“Look! Pickled babies—one, two, three! And bones! And a fish-kettle!
It is all plain. He kills them, and boils them down for his
experiments, and by an accident he forgot to empty his larder—his
larder! hoo-hoo!—before he went!”
She broke into hysteric laughter and gaspings. Miss Robin, whinnying,
tottered quite close up to the young man, who stood shivering and
speechless.
“What can we do to save him?” she whimpered. “Mr. Prior, say
something!”
Thus urged, the unhappy young man strove to press his brain into a
focus with his hand, and to rally himself to what, he felt, was the
supreme occasion of his life. The appealing eyes and parted lips so
close to his would have intoxicated a saint, much more a pirate.
“We must warn him—agony column—from returning,” he ejaculated,
reeling. “Cryptic address—has he any distinguishing mark?”
“Yes,” she said, with frantic eagerness; “he has a large mole at the
root of his nose.”
“Very well,” he said—“something of this sort: ‘Nose, with large mole
at root of. All discovered. Don’t return!’”
“But what is the use of an advertisement? O, Mr. Prior! what is the
use of an advertisement when we know where he is, or ought to be, and
can go——?”
“Do you really think he will be there? It was a blind. O, Miss Robin,
it is evident now it was a blind to cover his tracks!”
“But why should he have designed to escape at all, leaving this—O,
Mr. Prior!—leaving this horror behind him?”
“We can only conjecture—O, Miss Robin, we can only conjecture!
Perhaps because of his conscience overtaking him; perhaps because,
killing in haste, he discovered at leisure that _it_ would not go into
the kettle; perhaps in a phase of that deadly absence of mind, which,
he will have realized by now, the Lord has converted to his
confusion.”
“Well, if you are right. And in the meantime we must get rid of
this—somehow. O, pray think of a means! Do! Do!”
Mrs. Gaunt steadied her storming breast as she leaned for support,
with hanging head, against the door.
“There’s the old well—off the lane,” she panted, without looking up.
“He there _might_ have fallen in—as he went out—and none have
guessed it to this day.”
It was a fearful inspiration. Mr. Prior, in that moment of supreme
sentient exaltation, abandoned himself to the awful rapture of things.
“June!” he whispered, putting shaking hands on the girl’s shoulders;
“if I do this thing for your sake, will you—will you—I have a
mother—this is no longer a place for you—come to Clapton?”
“Yes,” she answered, offering to nestle to him. “I had supposed that
was understood.”
He was a little taken aback.
“We must move this first,” he said, wringing his damp forehead.
“Who—who will help me?”
It was really heroic of him. In a shuddering group, they approached
together the terrible thing—hesitated—plunged, and dragged it out
with a sickening flop on the floor.
A greasy turban, which it wore, rolled away, disclosing a near bald
head. Its eyes were closed; its teeth grinned through a fluff of dark
hair; a lank frock-coat embraced its body, linen puttees its shanks,
and at the end were stiff bare feet.
“Look, and see if the coast is clear,” gasped the clergyman.
Miss Robin turned to obey, and uttered a startled shriek.
“What are you doing with my Senassee?” cried a terrible voice at the
door.
Mr. Prior whipped round, echoing his beloved’s squawk. A fierce old
man, leaning on a stick, stood glaring in the opening.
“Uncle!” cried the girl.
He advanced, sneering and caustic, pushed them all rudely aside,
dropped on his knees beside the corpse, and, thrusting his finger
forcibly into its mouth, appeared to hook and roll its tongue forward.
Instantly an amazing transformation occurred. A convulsion shook the
body; life flowed into its drab cheeks; its eyes opened and rolled;
inarticulate sounds came from its jaws.
“Ha!” cried the old man; “I have foreclosed on these busybodies.”
Then he rose to his feet, leaving the patient yawning and stretching
on the floor.
“Fearful!” gasped the clergyman.
“Do you address me, sir?” asked the old man, scowling.
“Conjurer!” whispered Mr. Prior.
“If you like,” snarled the other. “It is a common enough trick with
these Yogis, but one I had never seen until he came my way and offered
to show it me for a consideration. I had forgot he was still lying
there when I agreed to exchange livings with you. (You are Mr. Prior,
I presume?) It was the merest oversight, which I remembered on my way,
and came back by an early train to rectify—none too soon, it seems,
for the staying of meddlesome fingers.”
“Forgot he was there!” cried Mr. Prior.
“And what if I did, sir?” snapped the other. “It was a full week he
had lain tranced; and let me tell you, sir, I have more things to
think of in a week than your mind could accommodate in a century.
Why,” he cried, in sudden enlightenment, “I do believe the fools
imagined I had murdered the man.”
“Look at the babies in the bottles!” cried Mrs. Gaunt hysterically.
“As to you, you old ass,” shouted the Vicar, flouncing round, “if you
can’t distinguish embryo simiadæ from babies, you’d better call
yourself Miss, as I believe you are!”
“I give notice on the spot!” cried Mrs. Gaunt.
Miss Robin stepped up bravely to the young clergyman, and linked her
arm in his.
“And I,” she said. “I think you have behaved very cruelly to me, to us
all, Uncle, and—and Mr. Prior has a mother.”
“I dare say; he seems fool enough for anything,” roared the old
gentleman. “Go back to her, sir! Go to——”
June shrieked.
“Clapton!” he shouted, “and take this baggage with you!”