"AND NOW TELL ME!"
Scranton closed the journal, leaned back in his chair and looked
questioningly at Milton Rhodes.
"There you are!" he said. "I told you that I was bringing you a
mystery, and I trust that I have, at least in a great measure, met your
expectations."
There was silence for a moment.
"Hellish mountain!" said Rhodes. "Hellish mountain! Noble old Rainier a
hellish mountain!
"Pardon my soliloquy," he added suddenly, "And I want to thank you, Mr.
Scranton, for bringing me a problem that, unless I am greatly in error,
promises to be one of extraordinary scientific interest."
Extraordinary scientific interest! What on earth did he mean by that?
"Still," he subjoined, "I must confess that there are some things about
it that are very perplexing, and more than perplexing."
"I think I know what you mean. And that explains why the story has been
kept a secret all these years."
"Your grandfather, Mr. Scranton, seems to have been a well-educated
man."
"Yes; he was."
Milton Rhodes' pause was a significant one, but Scranton did not
enlighten him further.
"On his return from Old He, did he tell just what had happened up
there?"
"He did not, of course, care to tell everything, Mr. Rhodes, for fear
he would not be believed. And little wonder. He was cautious, very
guarded in his story; but, at that, not a single soul believed him.
Perhaps, indeed, his very fear of distrust and suspicion and his
consequent caution and vagueness, hastened and enhanced those dark
and sinister thoughts and suspicions of his neighbors, and, indeed,
of every one else who heard the story. There was talk of insanity, of
murder even. This was the cruelest wound of all, and my grandfather
carried the scar of it to his grave."
"Probably it would have been better," said Rhodes, "had he given them
the whole of the story, down to the minutest detail."
"I do not see how. When they did not believe the little that he did
tell, how on earth could they have believed the wild, the fantastic,
the horrible thing itself?"
"Well, you may be right, Mr. Scranton. And here is a strange thing,
too. It is inexplicable, a mystery indeed. For many years now,
thousands of sightseers have every summer visited the mountain--this
mountain that your grandfather found so mysterious, so hellish--and yet
nothing has ever happened."
"That is true, Mr. Rhodes."
"They have found Rainier," said Milton Rhodes, "beautiful, majestic,
a sight to delight the hearts of the gods; but no man has ever found
anything having even the remotest resemblance to what your grandfather
saw--has ever even found strange footprints in the snow. I ask you:
where has the mystery been hiding all these years?"
"That is a question I shall not try to answer, Mr. Rhodes. It is my
belief, however, that the mystery has never been _hiding_--using the
word, that is, in its literal signification."
"Of course," Milton said. "But you know what I mean."
The other nodded.
"And now, Mr. Rhodes, I am going to tell you why I this day so suddenly
found myself so anxious to come to you and give you this story."
Milton Rhodes leaned forward, and the look which he fixed on the face
of Scranton was eager and keen.
"I believe, Mr. Rhodes, I at one point said enough to give you an idea
of what--"
"Yes, yes!" Milton interrupted. "And now tell me!"
"The angel," said Scranton, "has come again!"
"Alone?"
"No; the demon is with her."