WHAT THE BUDDHA SAID.
The Buddha was a work that would have attracted special attention in any
collection. If it had been in a public museum, there is no doubt there
would have been a crowd in front of it most of the time.
It was on a dais of its own, a giant statue of a squatting Buddha,
wrought in hammered brass, with an enormous sapphire in the middle of
its great forehead. The sapphire alone must have been worth an immense
sum, just as a jewel.
The figure reached almost from floor to ceiling, so that the sapphire
was very high. If one wished to look at the jewel at close range--and
most persons who entered this room did want to do so--he had to climb a
small stepladder which stood conveniently at one side. Nick saw the girl
looking at this ladder, and he was about to make his presence known so
that he could move it for her, when she carried it over herself to the
front of the image and placed it firmly for use.
“No timidity about that girl,” thought the detective. “Ched Ramar
needn’t get that idea into his head.”
Unlike most statues of Buddha, the eyes of this one were not closed.
They were merely skillfully made openings, which, in the gloom of the
room, might easily be imagined to have cruel, shifty eyes in their
depths.
“I must go up and look at that sapphire,” the girl said aloud. “I never
saw such a magnificent jewel in my life before. I have heard that they
have precious stones in India that are never equaled anywhere else, and
I can believe that now. What a heavenly blue! Yet I wish those eyes
weren’t there. Pshaw! They are only holes! I believe I am a coward,
after all.”
This thought seemed to put courage into her, for she had her foot on the
bottom step of the ladder even as she spoke. She did not go up at once,
however. Standing at the bottom of the ladder, with one foot on the
step, she looked up at the face of the idol in a reverie that was half
fascination and half repulsion.
“I’ve got to go up and look at that sapphire!” she breathed at last.
“Besides, I want to look at its face close. I feel as if I must.”
With her hands out to steady herself, so that they touched the knees of
the great figure, she went slowly upward, hesitating at each step. She
could not have told why she went up so slowly and uncertainly. It seemed
as if there were a power greater than her own controlling her movements.
It seemed to Nick as if the blue light of the sapphire changed to a
horrible green as the girl drew her face level with the great brass
visage of the statue.
“Pshaw!” he murmured. “It was only the shadow of her head. But in such a
place as this one might imagine anything.”
Up a little higher she went, and, as one hand hung rigidly at her side,
the other rested on the shoulder of the god. It was an incongruous
picture they made--the beautiful young American girl seemingly
exchanging confidences with this grotesque representation of a deity
coming down through countless ages.
Suddenly a hollow voice seemed to fill the room. It came from the
sneering, parted lips of the image. There could be no doubt of that. The
detective involuntarily tried to get a little nearer, to catch what the
words were.
Clarice was gazing intently into the eye sockets of the idol. She
saw--what was not visible to Carter where he stood--two staring eyes
that were _alive_!
“You will obey--obey--obey!”
The voice sounded like the distant murmur of rushing waters. It was
rather that of some strange, unearthly being than of anything human.
“I will obey,” replied the girl, in a dull monotone.
To Nick it sounded as if she were talking in her sleep, but she never
relaxed her hold on the brazen shoulder, and she stood perfectly upright
on the stepladder.
“It is well,” went on the mysterious voice. “You know what to do. Follow
the instructions that will come to you later.”
“How am I to know?” she gasped.
“Listen! Bring your face close to my lips. What I have to tell is for
you alone.”
Nick Carter thought he heard her utter a low cry of terror and protest.
But immediately afterward she pressed her beautiful, warm cheek against
the brazen mouth of the image, and Nick saw in her eyes that she was not
cognizant of anything save the message that had already begun to come to
her.
The detective made an impulsive step forward. Should he dash up the
steps, drag the girl away, and see for himself what this strange scene
meant?
He knew that the whole contrivance was some fiendish trick. But who had
arranged it, and why, was beyond him. Ched Ramar was a man of high
standing in the scientific world--even though he had not been long known
in New York. It was inconceivable that he could have any evil purpose in
all this. And yet--what was it all about?
If it was an experiment of some kind, to prove a scientific or psychic
theory, then certainly this East Indian must not be allowed to work it
out with the aid of this innocent young girl. Still, it was not for him,
Nick Carter, to interfere, until he knew. All he could do was to watch,
and be ready to give help if it should be needed. He kept still and
waited.
For two or three minutes the girl stood there, while a low murmur
reached Nick’s ears, telling him that the image--or somebody inside
it--was talking to Clarice Bentham.
At last she moved back, and again came the distinct words: “You will
obey!”
“I will obey,” she replied.
“It is well. Before you leave this house, a small gold image of myself
will be placed in your hands. Each afternoon, at six o’clock, you will
look into its eyes. As you do so, you will be subject to my will. It
will be my eyes you will see there.”
“Bunk!” muttered Nick Carter.
“If I have any orders for you,” continued the voice, “you will hear my
suggestions, for at that very moment I shall be sending mental messages.
If I have none for you, you will put the image away--until the next
afternoon. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“That is all. You will forget all about this--that you have looked into
my eyes and heard my voice. You will not remember how long you have been
standing up here, and you will not recall anything when the small image
is given to you. Now! Awake!”
Clarice’s right hand passed over her eyes, and she stared at the idol
curiously. Then she looked around, and Nick Carter saw that her gaze was
normal. She seemed to be quite her usual self. He stepped forward and
spoke to her.
“Taking a close view of that statue, Miss Bentham?”
“Yes, Doctor Hodgson! It is a wonderful piece of work, isn’t it? And no
one can tell how old it is. That sapphire in its forehead attracted me,
and I felt as if I must look at it from the ladder. You have to allow
for feminine curiosity, you know,” she laughed.
“Masculine curiosity would impel me to go up there,” returned Nick,
with a smile. “Indeed, it was curiosity of that kind that brought me
into this room just this moment. I found the elevator, and I was bold
enough to make use of it. I am glad I was, for I should not like to have
missed this room. Ched Ramar has a wonderful house.”
Nick made this remark about only just having come up because he did not
know who might be listening. If a man could get inside that statue and
pretend the statue itself was speaking, it was quite possible that he
was now hiding somewhere else within hearing.
The girl came down the steps, and Carter had placed his foot on the
bottom one, intending to go up, to look into the cavernous depths of the
eye sockets himself, when the curtains in front of the elevator parted,
and Ched Ramar came into the room. He brought with him Matthew Bentham
and Mrs. Morrison.
The latter ran forward as she saw Clarice. Then she stopped abruptly, as
her gaze fell upon the immense brass statue.
“Mercy! What an awful-looking thing! It’s an idol, isn’t it? I was
wondering where you’d gone, Clarice. So was your father. How did you
find your way up here alone?”
“She did not come alone,” broke in Ched Ramar, smiling gravely. “I led
her up here. Then I left her for a moment to bring you and Mr. Bentham.
I was going to ask Doctor Hodgson, too, but he anticipated me, I see,”
he added, with a bow to Nick Carter.
“I have just come up,” responded Nick. “This Buddha is worth seeing, and
I’m glad I found my way here.”
“Yes,” was Ched Ramar’s reply. “This is an extremely ancient image of
the god. It was captured during a Tartar raid many centuries ago. It is
reputed to possess marvelous occult powers. I would not dare to deny
that that is untrue. The sapphire in its forehead is, I believe, one of
the finest specimens in existence.”
“Aren’t you afraid the sapphire may be stolen?” asked Mrs. Morrison,
fascinated by the blazing beauty of the jewel. “I should think a thief
would risk a great deal to get it.”
Ched Ramar smiled significantly.
“Any thief who thinks he can get it, is welcome to try,” he said, with
great confidence. “This Buddha is able to take care of itself and of
everything it possesses. You remember what I said just now--that it is
supposed to be endowed with strange powers. But let me show you
something else. I am rather proud of this room. It contains the finest
specimens in my collection of antiques.”
He went to a table in a distant corner, and came back, carrying a very
small gold idol in his long fingers. The image was exquisitely wrought,
and so much soul had the artist put into his work that, from certain
angles, the diminutive god seemed actually to be alive.
“What a beautiful thing!” ejaculated Clarice, as she bent nearer to the
idol. “And what wonderful eyes!”
There were eyes in the sockets, and they seemed to goggle and stare as
one looked into the gold face. Everybody examined the image separately,
as it was passed from hand to hand, but it was only Nick Carter who
noted that the colored iris of each eye was an exact duplicate, in tone
and shape, of those belonging to the grave East Indian student who
called himself Ched Ramar.
Clarice, more than any of the others, seemed to be taken with the
beauty of the golden idol. She stood, holding it in her hands and gazing
in silent admiration, as if she were fascinated.
“Miss Bentham seems to like my poor specimen. Will she honor me by
accepting it?”
“Why, I--I--don’t think I should,” she protested, making as if she would
put it down. “It is too valuable. It would be too much. I really
couldn’t take such a priceless----”
“What’s that?” asked Mrs. Morrison, turning from some other images she
had been looking at on a table near her. “What did you say, Clarice?”
“Professor Ched Ramar has asked me to accept this exquisite gold idol,
aunt. I couldn’t--could I?”
“No, I think not, dear,” returned Mrs. Morrison. “It is such a wonderful
and costly thing, that----”
“It pains me that you decline,” murmured Ched Ramar. “If I have
offended, I am sorry--deeply sorry. But my excuse must be that it is a
custom of my country to offer trifling gifts like this to ladies who
seem to admire them. You understand, I hope?”
Mrs. Morrison looked from the tall, dark Indian to her niece, and seemed
to make up her mind with a jerk.
“Yes, I think I understand,” she answered. “Of course, if it is the
Indian custom, that makes a difference.” Then, turning to Clarice, she
went on: “I think you may accept it, Clarice. And, I may add, that it is
an opportunity which does not often come to a girl.”
Ched Ramar put the idol in Clarice’s hands, and she held it before her
with an expression of rapturous delight in her fair face.
“How can I thank you?” she murmured.
“Oh, it is nothing,” declared Ched Ramar, putting up his hands with a
protesting gesture. “Let us go down again. There are some pieces of
jade--vases--that I don’t think I have shown you, and that I should feel
honored if you and Mrs. Morrison would take with you as mementos of this
evening.”
When, half an hour later, the party left the house, the two ladies had
the magnificently carved jade vases to which Ched Ramar had referred.
But Clarice held clasped to her bosom, as if she feared she might lose
it, the gold idol that seemed to have been merely an uncontemplated
gift, but which Nick Carter remembered had been promised to her by the
strange voice from the lips of the gigantic Buddha.
“I wonder just how far thought transference and hypnotism really can
go?” he said, as he entered his library and lighted a cigar, an hour or
so afterward.