, and while she discoursed of the work of
the Blue Ribbon Army among the Bosjesmans I tried to understand a
certain dislocation in the arrangement of the table. Surely we were more
or less in number than we should be? Opposite side all right. Who was
extra on ours? I leaned forward. Lady Landor on one side of Tom, on the
other who? I caught glimpses of plumes pink and green nodding over a
dinner plate, and beneath them a pink nose in a green visage with a
nutcracker chin altogether unknown to me. A sharp gray eye shot a
sideway glance down the table and caught me peeping, and I retreated,
having only marked in addition two clawlike hands, with pointed ruffles
and a mass of brilliant rings, making good play with a knife and fork.
Who was she? At intervals a high acid voice could be heard addressing
Tom, and a laugh that made me shudder; it had the quality of the scream
of a bird of prey or the yell of a jackal. I had heard that sort of
laugh before, and it always made me feel like a defenseless rabbit.
Every time it sounded I saw Leta's fan flutter more furiously and her
manner grow more nervously animated. Poor dear girl! I never in all my
recollection wished a dinner at an end so earnestly so as to assure her
of my support and sympathy, though without the faintest conception why
either should be required.
The ices at last. A _menu_ card folded in two was laid beside me. I read
it unobserved. "Keep the B. from joining us in the drawing-room." The
B.--? The bishop, of course. With pleasure. But why? And how? _That's_
the question, never mind "why." Could I lure him into the library--the
billiard room--the conservatory? I doubted it, and I doubted still more
what I should do with him when I got him there.
The bishop is a grand and stately ecclesiastic of the mediaeval type,
broad-chested, deep-voiced, martial of bearing. I could picture him
charging mace in hand at the head of his vassals, or delivering over a
dissenter of the period to the rack and thumb-screw, but not pottering
among rare editions, tall copies and Grolier bindings, nor condescending
to a quiet cigar among the tree ferns and orchids. Leta must and should
be obeyed, I swore, nevertheless, even if I were driven to lock the door
in the fearless old fashion of a bygone day, and declare I'd shoot any
man who left while a drop remained in the bottles.
The ladies were rising. The lady at the head of the line smirked and
nodded her pink plumes coquettishly at Tom, while her hawk's eyes roved
keen and predatory over us all. She stopped suddenly, creating a block
and confusion.
"Ah, the dear bishop! _You_ there, and I never saw you! You must come
and have a nice long chat presently. By-by--!" She shook her fan at him
over my shoulder and tripped on. Leta, passing me last, gave me a look
of profound despair.
"Lady Carwitchet!" somebody exclaimed. "I couldn't believe my eyes."
"Thought she was dead or in penal servitude. Never should have expected
to see her _here_," said someone else behind me confidentially.
"What Carwitchet? Not the mother of the Carwitchet who--"
"Just so. The Carwitchet who--" Tom assented with a shrug. "We needn't
go farther, as she's my guest. Just my luck. I met them at Buxton,
thought them uncommonly good company--in fact, Carwitchet laid me under
a great obligation about a horse I was nearly let in for buying--and
gave them a general invitation here, as one does, you know. Never
expected her to turn up with her luggage this afternoon just before
dinner, to stay a week, or a fortnight if Carwitchet can join her." A
groan of sympathy ran round the table. "It can't be helped. I've told
you this just to show that I shouldn't have asked you here to meet this
sort of people of my own free will; but, as it is, please say no more
about them." The subject was not dropped by any means, and I took care
that it should not be. At our end of the table one story after another
went buzzing round--_sotto voce_, out of deference to Tom--but perfectly
audible.
"Carwitchet? Ah, yes. Mixed up in that Rawlings divorce case, wasn't he?
A bad lot. Turned out of the Dragoon Guards for cheating at cards, or
picking pockets, or something--remember the row at the Cerulean Club?
Scandalous exposure--and that forged letter business--oh, that was the
mother--prosecution hushed up somehow. Ought to be serving her fourteen
years--and that business of poor Farrars, the banker--got hold of some
of his secrets and blackmailed him till he blew his brains out--"
It was so exciting that I clean forgot the bishop, till a low gasp at my
elbow startled me. He was lying back in his chair, his mighty shaven
jowl a ghastly white, his fierce imperious eyebrows drooping limp over
his fishlike eyes, his splendid figure shrunk and contracted. He was
trying with a shaken hand to pour out wine. The decanter clattered
against the glass and the wine spilled on the cloth.
"I'm afraid you find the room too warm. Shall we go into the library?"
He rose hastily and followed me like a lamb.
He recovered himself once we got into the hall, and affably rejected all
my proffers of brandy and soda--medical advice--everything else my
limited experience could suggest. He only demanded his carriage
"directly" and that Miss Panton should be summoned forthwith.
I made the best use I could of the time left me.
"I'm uncommonly sorry you do not feel equal to staying a little longer,
my lord. I counted on showing you my few trifles of precious stones, the
salvage from the wreck of my possessions. Nothing in comparison with
your own collection."
The bishop clasped his hand over his heart. His breath came short and
quick.
"A return of that dizziness," he explained with a faint smile. "You are
thinking of the Valdez sapphire, are you not? Some day," he went on with
forced composure, "I may have the pleasure of showing it to you. It is
at my banker's just now."
Miss Panton's steps were heard in the hall. "You are well known as a
connoisseur, Mr. Acton," he went on hurriedly. "Is your collection
valuable? If so, _keep it safe; don' trust a ring off your hand, or the
key of your jewel-case out of your pocket till the house is clear
again_." The words rushed from his lips in an impetuous whisper, he gave
me a meaning glance, and departed with his daughter. I went back to the
drawing-room, my head swimming with bewilderment.
"What! The dear bishop gone!" screamed Lady Carwitchet from the central
ottoman where she sat, surrounded by most of the gentlemen, all
apparently well entertained by her conversation. "And I wanted to talk
over old times with him so badly. His poor wife was my greatest friend.
Mira Montanaro, daughter of the great banker, you know. It's not
possible that that miserable little prig is my poor Mira's girl. The
heiress of all the Montanaros in a black-lace gown worth twopence! When
I think of her mother's beauty and her toilets! Does she ever wear the
sapphires? Has anyone ever seen her in them? Eleven large stones in a
lovely antique setting, and the great Valdez sapphire--worth thousands
and thousands--for the pendant." No one replied. "I wanted to get a rise
out of the bishop to-night. It used to make him so mad when I wore
this."
She fumbled among the laces at her throat, and clawed out a pendant that
hung to a velvet band around her neck. I fairly gasped when she removed
her hand. A sapphire of irregular shape flashed out its blue lightning
on us. Such a stone! A true, rich, cornflower blue even by that wretched
artificial light, with soft velvety depths of colour and dazzling
clearness of tint in its lights and shades--a stone to remember! I
stretched out my hand involuntarily, but Lady Carwitchet drew back with
a coquettish squeal. "No! no! You mustn't look any closer. Tell me what
you think of it now. Isn't it pretty?"
"Superb!" was all I could ejaculate, staring at the azure splendour of
that miraculous jewel in a sort of trance.
She gave a shrill cackling laugh of mockery.
"The great Mr. Acton taken in by a bit of Palais Royal gimcrackery! What
an advertisement for Bogaerts et Cie! They are perfect artists in
frauds. Don't you remember their stand at the first Paris Exhibition?
They had imitations there of every celebrated stone; but I never
expected anything made by man could delude Mr. Acton, never!" And she
went off into another mocking cackle, and all the idiots round her
haw-hawed knowingly, as if they had seen the joke all along. I was too
bewildered to reply, which was on the whole lucky. "I suppose I musn't
tell why I came to give quite a big sum in francs for this?" she went
on, tapping her closed lips with her closed fan, and cocking her eye at
us all like a parrot wanting to be coaxed to talk. "It's a queer story."
I didn't want to hear her anecdote, especially as I saw she wanted to
tell it. What I _did_ want was to see that pendant again. She had thrust
it back among her laces, only the loop which held it to the velvet being
visible. It was set with three small sapphires, and even from a distance
I clearly made them out to be imitations, and poor ones. I felt a queer
thrill of self-mistrust. Was the large stone no better? Could I, even
for an instant, have been dazzled by a sham, and a sham of that quality?
The events of the evening had flurried and confused me. I wished to
think them over in quiet. I would go to bed.
My rooms at the Manor are the best in the house. Leta will have it so. I
must explain their position for a reason to be understood later. My
bedroom is in the southeast angle of the house; it opens on one side
into a sitting-room in the east corridor, the rest of which is taken up
by the suite of rooms occupied by Tom and Leta; and on the other side
into my bathroom, the first room in the south corridor where the
principal guest chambers are, to one of which it was originally the
dressing-room. Passing this room I noticed a couple of housemaids
preparing it for the night, and discovered with a shiver that Lady
Carwitchet was to be my next-door neighbour. It gave me a turn.
The bishop's strange warning must have unnerved me. I was perfectly safe
from her ladyship. The disused door into her room was locked, and the
key safe on the housekeeper's bunch. It was also undiscoverable on her
side, the recess in which it stood being completely filled by a large
wardrobe. On my side hung a thick sound-proof _portiere_. Nevertheless,
I resolved not to use that room while she inhabited the next one. I
removed my possessions, fastened the door of communication with my
bedroom and dragged a heavy ottoman across it.
Then I stowed away my emerald in my strong-box. It is built into the
wall of my sitting-room, and masked by the lower part of an old carved
oak bureau. I put away even the rings I wore habitually, keeping out
only an inferior cat's-eye for workaday wear. I had just made all safe
when Leta tapped at the door and came in to wish me good night. She
looked flushed and harassed and ready to cry. "Uncle Paul," she began,
"I want you to go up to town at once, and stay away till I send for
you."
"My dear--!" I was too amazed to expostulate.