His perplexing experience developed so insistent a curiosity in Tom
that he grew irritable even as he walked. That some sort of a game was
being worked he had no doubt; but the fact that he could see no object
or motive increased his wrath. He discarded all suggestion of violence,
though he was bound to admit now that anybody could be kidnapped in New
York in broad daylight.
He decided to begin by verifying those allusions and references that he
remembered. He walked down the Avenue to the Public Library and there he
read what he could of Apollonius and of Eligius, the marvelous goldsmith
who afterward became Saint Eloi. The helpful and polite library
assistant at length suggested a visit to Dr. Lentz, the gem expert
of Goffony & Company, a man of vast erudition as well as a practical
jeweler. Tom promptly betook himself to the famous jewel-shop.
They knew the heir of the seventy-five Merri-wether millions, and
impressively ushered him into Dr. Lentz's office. Tom shook hands with
the fat little man, whose wonderfully shaped head had on it no hair
worth speaking of, and handed him the pearl he had picked out from
the dozen the man in 777 Fifth Avenue had placed before him. Dr. Lentz
looked at it, weighed it in his hand, and, without waiting to be asked
any questions, answered what nearly everybody always asked him:
“Persian Gulf. About fifteen grains--perhaps a little more. We sell some
like it for about thirty-five hundred dollars.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, and put the pearl in his pocket.
If it was a joke it was expensive. If not, the other pearls the man had
shown, nearly all of which were larger, must have been worth from fifty
thousand to a hundred thousand dollars. Such is the power of money that
this young man, destined to be one of the richest men in the world
and, moreover, one who did not particularly think about money, was
nevertheless impressed by the stranger's careless handling of the
valuable pearls. He concluded subconsciously that the talisman was even
more valuable. He took the package from his coat pocket and gave it to
Dr. Lentz.
“Raw silk--Syrian,” murmured the gem expert, and undid the covering.
“Ha! Italo-Byzantine. The Raising of Tabitha. No! no!” He glared at
young Merriwether, who retreated a step. “Very rare! It's the Raising
of Jairus's Daughter. Same workmanship in similar specimen in the
Lipsanoteca, Museo Civico, Brescia. If so, not later than fourth
century. Very rare! H'm!”
“Is it?” said Tom. “I don't know much about ivories.”
“No? Read Molinier! Græven!”
“Thank you. I will, Dr. Lentz.”
Dr. Lentz opened the little ivory box and pulled out the silver case.
“Ha! H'm! Not so rare! Asia Minor. Probably eighth century.”
“B C?”
“Certainly not. Key? H'm!”
“Haven't got it here,” evaded Tom.
The little savant turned to his secretary and said, “Bring drawer marked
forty-four, inner compartment, antique-gem safe.”
He was examining the little box, nodding his head, and muttering, “H'm!
H'm!” Tom felt the ground slipping away from under the feet of his
suspicions even while his perplexity waxed monumental. And with it came
the satisfaction of a man convincing himself that he is neither wasting
his time nor making himself ridiculous.
The clerk returned with a little drawer in which Tom saw about a hundred
and fifty keys.
“Replicas! Originals in museums of world!” explained Lentz. “H'm!” He
turned the keys over with, a selective forefinger. “It's that one or
this one.” And he picked out two. “Probably this! Damascus! Eighth
century. Byzantine influence still strong. See that? And that? And that?
H'm!” He inserted the little key and opened the casket. He saw the gold
box within. “Ha! H'm! Thracian! How did you get this? H'm!” He
raised his head, looked at Tom fiercely, and then said, coldly, “Mr.
Merriwether, this has been stolen from the British Museum!”
It beautifully complicated matters. Tom's heart beat faster with
interest.
“Are you sure?” he asked, being a Merriwether. “Wait! H'm!” He lifted
it out and examined the back. “No! No! Thracian! Of the Bisaltæ! Time of
Lysimachus! But--Well! Aryan symbolism! Possibly taken to India by one
of Alexander's captains--perhaps Lysimachus himself! And--Oh! Oh, early
Christians! Oh, early damned fools! See that? Smoothed away to put
that--Oh, beasts! Heritics in art! Curious! Do you know the incantation
to use before opening?”
“It was in Greek, and--”
“Of course!”
“Yes. He said this had belonged to Apollonius of Tyana.”
“How much does he ask?”
“It is not for sale.”
“Inside is a pentagram?”
“No; a cross, with seven emeralds as big as that, all flawless.”'
“There are only two such emeralds in the world without flaws and we have
one of them. The other is owned by the Archbishop of Bogota, Colombia.”
“He said these were flawless and that he has proofs. He says Eligius
studied this--”
“Mr. Merriwether, you have on your hands either a very dangerous
impostor or else--H'm! He must be an impostor! How much does he want?”
“It is not for sale!”
“H'm! Worse and worse! If I can be of use let me know! They'll fool us
all! All! Good day!” And Dr. Lentz walked away, leaving Tom more puzzled
than ever, but now determined to go to 7 East Seventy-seventh Street at
eight o'clock that night.
He went home and wrote an account of what had happened, placed it in an
envelope, sealed the envelope, and gave it to his valet.
“If you don't hear from me by ten o'clock tonight give this to my
father; but don't give it to him one minute before ten. And you stay in
until you hear from me.”
“Very good, sir.”
He then went to the club, ordered an early dinner for two, and invited
his friend Huntington Andrews to go with him. He did not go into
details.
Shortly before eight he stationed Andrews across the way from 7 East
Seventy-seventh Street and told him:
“If I am not back here at eight-fifteen come in after me. If you don't
find me go to my house and wait until ten. My man has instructions. See
my father.”
Tom was Merriwether enough to have in readiness not only an extra
revolver to give to his friend, but also a heavy cane and an electric
torch. Also he drove Huntington to within a hair's-breadth of death by
unsatisfied curiosity.
At one minute before eight Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether went into the
house of mystery, realizing for the first time how often the mystic
number seven recurred. The Bible teemed with allusions to the seven
stars, the seven seals, the seven-branched candlestick, the seven
mortal sins. The Greeks had Seven Wise Men and Seven Sleepers, and the
Pythagoreans saw magic in all the heptamerides. And there were seven
notes of music and seven primary colors, and seven hills in the Eternal
City. Also, it had never before occurred to him that he was born on the
seventh day of the seventh month. And now it had its effect.
He tried the door. It opened when he turned the knob. The hall was dark,
but he could descry the staircase. He grasped his revolver firmly and
entered.
There was a smell of undusted floors and unaired walls. The darkness
thickened with each step as he climbed, compelling him to grope. And
because he groped there came to him that fear which always comes with
uncertainty. It permeated his soul and was intensified, without becoming
more concrete, by reason of the ghostly emptiness peculiar to all
unoccupied houses. The absence of furniture served merely to fill the
comers with shadows that bred uneasiness. People had been there; people
no longer were! The house was empty of humanity, but full of other
beings--impalpable suspects that made the flesh creep! It was like
death--unseen, but felt with the senses of the soul.
There was no place, decided Tom, so fit to murder people in as an empty
house. His adventure now took on an aspect of reckless folly. But though
he felt in this ghostly house what might be called the ghost of fear, he
also felt the impelling force of an intelligent curiosity. In this young
man's soul was a love of adventure, a gambler's philosophy, a reserve
force of cold intelligence and warm imagination such as is found in the
great explorers, the great chemists, and the great buccaneers of dollars.
That was why in the year of grace 1913 Tom Merriwether stood in the
middle of the second-story front room of a house situated in a very
good street, only three doors from Fifth Avenue, with his left hand
outstretched, and on the open palm of it a cross with a Greek name that
meant Dispeller of Darkness--in a darkness that could not be dispelled.
His right hand grasped the butt of an automatic.45 loaded with
elephant-stopping bullets--but of what avail was that against a knock in
the head from behind?
Listening for soft footsteps, he seemed to hear them time and again--and
time and again not to hear them! People nowadays, he finally decided,
do not want to take other people's lives--only their money. Whereupon he
once more grew calm--and intensely curious! He had not one cent of money
on his person. He had left it at home intentionally.
Presently he thought he heard sounds--faint musical murmurings in
the air about him, low wailings of violins, scarcely more than Æolian
harpings, and pipings as of tiny flutes--almost indistinguishable. Then
a delicate swish-swish, as of silken garments. Also, there came to him a
subtle fragrance that turned first into an odorous sigh and then into
a summer breath of sweet peas; and he imagined--he must have
imagined--hearing, “I do love you!” ah, so softly!
He smelled now the odor of sweet peas, which stirred sleeping memories
without fully awakening them, as all flower odors do by what the
psychologists call association. He heard, “I do love you!”--and then the
Dispeller of Darkness was taken from his outstretched hand.
He stood there, his muscles tense, braced for a shock, ready for a life
struggle, perhaps half a minute before the sound of footsteps retreating
in the hall outside recalled to him his instructions. He vehemently
desired to follow and see who it was that had taken the Dispeller of
Darkness; but he had pledged his word not to. He hesitated.
The odor of sweet peas was flooding him as with waves. And he heard, “I
do love you!”--heard it again and again with the inner ear of his soul,
the listener of delights. He thrilled at the thought of being loved. It
made him incredibly happy. He felt unbelievably young!
Suddenly it occurred to him that he had not counted a hundred as he had
promised, though he must have spent more than a minute wool-gathering.
He counted a hundred as fast as he could and then hastened from the
room. It was plain that Tom Merriwether was already doing incredible
things or, at least, failing to do the obvious. Great is the power of
suggestion on an imaginative mind!
He flashed his electric torch. He was in a bare room with a dusty
hardwood floor, ivory-tinted wainscoting, and a Colonial mantel. The
hall was empty.
He walked down the stairs, his steps raising disquieting echoes and
creepy creakings.
Mindful of his waiting friend outside, he quickly walked out of the
gloom into which he had carried the Dispeller of Darkness of Apollonius
of Tyana, the cross of the seven emeralds. Huntington Andrews saw him
coming and crossed over to meet him.
“How did you make out, Tom?”
“I'm a damned fool, Huntington; and so are you! And so is everybody!”
“Right-O!” agreed Andrews, who was inveterately amiable and, moreover,
loved Tom.
“It's the most diabolical--” Tom paused.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Huntington Andrews, so obviously anxious to dispel
his friend's ill temper that Tom laughed and said, cheerfully:
“Come on, me brave bucko!” And together they walked to the corner and
then down the Avenue to 777.
“Huntington, you wait here; and if I am not back by nine-forty-five go
to my house. At ten o'clock have my valet deliver the letter I gave him
for my father. You can be of help to the governor if you will.”
And Huntington Andrews asked no questions--he was a friend.
Tom rang the bell of 777. The door opened. One of the four
over-intelligent-looking footmen stepped to one side respectfully.
“Is your--” began Tom.
“Yes, Mr. Merriwether,” answered the man, with a deference such as only
royalty elicits.
He then delivered Tom to footman number two, who in turn escorted him
as far as number three; then number four led him to the door of the
master's library. The footman knocked, opened the door and announced,
with a curious solemnity:
“Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether, 7-7-77.”
The strange man was there in his arm-chair, his back to the window. The
room was lit by candles. The man rose and said, respectfully:
“I thank you, Mr. Merriwether.”
“Don't mention it,” said Tom, amiably.
The man bowed his head and looked at Tom meditatively. Tom was the first
to break the silence.
“May I ask what--” Tom began, but was checked by the other, who held up
his right hand with the gesture of a traffic policeman and said, slowly:
“A message in the dark! You carried one to another soul, who waited for
it. And that other soul is taking one to you. Some day you will meet
her. You will marry her. There is no doubt whatever of that. None! Ask
me no questions, Mr. Merriwether. I ask nothing of you--no money, no
time, no services, no work, no favors--nothing! Your fate is not in my
hands. It never was! You will follow your destiny. It will take you by
the hand and lead you to her!”
“That is very nice of destiny.”
“My young friend, you are very rich, very powerful. You can do
everything. You fear nothing. This is the year nineteen hundred and
thirteen. But I tell you this: the woman who will be your wife, in this
world and throughout eternity has received your message. It was ordained
from the beginning. You have not seen her; you have not heard her; you
have not touched her. And yet you will know her when you see her and
when you hear her and when you feel her. Into the darkness you went. Out
of the darkness she will come. Nothing you can do can change it. Improve
your hours by thinking of her. Think of the love you have to give her!
Think of it constantly! Of your love! Yours! Of hers you cannot guess.
The love you will give will make her your mate! Your love! And so,
Thomas Thome Merriwether, think of the One Woman!”
“I think--”
“I know! Amusement, sneers, skepticism, anger--all are one to me. I
ask nothing, expect nothing, desire nothing, and fear nothing from you,
young sir. A queer experience this--eh? An unexplained and apparently
unconcluded little game? A plot foiled by your cleverness--what? A joke?
A piece of lunacy? Call it anything you wish. Again I thank you. Good
evening, Mr. Merriwether.”
And Tom was politely ushered from the room by the strange man and from
the house by the four over-intelligent footmen.