CHAPTER XIII

_The Torture_

"Haljan! Yield or I'll fire! Moa, give me the smaller one. This

cursed--"

He had in his hand too large a projector. Its ray would kill me. If he

wanted to take me alive, he would not fire. I chanced it.

"No!"

I tried to draw myself beneath the window. An automatic bullet projector

was on the floor where Carter had dropped it. I pulled myself down.

Miko did not fire. I reached the revolver. The dead bodies of the

captain and purser had drifted together on the floor in the center of

the room.

I hitched myself back to the window. With upraised weapon I gazed

cautiously out. Miko had disappeared. The deck within my line of vision

was empty.

But was it? Something told me to beware. I clung to the casement, ready

upon the instant to shove myself down. There was a movement in a shadow

along the deck. Then a figure rose up.

"Don't fire, Haljan!"

The sharp command, half appeal, stopped the pressure of my finger on the

trigger of the automatic. It was the tall lanky Englishman, Sir Arthur

Coniston, as he called himself. So he too was one of Miko's band! The

light through a dome-window fell full on him.

"If you fire, Haljan, and kill me--Miko will kill you then, surely."

From where he had been crouching he could not command my window. But

now, upon the heels of his placating words, he abruptly shot. The

low-powered ray, had it struck, would have felled me without killing.

But it went over my head as I dropped. Its aura made my senses reel.

Coniston shouted, "Haljan!"

* * * * *

I did not answer. I wondered if he would dare approach to see if I had

been hit. A minute passed. Then another. I thought I heard Miko's voice

on the deck outside. But it was an aerial, microscopic whisper close

beside me.

"We see you, Haljan! You must yield!"

Their eavesdropping vibrations, with audible projection, were upon me. I

retorted aloud.

"Come and get me! You cannot take me alive."

I do protest if this action of mine in the chart-room may seem bravado.

I had no wish to die. There was within me a very healthy desire for

life. But I felt, by holding out, that some chance might come wherewith

I might turn events against these brigands. Yet reason told me it was

hopeless. Our loyal members of the crew were killed, no doubt. Captain

Carter and Balch were killed. The lookouts and Course-masters also. And

Blackstone.

There remained only Dr. Frank and Snap. Their fate I did not yet know.

And there was George Prince. He, perhaps, would help me if he could.

But, at best, he was a dubious ally.

"You are very foolish, Haljan," murmured the projection of Miko's voice.

And then I heard Coniston:

"See here, why would not a hundred pounds of gold-leaf tempt you? The

code-words which were taken from Johnson--I mean to say, why not tell us

where they are?"

So that was one of the brigands new difficulties! Snap had taken the

code-word sheet, that time we sealed the purser in the cage.

I said, "You'll never find them. And when a police ship sights us, what

will you do then?"

The chances of a police ship were slim indeed, but the brigands

evidently did not know that. I wondered again what had become of Snap.

Was he captured--or still holding them off?

I was watching my windows; for at any moment, under cover of this talk,

I might be assailed.

* * * * *

Gravity came suddenly to the room. Miko's voice said. "We mean well by

you, Haljan. There is your normality. Join us. We need you to chart our

course."

"And a hundred pounds of gold-leaf," urged Coniston. "Or more. Why, this

treasure--"

I could hear an oath from Miko. And then his ironic voice: "We will not

bother you, Haljan. There is no hurry. You will be hungry in good time.

And sleepy. Then we will come and get you. And a little acid will make

you think differently about helping us...."

His vibrations died away. The pull of gravity in the room was normal. I

was alone in the dim silence, with the bodies of Carter and Johnson

lying huddled on the grid. I bent to examine them. Both were dead.

My isolation was no ruse this time. The outlaws made no further attack.

Half an hour passed. The deck outside, what I could see of it, was

vacant. Balch lay dead close outside the chart-room door. The bodies of

Blackstone and the Course-master had been removed from the turret

window. A forward lookout--one of Miko's men--was on duty in the nearby

tower. Hahn was at the turret controls. The ship was under orderly

handling, heading back upon a new course. For the Earth? Or the Moon? It

did not seem so.

I found, in the chart-room, a Benson curve-light projector which poor

Captain Carter had very nearly assembled. I worked on it, trained it

through my rear window, along the empty deck; bent it into the lounge

archway. Upon my grid the image of the lounge interior presently

focused. The passengers in the lounge were huddled in a group.

Disheveled, frightened, with Moa standing watching them. Stewards were

serving them with a meal.

* * * * *

Upon a bench, bodies were lying. Some were dead. I saw Rance Rankin.

Others were evidently only injured. Dr. Frank was moving among them,

attending them. Venza was there, unharmed. And I saw the gamblers, Shac

and Dud, sitting white-faced, whispering together. And Glutz's little

be-ribboned, be-curled figure on a stool.

George Prince was there, standing against the walls shrouded in his

mourning cloak, watching the scene with alert, roving eyes. And by the

opposite doorway, the huge towering figure of Miko stood on guard. But

Snap was missing.

A brief glimpse. Miko saw my Benson-light. I could have equipped a

heat-ray, and fired along the curved Benson-light into that lounge. But

Miko gave me no time.

He slid the lounge door closed, and Moa leaped to close the one on my

side. My light was cut off; my grid showed only the blank deck and

door.

Another interval. I had made plans. Futile plans! I could get into the

turret perhaps, and kill Hahn. I had the invisible cloak which Johnson

was wearing. I took it from his body. Its mechanism could be repaired.

Why, with it I could creep about the ship, kill these brigands one by

one perhaps. George Prince would be with me. The brigands who had been

posing as the stewards and crew-members were unable to navigate; they

would obey my orders. There were only Miko, Coniston and Hahn to kill.

Futile plans! From my window I could gaze up to the helio-room. And now

abruptly I heard Snap's voice:

"No! I tell you--no!"

And Miko: "Very well. We will try this."

So Snap was captured, but not killed. Relief swept me. He was in the

helio-room, and Miko was with him. But my relief was short-lived.

* * * * *

After a brief interval there came a moan from Snap. It floated down from

the silence overhead. It made me shudder.

My Benson-beam shot into the helio window. It showed me Snap lying there

on the floor. He was bound with wire. His torso had been stripped. His

livid face was ghastly plain in my light.

Miko was bending over him. Miko with a heat-cylinder no longer than a

finger. Its needle-beam played upon Snap's naked chest. I could see the

gruesome little trail of smoke rising; and as Snap twisted and jerked,

there on his flesh was the red and blistered trail of the violet-hot

ray.

"Now will you tell?"

"No!"

Miko laughed. "No? Then I shall write my name a little deeper...."

A black scar now--a trail etched in the quivering flesh.

"Oh!--" Snap's face went white as chalk as he pressed his lips

together.

"Or a little acid? This fire-writing does not really hurt? Tell me what

you did with those code-words!"

"No!"

In his absorption Miko did not notice my light. Nor did I have the wit

to try and fire along it. I was trembling. Snap under torture!

As the beam went deeper, Snap suddenly screamed. But he ended, "No! I

will send--no message for you--"

It had been only a moment. In the chart-room window beside me again a

figure appeared! No image. A solid, living person, undisguised by any

cloak of invisibility. George Prince had chanced my fire and had crept

up upon me.

"Haljan! Don't attack me."

* * * * *

I dropped my light connections. As impulsively I stood up, I saw through

the window the figure of Coniston on the deck watching the result of

Prince's venture.

"Haljan--yield."

Prince no more than whispered it. He stood outside on the deck; the low

window casement touched his waist. He leaned over it.

"He's torturing Snap! Call out that you will yield."

The thought had already been in my mind. Another scream from Snap

chilled me with horror. I shouted,

"Miko! Stop!"

I rushed to the window and Prince gripped me.

"Louder!"

I called louder. "_Miko!_ Stop!" My upflung voice mingled with Snap's

agony of protest. Then Miko heard me. His head and shoulders showed up

there at the helio-room oval.

"You, Haljan?"

Prince shouted, "I have made him yield. He will obey you if you stop

that torture."

I think that poor Snap must have fainted. He was silent. I called,

"Stop! I will do what you command."

Miko jeered, "That is good. A bargain, if you and Dean obey me. Disarm

him, Prince, and bring him out."

* * * * *

Miko moved back into the helio-room. On the deck Coniston was advancing,

but cautiously, mistrustful of me.

"Gregg."

George Prince flung a leg over the casement and leaped lightly into the

dim chart-room. His small slender figure stood beside me, clung to me.

"Gregg."

A moment, while we stood there together. No ray was upon us. Coniston

could not see us, nor could he hear our whispers.

"Gregg."

A different voice; its throaty, husky quality gone. A soft pleading.

"Gregg--

"Gregg, don't you know me? Gregg, dear...."

Why, what was this? Not George Prince? A masquerader, yet so like George

Prince.

"Gregg, don't you know me?"

Clinging to me. A soft touch upon my arm. Fingers, clinging. A surge of

warm, tingling current was flowing between us.

My sweep of instant thoughts. A speck of human Earth-dust, falling free.

That was George Prince, who had been killed. George Prince's body,

disguised by the scheming Carter and Dr. Frank, buried in the guise of

his sister. And this black-robed figure who was trying to help us--

"Anita! Dear God! Anita, darling! Anita!"

"Gregg, dear one!"

"Anita! Dear God!"

* * * * *

My arms went around her, my lips pressed hers, and felt her tremulous,

eager answer.

"Gregg, dear."

"Anita, you!"

The form of Coniston showed at our window. She cast me off. She said,

with her throaty swagger of assumed masculinity:

"I have him, Sir Arthur. He will obey us."

I sensed her warning glance. She shoved me toward the window. She said

ironically, "Have no fear, Haljan. You will not be tortured, you and

Dean, if you obey our commands."

Coniston gripped me. "You fool! You caused us a lot of trouble, didn't

you? Move along there!"

He jerked me roughly through the window. Marched me the length of the

deck. Out to the stern-space; opened the door of my cubby; flung me in

and sealed the door upon me.

"Miko will come presently."

I stood in the darkness of my tiny room, listening to his retreating

footsteps. But my mind was not on him....

All the Universe in that instant had changed for me. Anita was alive!

(_To be continued_)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] As early as 1910 it was discovered that an object magnetized under

certain conditions was subject to a loss of weight, its gravity

partially nullified. The Martel discovery undoubtedly followed

that method.

[2] "United States of the World," which came into being in 2057 upon the

centenary of the Yellow War.

[3] Trinight Hour, i.e., 3 A. M.

[4] Pressure sickness. Caused by the difficulty of maintaining a

constantly normal air pressure within the vessel owing to the

sudden, extreme changes from heat to cold.

[5] "Set and Setta," the Martian equivalent of Mr. and Miss.

[6] A Venus form of jocular, intimate greeting.

* * * * *

_REMEMBER_

ASTOUNDING STORIES

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* * * * *

_In the Next Issue_

MONSTERS of MOYEN

_A Complete Novelet of a Half-God Half-Beast's Extraordinary Attempt

to Dominate the Earth_

_By_ Arthur J. Burks

_A Large Instalment of_

BRIGANDS of the MOON

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_By_ Ray Cummings

The RAY of MADNESS

_The Account of Another of Dr. Bird's Amazing Exploits_

_By_ Captain S. P. Meek

--_And Many Other Stories by Your Favorite Authors!_

* * * * *

The Soul Master

_By Will Smith and R. J. Robbins_

Desperately O'Hara plunged into Prof. Kell's mysterious mansion.

For his friend Skip was the victim of the eccentric scientist's

de-astralizing experiment, and faced a fate more hideous than

death.

[Illustration: _A terrific force was emanating from that devilish globe

above._]

The train was slowing down for Keegan. A whistle from the locomotive

ahead had warned the two alert young men in the smoker to that effect,

and they arose to leave the train. Both were neatly and quietly dressed.

One carried a medium-sized camera with the necessary tripod and

accessory satchel. The other carried no impediments of any sort. Both

were smoking cigars, evidently not of expensive variety, judging by the

unaromatic atmosphere thereabouts.

"Can't see what Bland shipped us up to this one-horse dump for,"

grumbled Skip Handlon, the one who carried the camera. He was the

slighter of the two and perhaps half a head shorter than the other. "Do

you know anything about it?"

"Not much," confessed the other as they alighted from the smoker. "All I

can tell you is that Bland sent for me early this morning, told me to

get a story out of this Professor Kell and to drag you along. After we

get there you are to do as judgment dictates. But I remember that the

Chief was specific as regards one thing. You are to get the proff's mug.

Don't forget. The old fellow may growl and show fight, but it's up to

you to deliver the goods--or, in this case, get them. Don't depend on me

for help. I expect to have troubles of my own." Thus gloomed Horace

Perry, star reporter for the Journal.

"This Keegan place"--Handlon was using his eyes swiftly and

comprehensively--"isn't worth much. Can't see how it manages to even

rate a name. Some dump, all right!"

"You said a couple mouthfuls."

"How's the train service, if any?"

"Rotten. Two trains a day." The other was anything but enthusiastic.

"We've a nice long wait for the next one, you can bet. Now, just add to

that a rough reception after we reach the old lion's lair and you get a

nice idea of what Bland expects from his men."

* * * * *

Handlon made a wry face at this. "The bird who first applied the words

'Hard Boiled' to the Chief's monniker knew something."

"You don't know the half of it," retorted Perry encouragingly. "Just

wait and see what a beaut of a fit he can throw for _your_ benefit if

you fail to do your stuff--and I don't mean maybe."

Old Man Bland owned the Journal, hired and fired his crew and did his

own editing, with the help of as capable an office gang as could be

gotten together. It is quite possible that "Hard Boiled" Bland demanded

more from his men than any other editor ever has before or since.

Nevertheless he got results, and none of his experienced underlings ever

kicked, for the pay was right. If a hapless scribe had the temerity to

enter the editorial sanctum with a negative report, the almost

invariable reply had been a glare and a peremptory order, "Get the

copy."

And get it they did. If a person refused an interview these clever

fellows generally succeeded in getting their information from the next

most reliable source, and it arrived in print just the same.

Of such a breed was Perry. Handlon, being a more recent acquisition to

the staff, was not yet especially aggressive in his work. On this

account the former took keen zest in scaring him into displaying a bit

more sand.

* * * * *

The train had disappeared around a bend and the two reporters felt

themselves marooned. Keegan, without question, was a most forlorn

looking spot. A dismal shanty, much the worse for weather, stood beside

the track. In front, a few rotting planks proclaimed that once upon a

time the place had boasted a real freight platform. Probably, back in

some long-forgotten age, a station agent had also held forth in the

rickety shanty. A sign hung on each end of the crumbling structure on

which could still be deciphered the legend "KEEGAN." On the opposite

side of the track was an old, disused siding. The only other feature of

interest thereabouts was a well traveled country road which crossed the

tracks near the shanty, wound sinuously over a rock-strewn hill and

became lost in the mazes of an upland forest.

There being no signboard of any kind to indicate their destination, the

two, after a moment's hesitation, started off briskly in a chance

direction. The air was hot and sultry, and in the open spaces the sun

beat down mercilessly upon the two hapless ones. As they proceeded into

the depths of the forest they were shielded somewhat from the worst of

the heat. Gradually upon their city-bred nostrils there stole the odor

of conifers, accompanied by a myriad of other forest odors. Both sniffed

the air appreciatively.

"This is sure the life," remarked Perry. "If I weren't so darn thirsty

now...." He became lost in mournful thought.

* * * * *

A considerable time passed. The newspaper men trudged wearily along

until finally another bend brought them to the beginning of a steep

descent. The forest had thinned out to nothing.

"Seems to me I smell smoke," blurted out Handlon suddenly. "Must be that

we are approaching the old party's lair. Remember? Bland said that

he--"

"Uh huh!" the other grunted, almost inaudibly. Now that they seemed to

be arriving at their destination something had occurred to him. He had

fished from his pocket a sheaf of clippings and was perusing them

intently. "Bland said, 'Get the copy'," he muttered irrelevantly and

half to himself.

The clippings all related directly to Professor Kell or to happenings

local to Keegan. Some were of peculiar interest. The first one was

headlined thus:

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF ROBERT MANION AND DAUGHTER STILL

UNSOLVED

The piece contained a description of the missing man, a fairly

prosperous banker who had been seen four days previously driving through

Keegan in a small roadster, and one of the girl, who was in the car with

him. It told that the banker and his daughter were last seen by a farmer

named Willetts who lived in a shack on the East Keegan road, fleeing

before a bad thunder storm. He believed the pair were trying to make the

Kell mansion ahead of the rain. Nothing more of the Manions or their car

had been seen, and their personal effects remained at their hotel in a

nearby village unclaimed. The heavy rain had of course effectually

obliterated all wheel tracks.

Another clipping was fairly lengthy, but Perry glanced only at the

headlines:

KELL STILL CARRYING ON HIS STRANGE EXPERIMENTS

Has Long Been Known to Have Fantastic Theories. Refuses to

Divulge Exact Methods Employed, or Nature of Results

Still another appeared to be an excerpt from an article in an

agricultural paper. It read:

A prize bull belonging to Alton Shepard, a Keegan cattle

breeder, has created considerable sensation by running amuck in

a most peculiar manner. While seemingly more intelligent than

heretofore, it has developed characteristics known to be utterly

alien to this type of animal.

Perhaps the most noteworthy feature of the case is the refusal

of the animal to eat its accustomed food. Instead it now

consumes enormous quantities of meat. The terrific bellow of

the animal's voice has also undergone a marked change, now

resembling nothing earthly, although some have remarked that it

could be likened to the bay of an enormous hound. Some of its

later actions have seemingly added further canine attributes,

which make the matter all the more mystifying. Veterinaries are

asking why this animal should chase automobiles, and why it

should carry bones in its mouth and try to bury them!

The last one read in part:

Professor Kell has been questioned by authorities at Keegan

relative to the disappearance there last Tuesday of Robert

Manion and his daughter. Kell seemed unable to furnish clues of

any value, but officials are not entirely satisfied with the

man's attitude toward the questions.

Somewhat bewildered by these apparently unrelated items, the reporter

remained lost in thought for quite a space, the while he endeavored to

map out his course of action when he should meet the redoubtable

Professor. That many of the weird occurrences could be traced in some

way to the latter's door had evidently occurred to Bland. Furthermore,

the Old Man relied implicitly upon Perry to get results.

It must be said that for once the star reporter was not overly

enthusiastic with the assignment. Certain rumors aside from the

clippings in his hand had produced in his mind a feeling of uneasiness.

So far as his personal preference was concerned he would have been well

satisfied if some cub reporter had been given the job. Try as he would,

however, he could offer no tangible reason for the sudden wariness.

He was aroused from his absorption by his companion.

"Thought I smelled smoke a while back, and I was right. That's the

house up in the edge of the pines. Deep grounds in front and all gone to

seed; fits the description exactly. Thank Heaven we struck off from the

station in the right direction. This stroll has been long enough. Come

out of it and let's get this job finished."

Suiting the action to the words Handlon started off at a brisk pace down

the hill, followed at a more moderate rate by Perry. At length they came

within full sight of the grounds. Extending for a considerable distance

before them and enclosing a large tract of land now well covered with

lush grass, was a formidable looking wall. In former days a glorious

mantle of ivy had covered the rough stones; but now there was little

left, and what there was looked pitifully decrepit. They continued their

progress along this barrier, finally coming upon a huge iron gate now

much the worse for rust. It stood wide open.

* * * * *

The road up to the house had long since become overgrown with rank grass

and weeds. Faintly traceable through the mass of green could be seen a

rough footpath which the two followed carefully. They met no one. As

they approached the night of black pines the mass of the old mansion

began to loom up before them, grim and forbidding.

Instinctively both shivered. The silence of the place was complete and

of an uncannily tangible quality. Nervously they looked about them.

"How do you like it, Skip?" The words from Perry's previously silent

lips broke upon the stillness like a thunderclap. The other started.

"I should hate to die in it," Handlon answered solemnly. "I'll bet the

old joint is haunted. Nobody but a lunatic would ever live in it."

"I get a good deal the same impression myself," said Perry. "I don't

wonder that Bland sent two of us to cover the job."

As he spoke he mounted a flight of steps to a tumbledown veranda. There

was no sign of a door bell on the weather-beaten portal, but an ancient

knocker of bronze hanging forlornly before him seemed to suggest a means

of attracting attention. He raised it and rapped smartly.

* * * * *

No answer.

Possessing all the attributes of the conventional reporter and a few

additional ones, Perry did not allow himself to become disheartened, but

merely repeated his summons, this time with more vim.

"Well, Horace," grinned Handlon, "it does look as if we were not so very

welcome here. However, seems to me if you were to pick up that piece of

dead limb and do some real knocking with it.... The dear Professor may

be deaf, you know, or maybe he's--"

"Skip, my boy, I don't know as we ought to go in right now after all. Do

you realize it will soon be dark?"

"To tell you the truth, Horace, I'm not stuck on this assignment either.

And I feel that after dark I should like it even less, somehow. But,

gee, the Old Man...."

"Oh, I'm not thinking of quitting on the job. We don't do that on the

Journal." Perry smiled paternally at the photographer. Could it be he

had purposely raised the other's hopes in order to chaff him some more?

"But I was thinking that it might be a good idea to look about the

outbuildings a bit while we have a little daylight. Eh?"

Handlon looked disappointed, but nodded gamely. He delayed only long

enough to deposit his camera and traps behind a grossly overgrown

hydrangea by the steps, then, with a resigned air, declared himself

ready to follow wherever the other might lead.

Perry elected to explore the barn first. This was a depressing old pile,

unpainted in years, with what had once been stout doors now swinging and

bumping in the light breeze. As the two men drew nearer, this

breeze--which seemed to sigh through the place at will--brought foul

odors that told them the place was at least not tenantless. In some

trepidation they stepped inside and stood blinking in the half

darkness.

"Pretty Polly!"

"Good God! What was that?" Handlon whispered. He knew it was no parrot's

voice. This was a far deeper sound than that, a sound louder than

anything a parrot's throat could produce. It came from the direction of

a ruinous stall over near a cobwebbed window. As Perry started fearfully

toward this, there issued from it a curious scraping sound, followed by

a fall that shook the floor, and a threshing as of hoofs. Now the great

voice could be heard again, this time uttering what sounded strangely

like oaths roared out in a foreign tongue. Yet when the newspaper men

reached the stall they found it occupied only by a large mule.

* * * * *

The animal was lying on its side, its feet scraping feebly against the

side of the stall. The heaving, foam-flecked body was a mass of hideous

bruises, some of which were bleeding profusely. The creature seemed to

be in the last stage of exhaustion, lying with lips drawn back and eyes

closed. Beneath it and scattered all over the stall floor was a thick

layer of some whitish seeds.

"That's--why that's sunflower seed, Horace!" Handlon almost whimpered.

"And look! Look in that crib! It's full of the same stuff! Where's the

hay, Horace? Does this thing--"

He was interrupted by a mighty movement of the beast--a threshing that

nearly blinded the men in the cloud of bloodstained seeds it raised.

With something between a curse and a sob, the mule lunged at its crib as

if attempting to get bodily into it. But no: it was only trying to perch

on its edge! Now it had succeeded. The ungainly beast hung there a

second, two, three. From its uplifted throat issued that usually

innocuous phrase, a phrase now a thing of delirious horror:

"Pretty Polly!"

With a crash the tortured creature fell to the floor, to lie there

gasping and moaning.

Skip Handlon left that barn. Perry retained just enough wit to do what

he should have done the instant he first saw the animal. He whipped out

his automatic and fired one merciful shot. Then he too started for the

outside. He arrived in the yard perhaps ten seconds behind Handlon.

"Good Heavens, Perry," gibbered Handlon. "I'm not going to stay around

this place another minute. Just let me find where I left that suffering

camera, that's all I ask."

"Easy now." Perry laid a hand on his companion's shoulder. "I guess

we're up against something pretty fierce here, but we're going to see it

through, and you know it. So let's cut out the flight talk and go raise

the Professor."

Handlon tried earnestly to don a look of determination. If Perry was set

on staying here the least he could do was stay with him. However, could

Perry have foreseen the events which were to entangle them, he probably

would have led the race to the gate. As it was, he grasped a stick and

marched bravely up toward the front door.

* * * * *

A sudden commotion behind him caused him to wheel sharply around.

Simultaneously a yell burst from Handlon.

"Look out, Horace!"

What he saw almost froze the blood in his veins. From a tumbledown coach

house had issued an enormous wolf-hound which was now almost upon then,

eyes flaming, fangs gleaming horribly.

So unexpected was the attack that both men stood rooted in their tracks.

The next moment the charging brute was upon them, and had bowled

Handlon off his equilibrium as if he were a child. The unfortunate

photographer made a desperate attempt to prevent injury to his precious

camera, which he had but a moment earlier succeeded in retrieving, and

in doing so fell rather violently to the ground. Every moment he

expected to feel the powerful jaws crunch his throat, and he made no

effort to rise. For several seconds he remained thus, until he could

endure the suspense no longer. He glanced around only to see Perry,

staring open-mouthed at the animal which had so frightened them.

Apparently it had forgotten the presence of the two men.

Handlon regained his feet rather awkwardly, the while keeping a watchful

eye on the beast, of whose uncertain temper he was by now fully aware.

In an undertone he addressed his companion.

"What do you make of it?" he wanted to know. "Did the critter bite

you?"

"No. That's the queer part of it. Neither did he bite you, if you were

to think it over a minute. Just put his nose down and _rammed_ you, head

on."

The photographer was flabbergasted. Involuntarily his gaze stole again

in the direction of the offending brute.

"What on earth--" he began. "Is he sharpening his teeth on a rock

preparatory to another attack upon us? Or--What the deuce _is_ he

doing?"

"If you ask me," came astonishingly from the watchful Perry, "he's

eating grass, which is my idea of something damn foolish for a perfectly

normal hound, genus lupo, to be--Look out!"

* * * * *

The animal, as if suddenly remembering the presence of the men, suddenly

charged at them again, head down, eyes blazing. As before, it made no

effort to bite. Though both men were somewhat disconcerted by the great

brute they held their ground, and when it presented the opportunity the

older reporter planted a terrific kick to the flank which sent the

animal whimpering back to its shed behind.

"Score one," breathed Handlon. "If we--" At a sudden grating sound

overhead, he stopped.

Both turned to face the threatening muzzle of an ancient blunderbuss.

Behind it was an irate countenance, nearly covered by an unclipped beard

of a dirty gray color. In the eyes now glaring at them malevolently

through heavily concaved spectacles they read hate unutterable. The

barrel of the blunderbuss swung slightly as it covered alternately one

and the other. Both sensed that the finger even now tightening on the

trigger would not hesitate unduly. Being more or less hardened to

rebuffs of all kinds in the pursuance of their calling, the reporters

did not hesitate in stating their purpose.

"What?" yelled the old man. "You dare to invade my grounds and disturb

me at my labors for such a reason? Reporters! My scientific research

work is not for publicity, sirs; and futhermore I want it understood

that I am not to be dragged from my laboratory again for the purpose of

entertaining you or any others of your ilk. Get away!"

Without further ado the window was slammed down, a shutter closed on the

inside, and once more the silence of the dead descended upon the spot.

The two men grinned ruefully at each other, Handlon finally breaking the

stillness.

"My idea of the world's original one-sided conversation. We simply

didn't talk--and yet we're supposed to be reporters. You've got to hand

it to the Proff, Horace, for the beautiful rock-crusher he just handed

us."

"You didn't think we had anything easy, did you?" said Perry irritably.

"He'll change his tune presently, when--"

* * * * *

Handlon's jaw dropped. "You don't mean you're going to take any more

chances! Would you rouse him again after the way he treated us with

that gun? Besides, the train...."

Perry bent a scathing glance at his companion. "What on earth has the

train to do with our getting the Professor's confession of crime or

whatever he has to offer? You evidently don't know Bland--much. I deduce

that a lot of my sweetness has been wasted on the desert air. Once more,

let me assure you that if you propose to go back without the Proff's mug

on one of those plates you might as well mail your resignation from

_here_. Get me?"

The other wilted.

"I wonder," Perry ruminated as he stared in the direction of the shed

wherein the canine monstrosity had disappeared. "Do you suppose that you

can get a snap of the old boy's mug if I can get him to the window

again? If you can do that, just leave the rest to me. I've handled these

crusty birds before. What say?"

"Go as far as you like." The photographer was once more grinning as he

unslung his camera and carefully adjusted a plate in place. Everything

at last to his satisfaction he gripped flash pan and bulb.

"I'm going to make some racket now," announced Perry grimly. "If Kell

shows up, work fast. He may shoot at you, but don't get excited. It's

almost dark, so his aim _might_ be poor."

At this suggestion his companion showed signs of panic, but the other

affected not to notice this. There came a deafening hullaballoo as Perry

beat a terrific tattoo on the ancient door. Followed a deep silence,

while Perry leaped back to stand in front of Skip and his camera. After

perhaps a full minute's wait he once more opened up his bombardment, to

jump quickly back to the camera as before. This time he had better

success. The window was again opened and the muzzle of the blunderbuss

put in its appearance. Handlon stood close behind Perry as he silently

swung the camera into a more favorable position for action. The face at

the window was purple with wrath.

"You damned pests! Leave my grounds at once or I shall call my hound and

set him upon you. And when--"

* * * * *

Crack! Flash! Click! Perry had made a sudden sidewise movement as

Handlon went into action.

"Much obliged, Professor," said Perry politely. "Your pose with that old

cannon is going to be very effective from the front page. The write-up

will doubtless be interesting too. Probably the story won't be quite so

accurate as it would be had you told it to us yourself; but we shall get

as many of the details from the natives hereabouts as we can. Good-day

to you, sir!"

Motioning to the other he turned on his heel and started down the

driveway. It was an old trick, and for a long moment of suspense he

almost feared that it would fail. Another moment--

"Wait!" The quavering voice of the irascible old villain had lost some

of its malice. "Come back here a minute."

With simulated reluctance the two slowly retraced their steps. "Is there

something else, sir?"

"Perhaps...." The old man hesitated, as if pondering upon his words.

"Perhaps if you care to step in I can be of assistance to you after all.

It occurs to me that possibly I have been too abrupt with you."

"I am very glad that you have decided to cooperate with us, Professor

Kell," answered the reporter heartily, as they ascended the steps. The

old man's head disappeared from the window and shortly the sound of

footsteps inside told of his approach. Finally the oaken door swung

open, and they were silently ushered into the musty smelling hallway.

Though outwardly accepting the Professor's suddenly pacific attitude,

Perry made up his mind to be on his guard.

* * * * *

As they entered what had evidently been the parlor in bygone days, an

oppressive, heavy odor smote their nostrils, telling of age-old carpets

and of draperies allowed to decay unnoticed. On the walls hung several

antique prints, a poorly executed crayon portrait of a person doubtless

an ancestor of the present Kell, and one or two paintings done in oil,

now badly cracked and stained. Everything gave the impression of an era

long since departed, and the two men felt vaguely out of place. Their

host led them to a pair of dilapidated chairs, which they accepted

gratefully. The ride to Keegan after a hard day's work had not tended to

improve their spirits.

"Now to business." Perry went straight to the point, desiring to get the

interview over as soon as possible. "We have heard indirectly of various

happenings in this vicinity which many think have some connection with

your scientific experiments. Any statement you may care to make to us in

regard to these happenings will be greatly appreciated by my paper.

Inasmuch as what little has already been printed is probably of an

erroneous nature, we believe it will be in your own best interest to

give us as complete data as possible." Here he became slightly

histrionic. "Of course we do not allow ourselves to take the stories

told by the local inhabitants too literally, as such persons are too

liable to exaggerate, but we must assume that some of these stories have

partial basis in fact. Any information relative to your scientific work,

incidentally, will make good copy for us also."

Perry gazed steadily at the patriarch as he spoke. For a moment, a

crafty expression passed over the old man's face, but as suddenly it

disappeared. Evidently he had arrived at a decision.

"Come with me," he wheezed.

* * * * *

The two newspaper men exchanged swift glances, the same thought in the

mind of each. Were they about to be led into a trap? If the old man's

shady reputation was at all deserved they would do well to be wary.

Perry thought swiftly of the clippings he had read and of what gossip he

had heard, then glanced once more in the direction of Handlon. That

worthy was smiling meaningly and had already arisen to follow the

Professor. Reluctantly Perry got to his feet and the three proceeded to

climb a rickety stairway to the third floor. The guide turned at the

head of the stairs and entered a long dark corridor. Here the floor was

covered with a thick carpet which, as they trod upon it, gave forth not

the slightest sound.

The hall gave upon several rooms, all dark and gloomy and giving the

same dismal impression of long disuse. How could the savant endure such

a depressing abode! The accumulation of dust and cobwebs in these long

forgotten chambers, the general evidence of decay--all told of possible

horrors ahead. They became wary.

But they were not wary enough!

The uncouth figure ahead of them had stopped and was fumbling with the

lock of an ancient door. Instinctively Perry noted that it was of great

thickness and of heavy oak. Now the Professor had it open and was

motioning for them to enter. Handlon started forward eagerly, but

hurriedly drew back as he felt the grip of the other reporter's hand on

his arm.

"Get back, you fool!" The words were hissed into the ear of the

incautious one. Then, to the Professor, Perry observed: "If you have no

objection we would prefer that you precede us."

A look of insane fury leaped to the face of the old man, lingered but an

instant and was gone. Though the expression was but momentary, both men

had seen, and seeing had realized their danger.

* * * * *

They followed him into the chamber, which was soon illumined fitfully by

a smoky kerosene lamp. Both took a rapid survey of the place.

Conceivably it might have been the scene of scientific experiments, but

its aspect surely belied such a supposition. The average imagination

would instantly pronounce it the abode of a maniac, or the lair of an

alchemist. Again, that it might be the laboratory of an extremely

slovenly veterinary was suggested by the several filthy cages to be seen

resting against the wall. All of these were unoccupied except one in a

dark corner, from which issued a sound of contented purring, evidently

telling of some well-satisfied cat.

The air was close and foul, being heavy with the odor of musty, decaying

drugs. In every possible niche and cranny the omnipresent dust had

settled in a uniform sheen of gray which showed but few signs of recent

disturbance.

"Here, gentlemen," their host was saying, "is where I carry on my work.

It is rather gloomy here after dark, but then I do not spend much time

here during the night. I have decided to acquaint you with some of the

details of one or two of my experiments. Doubtless you will find them

interesting."

While speaking he had, mechanically it seemed, reached for a glass

humidor in which were perhaps a dozen cigars. Silently he selected one

and extended the rest to the two visitors.

After all three had puffed for a moment at the weeds, the old man began

to talk, rapidly it seemed to them. Perry from time to time took notes,

as the old man proceeded, an expression of utter amazement gradually

overspreading his face. Handlon pulled away contentedly at his cigar,

and on his features there grew an almost ludicrous expression of

well-being. Was the simple photographer so completely at ease that he

had at length forsaken all thought of possible danger?

As Professor Kell talked on he seemed to warm to his subject. At the end

of five minutes he began uncovering a peculiar apparatus which had

rested beneath the massive old table before which they were sitting. The

two men caught the flash of light on glass, and a jumble of coiled wires

became visible.

* * * * *

Was the air in the laboratory getting unbearably close? Or was the queer

leaden feeling that had taken possession of Perry's lungs but an

indication of his overpowering weariness? He felt a steadily increasing

irritation, as if for some strange reason he suddenly resented the words

of their host, which seemed to be pouring out in an endless stream. The

cigar had, paradoxically, an oddly soothing quality, and he puffed away

in silence.

Why had the room suddenly taken on so hazy an aspect? Why did Handlon

grin in that idiotic manner? And the Professor ... he was getting

farther and farther away ... that perfecto ... or was it an El Cabbajo?

What was the old archfiend doing to him anyhow?... Why was he laughing

and leering at them so horribly?... Confound it all ... that cigar ...

where was it?... Just one more puff....

Blindly he groped for the missing weed, becoming aware of a cackle of

amusement nearby. Professor Kell was standing near the spot where he had

fallen and now began prodding him contemptuously with his toe.

"Fools!" he was saying. "You thought to interfere with my program. But

you are in my power and you have no hope of escape. I am unexpectedly

provided with more subjects for my experiments. You will...." His words

became hazy and unintelligible, for the hapless reporter was drifting

off into a numb oblivion. He had long since lost the power to move a

muscle. Out of the corner of an eye, just before he lost consciousness

altogether, he perceived Handlon lying upon the floor still puffing at

the fateful drugged cigar.

* * * * *

Eons passed.

To the reporter came a vision of a throbbing, glaring inferno, wherein

he was shaken and tossed by terrific forces. His very vital essence

seemed to respond to a mighty vibration. Now he was but a part of some

terrific chaos. Dimly he became aware of another being with whom he must

contend. Now he was in a death struggle, and to his horror he found

himself being slowly but surely overpowered. A demoniac grin played upon

the features of the other as he forced the reporter to his knees. It was

Handlon.... Once more he was sinking into soft oblivion, the while a

horrid miasma assailed his nostrils. He was nothing....

* * * * *

Slowly, and with infinite effort, Perry felt himself returning to

consciousness, though he had no clear conception of his surroundings.

His brain was as yet but a whirling vortex of confused sounds, colors

and--yes, odors. A temporary rift came in the mental cloud which

fettered his faculties, and things began to take definite shape. He

became aware that he was lying upon his back at some elevation from the

floor. Again the cloudy incubus closed in and he knew no more.

When he finally recovered the use of his faculties it was to discover

himself the possessor of a violent headache. The pain came in such

fearsome throbs that it was well nigh unendurable. The lamp still

sputtered dimly where the professor had left it. At the moment it was on

the point of going out altogether. The reporter noticed this, and over

him stole a sense of panic. What if the light should fail altogether,

leaving him lying in the dark in this frightful place! Still dizzy and

sick, he managed to rise upon his elbows enough to complete a survey of

the room. He was still in the laboratory of Professor Kell, but that

worthy had disappeared. Of Handlon there was no sign. The mysterious

apparatus, of which he now had but a vague remembrance, also had

vanished.

His thoughts became confused again, and wearily he passed a hand over

his brow in the effort to collect all of his faculties. The lamp began

to sputter, arousing him to action. Desperately he fought against the

benumbing sensation that was even again stealing over him. Gradually he

gained the ascendancy. He struggled dizzily to his feet and took a few

tentative steps.

Where was Handlon? He decided his friend had probably recovered from the

drug first and was gone, possibly to get a doctor for him, Perry.

However, he must make some search to determine if Skip had really left

the premises.

As he walked through the open door the lamp in his hand gave a last

despairing flicker and went out. From there he was forced to grope his

way down the dark hall to the stairs. Just how he reached the lower

floor he was never able to remember, for as yet all the effect of the

powerful drug had not worn off. He had a dim recollection of being

thankful to the ancestor of Kell who had provided such thick carpets in

these halls. Thanks to them his footsteps had been noiseless, at any

rate.

What was Kell's real object in giving them those drugged cigars? he

wondered. How long had they been under the influence of the lethal

stuff? Surely several hours. Upon glancing through a hall window he

found that outside was the blackness of midnight.

* * * * *

Cautiously he explored the desolate chambers on the ground floor: the

kitchen--where it could be plainly seen that cooking of a sort had been

done--the barn, and woodshed. Not a living thing could he find, not even

the huge wolf-hound which had attacked them in so strange a manner that

afternoon.

By now he was quite frankly worried on Handlon's account. At that

moment, could he have known the actual fate that had overtaken his

companion, it is quite probable he would have gone mad. He stumbled

back and into the dark front hall, shouting his friend's name. The

response was a hollow echo, and once or twice he thought he heard the

ghost of a mocking chuckle.

At length he gave up the search and started for the door, intent now

only upon flight from the accursed place. He would report the whole

thing to the office and let Bland do what he pleased about it. Doubtless

Handlon had already left. Then he stumbled over Handlon's camera.

Evidently the Professor had neglected to take possession of it. That

must be rescued, at all costs. He picked it up and felt the exposed

plate still inside. He started again for the door.

What little light there was faded out and he felt stealing over him a

horrid sensation of weakness. Again came a period of agony during which

he felt the grip of unseen forces. Once more it seemed that he was

engaged in mortal strife with Skip Handlon. Malevolently Handlon glared

at him as he endeavored with all his strength to overcome Perry. This

time, however, the latter seemed to have more strength and resisted the

attack for what must have been hours. Finally the other drew away

baffled.

At this the mental incubus surrounding Perry's faculties broke. Dimly he

became aware of a grinding noise nearby and a constant lurching of his

body. At length his vision cleared sufficiently to enable him to

discover the cause of the peculiar sensations.

He was in a railroad coach!

* * * * *

He took a rapid glance around and noted a drummer sitting in the seat

across the aisle, staring curiously at him. With an effort Perry assumed

an inscrutable expression and determined to stare the other out of

countenance. Reluctantly the man glanced away, and after a moment, under

Perry's stony gaze, he suddenly arose and chose a new seat in front of

the car. Perry took to the solace of a cigarette and stared out at the

flying telegraph poles. From time to time he noted familiar landmarks.

The train had evidently left Keegan far behind and was already nearly

into the home town.

For the balance of the ride the reporter experienced pure nightmare. The

peculiar sensations of dizziness, accompanied by frightful periods of

insensibility, kept recurring, now, however, not lasting more than ten

or fifteen minutes at a time. At such times as he was conscious he found

opportunity to wonder in an abstracted sort of way how he had ever

managed to get on the train and pay his fare, which must have been a

cash one, without arousing the conductor's suspicions. Discovery of a

rebate in his pocket proved that he must have done so, however. The

business of leaving the train and getting to the office has always been

an unknown chapter in Perry's life.

He came out of one of his mental fogs to find himself seated in the

private editorial sanctum of the Journal. Evidently he had just arrived.

Bland, a thick-set man with the jaw of a bulldog, was eyeing him

intently.

"Well! Any report to make?" The question was crisp.

The reporter passed a hand across his perspiring forehead. "Yes, I guess

so. I--er--that is--you see--"

"Where's Handlon? What happened to you? You act as if you were drunk."

Bland was not in an amiable mood.

"Search me," Perry managed to respond. "If Skip isn't here old man Kell

must have done for him. I came back alone."

"You wha-a-t?" the irate editor fairly roared, half rising from his

chair. "Tell me exactly what happened and get ready to go back there on

the next train. Or--no, on second thoughts you'd better go to bed. You

look all used up. Handlon may be dead or dying at this minute. That Kell

could do anything." He pressed the button on his desk.

"Johnny," he said to the office boy, "get O'Hara in here on the double

quick and tell him to bring along his hat and coat."

* * * * *

He turned again to Perry, who was gazing nervously at the door. "Now

tell me everything that happened and make it fast," he ordered.

The reporter complied, omitting nothing except the little matter of his

mental lapses at the house of Professor Kell and later on the train. The

incident of the drugged cigars seemed to interest the Old Man hugely,

and Perry did not forget to play up Handlon's exploits in getting the

picture of the Professor. All through the recital he was in a sweat for

fear that he might have a recurrence of one of his brain spells and that

Bland would become cognizant of it. When would the Chief finish and let

him escape from the office? Desperately he fought to prevent the numbing

sensation from overcoming him. All that kept him from finally fleeing

the place in panic was the entrance of Jimmie O'Hara.

Slight, wiry and efficient looking, this individual was a specimen of

the perfect Journal reporter. This is saying a good deal, for the news

crew and editorial force of the paper were a carefully selected body of

men indeed. Bland never hired a man unless experience had endowed him

with some unusual qualification. Most of them could write up a story

with realistic exactitude, being able in most cases to supply details

gleaned from actual experience in one walk of life or another.

* * * * *

Of this redoubtable crew probably the queerest was Jimmie O'Hara. Jimmie

had just finished a sentence in the "pen" for safe-cracking at the time

he landed the job with the Journal. Theoretically all men should have

shunned him on account of his jailbird taint. Not so Bland. The Chief

was independent in his ideas on the eternal fitness of things and

allowed none of the ordinary conventions of humanity to influence his

decisions. So Jimmie became one of the staff and worked hard to justify

Bland in hiring him. His former profession gave him valuable sidelights

upon crime stories of all kinds, and he was almost invariably picked as

the man to write these up for the columns.

"Jimmie," said the Chief, "we have need of an experienced strong-arm man

and all around second story worker. You are the only man on the force

who fills the bill for this job. Perry here has just returned from

Keegan, where I sent him to interview Professor Kell. Skip Handlon went

with him, but failed to return. We want to know what happened to Skip.

That is your job. _Get Handlon!_ If he is dead let me know by long

distance phone and I'll have a couple of headquarters men down there in

a hurry. Get a good fast car and don't waste any time. That's all."

O'Hara stopped long enough to get the location of Professor Kell's place

fixed in his mind, then abruptly departed. Bland gazed after him

musingly.

"The Professor will have some job to put anything over on that bird," he

said grimly. "Personally, I'm sorry for the old soul."

* * * * *

After leaving the Journal office Jimmie proceeded directly to a certain

stable where he kept his private car. It was a long, low speedster with

a powerful engine, and capable of eating up distance. It was the work of

a minute to touch the starter and back out of the yard.

For the next hour he held the wheel grimly while the car roared over the

seventy-odd miles to Keegan. Would he be in time? At last a sign post

told him that he was within five miles of the railroad crossing at

Keegan. Now the headlights were picking out the black outlines of the

freight shed, and the next moment he had swept over the tracks. The

luminous dial on his wrist watch notified him that he had been on the

road but little over an hour, but his spirits somehow refused to revive

with the knowledge.

About a mile beyond the station he drove the car into a dark wood road

and parked it, turning off all lights. The rest of the way to the

Professor's mansion he did on foot. Rather than approach from the front

of the grounds he nimbly climbed a stone wall and, crossing a field or

two, entered the stretch of woods which extended just behind the

mansion. His pocket flashlight here came into use, and once or twice he

gave a reassuring pat to a rear pocket where bulged a heavy Colt

automatic.

* * * * *

What was that? He had approached very close to the rear of the house

now. No lights were visible as yet, but unless he was greatly mistaken

he had heard a muffled scream. He stopped in his tracks and listened

intently. Again it came, this time with a blood-curdling cadence ending

in what he would have sworn was a choking sob.

The little job of getting the old-fashioned rear window open was a mere

nothing to the experienced O'Hara, and in a moment he was inside the

house. His feet struck soft carpet. Catlike, he stepped to one side in

order to prevent any hidden eyes from perceiving his form silhouetted in

the dim light of the open window. He dared not use his flashlight for

fear that the circle of light would betray his position, thus making him

an excellent target for possible bullets. Following the wall closely he

managed to circle the room without mishap. His searching fingers finally

came in contact with a door frame, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Here there was nothing to bar his progress except some moth-eaten

portieres. These he brushed aside.

The room which he now entered was probably the same into which the

Professor had ushered Handlon and Perry the day before. There being

still no sign of life about, the reporter decided to throw caution to

the winds. He brought his flash into play. Quickly casting the powerful

beam around the chamber he examined the place with an all-searching

glance.

* * * * *

Nothing.

With a stifled oath he turned his attention to the other rooms in the

immediate vicinity. The brilliant light revealed not the slightest trace

of a person, living or dead. The sound must have come from the second

story or from the cellar. He decided on the upper floor.

Feverish with impatience because of the valuable time he had already

lost, he bounded up the heavily carpeted stairs two at a time. Now to

his keen ears came certain faint sounds which told him that he was on

the right track. Before him extended a long, dusty hall, terminating in

a single heavy door. Several other doors opened at intervals along the

corridor. One or two of these were open, and he threw the beam from his

flash hastily into one after another of them. He saw only dusty and

mildewed chamber furnishings of an ancient massive style.

Suddenly he pricked up his ears.

The door ahead of him was creaking slowly open. Instantly he extinguished

his torch and leaped into the nearest room. Whoever was opening that end

door was carrying a lamp. What if the Professor had accomplices who

might discover him and overpower him by force of numbers! O'Hara drew the

automatic from his pocket, deriving a comforting assurance from the

feel of the cold steel. Here was something no man could resist could he

but get it into action. The light was now nearly abreast of his door, and

for a sickening instant he thought the prowler was coming into the room.

He held his breath. Now the lamp was at the open door, and now it was

quickly withdrawn. After a breathless second he tip-toed forward and

peered cautiously down the hallway.

About here it was that James O'Hara began to realize that this was

going to be a horrible night indeed. He had wondered why the progress of

the light had been so deathly slow. Now he knew why, by reason of what

he saw--and what he saw made him feel rather sick. The man with the

lantern was quite plainly Professor Kell, bent nearly double with the

weight of a grotesquely big thing on his back, a thing that flung a dim,

contorted shadow on the ceiling. And that thing was a dead man.

* * * * *

A corpse it was--the attitude proved that. With a numb relief O'Hara

realized it was not the body of Skip Handlon. This had been a much

larger man than Skip, and the clothing was different from anything

Handlon had worn.

The light was now disappearing down the stairway. For a moment O'Hara

felt undecided as to his next move. Should he follow Kell and his

burden, or should he not take advantage of this fine opportunity to

continue his search of the upper story? That scream still rang in his

ears; there had been a very evident feminine quality in it, and the

remembrance of that fact reproached him. Had he been guilty of mincing

daintily about in this old house while a woman was being done to death

under his nose, when a little bolder action on his part might have saved

her?

Stepping once more into the hall he advanced to the door just closed

behind the Professor and tried it, only to find it locked. Out of a

pocket came several articles best known to the "profession"--a piece of

stiff wire, a skeleton key and other paraphernalia calculated to reduce

the obstinate mechanism to submission. For a minute, two, three, he

worked at the ancient lock; then, without a creak, the door swung open.

A touch of oil to the hinges had insured their silence. Jimmie O'Hara

believed in being artistic in his work, especially when it came to fine

points, and he was.

* * * * *

He found himself in the same room where the drugged cigars had been

proved the undoing of Handlon and Perry. In order not to alarm the

Professor unduly by chance noises and perhaps invite a surprise attack

upon himself, O'Hara closed the laboratory door behind him and let the

lock spring again. Hastily he made search of the place. No trace of the

missing reporter could he find, except two half-consumed cigars in a

corner whence the Professor had impatiently kicked them.

On the big table in the center of the room, however, was an object which

excited his interest. It was apparently nothing more or less than a

giant Crookes tube, connected in some way with a complicated mechanism

contained in a wooden cabinet under the table. Probably this apparatus

was concerned in the Professor's weird experiments which had so aroused

the countryside. He studied it curiously, his eyes for the moment closed

in thought, until a slight sound somewhere near at hand caused him to

open them wide. Was the Kell returning?

Quickly he extinguished the lamp and glided to a nearby door, thinking

to secrete himself here, and take Kell by surprise. To his consternation

the door swung inward at a touch. He prepared instinctively for battle

against any foe who might present himself. For a moment he held himself

taut; then, nothing of an alarming nature having happened, he drew a

swift breath of relief and flashed on his light. He gave vent to a low

exclamation. The swiftly darting shaft from the torch had revealed the

figure of a girl, bound and gagged.

* * * * *

The girl lay trembling on a wretched bed in a corner of the dilapidated

old chamber. O'Hara crossed the room and bent over her. Still wary of a

trap he glanced back in the direction of the laboratory door: all safe

there. Jimmie made haste to remove the cruel gag from her mouth.

"Courage," he whispered. "Half a minute and you will be free."

He produced a knife with a suspiciously long blade and cut her bonds. He

then assisted her to her feet, where she reeled dizzily. Realizing the

need for fast action he made her sit down while he massaged the bruised

arms and ankles, which were badly swollen from the tight ropes. The girl

had apparently been in the grip of such terrible fright that she had

temporarily lost her power of speech. Mentally he chalked up another

score against the Professor as the girl made several ineffectual

attempts to speak.

"Easy, kid," Jimmie whispered. "Just sit tight, and when you feel able

you can tell me all about it. I'm going to get him good for this, you

can bank on that."

She thanked him with a faint smile, and of a sudden she found her

voice.

"Who are you? Where is father? Oh, tell me, please! I am afraid that

horrible man has murdered him. Are you a servant here? Oh, I don't know

whom to trust."

"My name is Jimmie O'Hara," replied the reporter briefly; "and I hope

you won't worry about me. I am gunning for the Proff myself. Tell me as

quickly as you can what you know about him." He still kept an eye on the

door of the adjoining laboratory. Any moment he expected to hear the

sound of the old man's approach. The room would make an ideal place to

ambush the maniac, he had swiftly decided.

"I am Norma Manion. Please don't delay, but see if you can locate

father." The girl's voice was agonized. "I heard him groan a half-hour

ago, and a little later came a terrific crash. Oh, I'm afraid he's

dead!"

* * * * *

Reluctantly Jimmie gave up the idea of ambushing the Professor.

"Wait here," he commanded curtly. "If you hear a shot join me as soon as

you can. I want to take him alive if I can, but...." With this parting

hint he disappeared through the door into the laboratory. Down the

carpeted hall he crept to the stairway. Here he stopped and listened,

but to his sensitive ears came no sound from below.

"Must have gone down the cellar with the body," he muttered. "Here goes

for a general exploration."

With more boldness than the occasion perhaps really justified he

descended the stairs and proceeded to examine the ground floor rooms

minutely. The first was the room through which he had made entrance to

the house. It proved to be but a storeroom containing nothing of

interest, and he soon decided to waste no more time on it.

The adjoining chamber, however, yielded some surprising finds. He had

pushed back a dusty portiere to find himself in what could be

nothing less than the Professor's sleeping chamber. At present the

bed was unoccupied, though it showed signs of recent use. The

electric torch played swiftly over every possible corner which could

constitute a hiding place for an assassin, revealing nothing. Now

the ever-searching ray fell upon an old-fashioned dresser, on which

was piled a miscellaneous array of articles. Here were combs, brushes,

a wig, a huge magnifying glass, and a gold watch. With a barely

suppressed exclamation, Jimmie pounced upon the gold timepiece.

Handlon's! So well did he know the particular design of his watch that

he could have recognized it in the dark by sense of touch alone. So the

old man was not averse to robbery among his other activities! The former

two-story man thought fast. Handlon had probably been done in, and the

body had been disposed of in some weird manner. The only thing that

remained to be done, since the unlucky photographer was evidently past

human help, was to cut short the Professor's list of murders.

* * * * *

With the intention of missing no essential detail O'Hara swept the ray

of the searchlight around the chamber once more, but discovered no more

of importance. Deciding that the sleeping chamber could yield no further

clue he shut off the tell-tale ray and stepped noiselessly back into the

next room. Here he groped his way around until he encountered a door,

which stood open. A moment's cautious exploration with an outstretched

foot revealed the top step of a descending staircase. No faintest

glimmer of light was visible, but muffled sounds proceeding from the

depths told him that someone was below.

With infinite care, feeling his way gingerly over the rickety old steps

and fearful that an unexpected creak from one of the ancient boards

would at any moment prove his undoing, he commenced the descent. Once a

board did groan softly, causing him to stop in his tracks and stand with

bated breath. He listened for sign of a movement below, while his heart

loudly told off a dozen strokes. Stealthily he continued his progress,

until finally soft earth under his feet told him he had reached the

cellar bottom.

Now his straining eyes perceived a tiny bit of light, and simultaneously

he became conscious of a deathly stench. The damp earth padding his

footsteps, he advanced swiftly toward the source of light, which now

seemed to lie in stripes across his line of vision. He soon saw that the

stairs gave upon a small boarded-off section of the cellar proper, and

light was seeping between the boards. Ah, and here was a rickety door,

fortuitously equipped with a large knot-hole. O'Hara applied an eye to

this--and what he saw nearly ruined even his cast iron nerve.

* * * * *

The Professor was working beside a heavy wooden cask, from which issued

the horrible stench. From time to time a sodden thud told that he was

hacking something to pieces with an ax. Now and then he would strain

mightily at a dark and bulky thing which lay on the floor, a thing that

required considerable strength to lift. It seemed to be getting lighter

after each spasm of frenzied chopping. For a second Kell's shadow

wavered away from the thing, and the enervated newspaper man saw it

plainly. His senses almost left him as he realized that he was

witnessing the dismemberment of a human body.

As he hacked the fragments of tissue from the torso the fiend carefully

deposited each in the huge cask. At such times a faint boiling sound was

heard, and there arose an effluvium that bade fair to overcome even the

monster engaged in the foul work. At last the limbs and head had been

entirely removed. The Professor evidently decided that the trunk should

be left whole, and he put his entire strength into the job of getting it

into the cask. It was almost more than he could negotiate, but finally a

dull splash told that he had succeeded.

At this moment Jimmie O'Hara came out of his trance. The horrible

proceeding had left him faint and shaken, and he wished heartily that he

could leave the disgusting place as fast as his legs could carry him.

But there was still work to be done and he resolved to get it over.

The lantern! First he must put that out of commission. The maniac would

then be at his mercy. Slowly, steadily he stole through the doorway, his

eyes glued to the Professor's back. Now he was within a yard of the

lantern, and he drew back his foot for the kick.

Next moment Jimmie found himself gazing into the glaring eyes of his

intended victim. Instinctively he struck out with the clubbed automatic,

but the blow must have fallen short, or else the Professor had developed

an uncanny agility. Now to his horror he saw the flashing blade of the

bloodstained ax raised on high. He had no time to dodge the blow. He

pressed the trigger of the Colt from the position in which he held it.

* * * * *

The bullet grazed the upraised arm. The ax fell toward O'Hara from

fingers lacking strength to retain it, and he grasped it by the handle

in midair. The next moment the assassin collected his wits and sprang at

him. Silently, the breath of both coming in gasps, the two men strove,

each clawing desperately at the other's throat. The reporter fought with

the knowledge that should he lose he would never again see the light of

day, the other with the fear of the justice that would deal with him.

The maniac hugged his arms tightly about Jimmie, pinioning him so

tightly that the reporter could not use his gun. At length their

convulsive movements brought the men close to the lantern, and the next

instant the cellar was plunged in darkness. A second later the Professor

tripped over some hidden obstruction and fell, dragging his opponent

with him to the earthen floor. To Jimmie's surprise there was no further

movement from the body beneath him. Could the old villain be playing

possum? He cautiously shifted his hold and grasped the hidden throat. He

pressed the Professor's windpipe for a moment, but there was no

answering struggle. Slowly the truth dawned upon him. The heavy fall to

the floor had rendered the older man insensible.

He must work fast. Reaching into his pocket he brought out the ever

handy electric torch and flashed it over the features of his prisoner.

Kell was breathing heavily. With dexterous hands O'Hara swiftly went

through the old man's pockets, removing all which might tend to make

that worthy dangerous--an ugly looking pistol of large caliber, a

blackjack similar to his own and a small bottle.

The latter item Jimmie examined curiously, finally uncorking it and

inhaling the contents. He inhaled, not wisely but too well. The fumes

from the vial were nigh overpowering, and he reeled back nauseated. The

cork he hastily replaced. Just what the nature of the powerful stuff

was he never attempted to discover. One acquaintance was enough.

* * * * *

He staggered to his feet and got the lantern lighted, then sat, gun in

hand, waiting for his prisoner's return to his senses. This was becoming

increasingly imminent, judging by certain changes in the Professor's

respiration. Finally there came a series of shuddering movements as the

man attempted to raise his battered body.

"Get up, you damned butcher," ordered Jimmie, "and march upstairs. And

just remember that I've got you covered; don't make any false moves." He

prodded the prostrate form of the by now glaring fiend before him. The

stench of the place was nearly overcoming him, and again he felt an

overwhelming desire to dash madly from that den of evil, and once more

breathe God's fresh air. Under the stimulus of several shoves the

Professor finally won to his feet and stumbled up the stairs. Jimmie was

taking no chances and kept the automatic sharply digging into the ribs

of his prisoner. The fight, however, seemed temporarily to have been all

taken out of the old man, and he made no resistance as the reporter

drove him on up to the laboratory.

The room he found exactly as he left it. At a word from him Norma Manion

came from her hiding place in the horrible room where she had been kept

prisoner.

With an hysterical scream she fell limply to the floor. The sight of her

father's murderer had proved too much for her. Forgetting his prisoner

for the moment Jimmie sprang to the girl's side.

Kell chose this moment to make a dash for freedom. His footsteps,

however, were not as noiseless as he had intended, and O'Hara whirled

just in time to see his quarry about to throw open the hall door. Jimmie

dove for his gun, only to encounter the Professor's mysterious vial,

which, though forgotten, still lay in his pocket. With no time to

think, he acted purely upon instinct. His arm drew back and the bottle

flew straight for the Professor's head.

* * * * *

By a miracle the missile missed its mark. Came a shivering crash, as the

bottle struck a stud in the massive door. Of a sudden recalling the

terrific potency of the contents of that particular bottle, Jimmie

gasped in dismay. Norma Manion's safety drove every other thought from

his mind. At any cost he must remove her from the proximity of those

lethal fumes.

Hastily and without a backward glance, he gathered the girl into his

arms and dashed into the room where he had first found her. Ascertaining

that she had but swooned he placed her gently on the bed. In some

perplexity as to his next move he stared at the beautiful face now so

wan and white. Queer that he hadn't noticed the fact before--she was

beautiful. He even took a second look, then noting a continued absence

of all sound from the laboratory decided to investigate.

Gingerly he pushed open the door, sniffing the air cautiously as he

advanced. To his nostrils gradually came a slight scent, which though

almost imperceptible made his senses reel. As he approached the hall

door he found the atmosphere heavy with the soporific vapors from the

broken vial, and he staggered drunkenly.

He gave a start of surprise. On the floor, lying in a grotesque huddle

which suggested a most unpleasant possibility, was the inert body of

Professor Kell.

* * * * *

Jimmie bent over the body and put an experienced ear to the heart. Yes,

there as a faint beat--very faint. Even as he listened he perceived a

slight increase in the respiration. Now the breath began coming in

great, choking gasps, only to die suddenly to next to nothing. At last

with a rueful sigh Jimmie reached to his hip and produced the private

O'Hara flagon. He stooped over the Professor's form once more and by

dint of much prying at clenched jaws managed to force a sizeable charge

of fiery liquid down the old man's throat. Jimmie had just begun to

entertain a strong hope that this latter effort would bring the

Professor to life, when his keen ear detected signs of a commotion

below.

He sprang from his position over the slowly reviving Kell and leaped to

a vantage point beside the door. A blackjack miraculously appeared from

some hidden part of his anatomy and the ever-dependable Colt also became

in evidence. Now came the banging of a door, muffled voices, a crash as

of a chair overturned in the dark. Up rolled a horrible oath, and the

same was rendered in a voice to Jimmie sweetly familiar. Came the sound

of footsteps on the stairway and several persons coming along the hall.

"Where in hell is Jimmie?" roared a wicked voice. "If he's met with any

monkey business in this hell-hole I'll see that the damned place burns

to the ground before I leave it!"

* * * * *

Delightedly Jimmie jerked open the door.

"Still alive, Chief," he chirped as the Old Man strode into the

laboratory. Bland was followed by Perry, who seemed to be in a sort of

daze. Bringing up the rear were a pair of plainclothesmen whom Jimmie

knew very well--almost too well. One of these gentlemen bore a lantern

which reminded Jimmie strongly of some he had seen that night guarding

an open ditch in the public highway.

The Professor had fully regained consciousness and was struggling to his

feet. As for Norma Manion, she had suddenly appeared, leaning weakly

against the door casing, and was surveying the group in great alarm.

After being assured by O'Hara that they were her friends she smiled

wanly. To Bland and the others she was, of course, an unexpected factor

in the weird night's doings, and for several moments they regarded her

curiously.

At length Jimmie, sensing the question in the Old Man's eyes, elected to

offer a few words of explanation.

"Miss Manion has just been through a terrible experience," he said.

"She and her father have been for some time at the mercy of this

monster"--indicating Kell--"and her nerves are completely shattered.

We'd better get her out of this as quickly as we can."

"Mike!" Hard Boiled Bland glared at one of the officers. "Don't stand

there with your teeth in your gums like that. Take this girl out to my

car and let her lie down. She needs a stimulant, too. If you search my

car and find any red liquor in the left back door pocket, I don't know a

thing about it. And stay with her so she won't be afraid to go to

sleep."

She smiled in silent gratitude and allowed the plainclothesman to lead

her away from that chamber of horror.

* * * * *

The reporter lost no time in telling Bland of his failure to find Skip

Handlon. He went on to acquaint his Chief with the facts of all that had

occured while he had been at the Professor's house.

The fiery old fellow listened grimly. When Jimmie came to the story of

the corpse and the cask the editor breathed one word, "Manion!"

Jimmie nodded sadly. All eyes turned to the dejected huddle on the floor

that was Professor Kell. Finally Bland could wait no longer, but fixed a

terrible eye on the murderer and demanded harshly, "Where's Handlon?"

Now the Professor burst into a fit of insane laughter, laughter that

curdled the blood of the listeners.

"You ask me that! It's almost too good. Hee-hee! You sent your two

precious reporters out to my house to pry into my secrets, and thought

to display my name all over your yellow sheet; but you forgot that you

were dealing with Professor Anton Kell, didn't you?" The last he fairly

shrieked. "A lot of people have tried to intrude upon me before, but

none ever escaped me!"

"We know that," cut in Jimmie, for he was getting impatient and the old

man's boastings seemed out of place. "You are slated for the rope

anyway, after what I discovered down cellar." He jerked his eyes in the

direction of the door significantly. "Now we propose to find Handlon,

and the better it will be for you if you tell us what you have done with

him. Otherwise...."

"You can go to hell!" screamed the maniac. "If you are so clever, find

out for yourselves. He isn't so far away that you couldn't touch him by

reaching out your hand. In fact, he's been with you quite a while.

Hee-hee-hee! Well, if you must know--there he is!" With an insane

chuckle he pointed at Horace Perry. And Perry did a strange thing.

"Yes, you fiend, here I am!" Whose voice was that? Was it Perry

speaking, or was it Skip Handlon? Most assuredly Perry stood before

them, but the voice, in a subtle manner, reminded the group strongly of

poor old Skip.

* * * * *

As he spoke Perry had launched himself at the Professor's throat and had

to be restrained by the others. Savagely he fought them but slowly and

surely they overcame his struggles and placed him, writhing, in a

chair.

Of a sudden Bland leaned forward and scrutinized Perry's face sharply.

Had the reporter gone insane too? The pupils of the eyes had taken on a

sort of queer contraction, a fixed quality that was almost ludicrous. He

looked like a man under hypnosis. He had gone limp in their grasp, but

now suddenly he stiffened. The eyes underwent another startling change,

this time glowing undoubtedly with the look of reason. Bland was

mystified and waited for Perry to explain his queer conduct. The latter

seemed finally to come to. Simultaneously he realized that his peculiar

lapse from consciousness had been observed by the others.

"Guess I may as well admit it," he said with a wry smile. "Ever since I

came back from my assignment with Kell I have had a hell of a time. Half

the time I have been in a daze and have not had the least idea what I

was doing. Funny part of it is that I have seemed to keep right on doing

things even while I was out of my head." He told briefly of the visions

he had had in which he had seemed to contend with his brother reporter,

the horrid sensations as he felt himself overcome, the black oblivion in

which he then found himself, and the mysterious manner in which he had

left Keegan on that ill-fated assignment.

"What have you done to Handlon?" Jimmie's voice cut in. He was standing

over the form of the maniac, rigid and menacing. "You have exactly two

minutes to go."

"Find out for yourself!" snarled the bruised and battered fiend.

"I will," was the answer, and on the instant a horrible shriek rent the

air. Jimmie had quickly grasped both of the Professor's arms at the

wrists and was slowly twisting them in a grip of iron. Kell's face went

white, the lips writhed back over toothless gums, the eyes closed in the

supreme effort to withstand the excruciating pain. Then--

"Enough, enough!" he screamed.

* * * * *

O'Hara eased the pressure slightly but retained his hold upon the

clawlike hands. "Talk fast," he ordered.

The old man struggled futilely in the grasp of the powerful reporter,

finally glancing in the direction of the others. Would they show signs

of pity? Surely not Hard Boiled Bland. The Chief was watching the

struggles of the victim through a cloud of tobacco smoke which he was

slowly exhaling through his nose. The plainclothesman displayed no sign

of interest at all. The game was up!

"Very well," he said sullenly. "Handlon and Perry are both occupying the

same body."

"Wh-a-a-t?" roared Bland. "Jimmie, I guess you'll have to put the screws

to him some more. He's trying to make fools of us at the last minute!"

"No, no!" screamed the Professor. "What I say is true. I have been

working for years on my system of de-astralization. This last year I at

length perfected my electric de-astralizer, which amplifies and exerts

the fifth influence of de-cohesion."

The whole party began to look uneasy and gazed apprehensively at the

huge Crookes tube which still stood in its supporting frame on the

table.

"I have been forced to experiment on animals for the most part," the

Professor continued. "I succeeded in de-astralizing a dog and a bull and

caused them to exchange bodies. The bodies continued to function. I was

enthusiastic. Other experiments took place of which I will not tell you.

Finally I began to long for a human subject on which to try my fifth

influence."

"Just get down to cases, if you don't mind, Kell." The Chief wanted

action. "Suppose you tell us just what you did to Handlon and where we

can find him. I may as well mention that your life depends upon it. If

we find that you have done for him, something worse than death may

happen to you." The tone was menacing. Although Handlon was a

comparatively late acquisition to the old Chief's staff, still he had

been loyal to the paper.

"When your two damned reporters entered my driveway," Kell resumed. "I

saw them coming through a powerful glass which I always have on hand. I

had no desire to see them, but they forced themselves upon me. At last I

determined that they should furnish material for my experiments.

* * * * *

"If your men had looked into the grove behind the barn they would have

found the automobile which furnished two more subjects I was keeping on

hand in a room upstairs. Old Manion and his daughter gave me quite a bit

of trouble, but I kept them drugged most of the time. He broke out of

the room to-night though, and I had to kill him. It was self defense,"

he added slyly.

"Anyway, I found it was possible to make two astrals exchange bodies.

But I also wanted to see if it were possible to cause two astrals to

occupy the same body at the same time, and if so what the result would

be. I found out. It was rare sport to watch your star reporter leave my

house. He was damned glad to leave, I believe...." Again came the insane

cackle.

"Guess we have to believe him whether we want to or not." The detective

came to life. "How about making him release Handlon's--what d'ye call

it?--astral--from Perry's body?"

"Just a moment." The voice now was unmistakably Handlon's, though it was

issuing from the throat of Perry. "In the minute I have in consciousness

let me suggest that before you do any more de-astralizing you _locate my

body_. Until then, if I am released from this one I am a dead man."

The words struck the group dumb. Where _was_ Handlon's body? Could the

Professor produce it?

That worthy looked rather haunted at that moment, and they began to see

the fear of death coming upon him.

"Mercy, mercy!" he begged as the four men started to advance upon him.

"As soon as I had de-astralized Handlon I destroyed his body in my

pickling barrel down cellar. But there is another way...." He paused,

uncertain as to how his next words would be received. "Go out and get

the Manion girl. She can be de-astralized and friend Handlon can have

her body."

* * * * *

At this suggestion, advanced so naively, the four men recoiled in

horror. It was entirely too much even for Hard Boiled Bland, and he

could hardly restrain himself from applying the editorial fist to the

leering face before him. Undoubtedly Professor Kell was hopelessly

insane, and for that reason he held himself in leash.

"Kell, you are slated to pull off one more stunt," Jimmie addressed the

cringing heap. "You know what it is. Get busy. And just remember that I

am standing over here"--he indicated a corner well separated from the

rest--"with this cannon aimed in your direction. If things aren't just

according to Hoyle, you get plugged. Get me?"

"What about it, men?" Bland spoke up. "Is it going to be treating

Handlon right to de-astralize him now? It will be his last chance to

have a body on this earth."

"Unfortunately that body never belonged to Handlon," said O'Hara. "Hence

I fail to see why Perry should be discommoded for the balance of his

life with a companion astral. Perry is clearly entitled to his own body,

free and unhampered. Friend Skip is out of luck, unless--Well, I don't

mind telling you, Kell, that you just gave me an idea. Snap into it

now!"

The Professor dragged himself to his feet and under the menace of the

automatic fumbled under the table until he had located the intricate

apparatus before mentioned.

"Now if Mr. Perry--or Handlon--will kindly recline at full length on

this table," he said with an obscene leer, "the experiment will begin."

"Just remember, Kell, this is no experiment," advised Bland, fixing the

Professor with an ugly eye. "You do as you're told."