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Title: The dream detective

Author: Sax Rohmer

Illustrator: Arthur Schwieder

Release date: October 14, 2025 [eBook #77056]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Mckinlay, Stone & Mackenzie, 1925

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77056

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAM
DETECTIVE ***

A large-framed man, with snow-white hair cut close to his skull, French fashion.

THE
DREAM DETECTIVE
By SAX ROHMER

McKINLAY, STONE & MACKENZIE
NEW YORK

[COPYRIGHT]
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS
FIRST EPISODE
Case of the Tragedies in the Greek Room
SECOND EPISODE
Case of the Potsherd of Anubis
THIRD EPISODE
Case of the Crusader’s Ax
FOURTH EPISODE
Case of the Ivory Statue
FIFTH EPISODE
Case of the Blue Rajah
SIXTH EPISODE
Case of the Whispering Poplars
SEVENTH EPISODE
Case of the Chord in G
EIGHTH EPISODE
Case of the Headless Mummies
NINTH EPISODE
Case of the Haunting of Grange
TENTH EPISODE
Case of the Veil of Isis

THE DREAM DETECTIVE

FIRST EPISODE.
CASE OF THE TRAGEDIES IN THE GREEK ROOM

I

When did Moris Klaw first appear in London? It is a question which I am
asked sometimes and to which I reply, “To the best of my knowledge,
shortly before the commencement of the strange happenings at the Menzies
Museum.”
What I know of him I have gathered from various sources; and in these
papers, which represent an attempt to justify the methods of one frequently
accused of being an insane theorist, I propose to recount all the facts which
have come to my knowledge. In some few of the cases I was personally
though slightly concerned; but regard me merely as the historian and on no
account as the principal or even minor character in the story. My friendship
with Martin Coram led, then, to my first meeting with Moris Klaw—a
meeting which resulted in my becoming his biographer, inadequate though
my information unfortunately remains.
It was some three months after the appointment of Coram to the
curatorship of the Menzies Museum that the first of a series of singular
occurrences took place there.
This occurrence befell one night in August, and the matter was brought to
my ears by Coram himself on the following morning. I had, in fact, just
taken my seat at the breakfast table, when he walked in unexpectedly and
sank into an armchair. His dark, clean-shaven face looked more gaunt than

usual and I saw, as he lighted the cigarette which I proffered, that his hand
shook nervously.
“There’s trouble at the Museum!” he said, abruptly. “I want you to run
around.”
I looked at him for a moment without replying, and, knowing the
responsibility of his position, feared that he referred to a theft from the
collection.
“Something gone?” I asked.
“No; worse!” was his reply.
“What do you mean, Coram?”
He threw the cigarette, unsmoked, into the hearth. “You know Conway?”
he said; “Conway, the night attendant? Well—he’s dead!”
I stood up from the table, my breakfast forgotten, and stared
incredulously. “Do you mean that he died in the night?” I inquired.
“Yes. Done for, poor devil!”
“What! murdered?”
“Without a doubt, Searles! He’s had his neck broken!”
I waited for no further explanations, but, hastily dressing, accompanied
Coram to the Museum. It consists, I should mention, of four long,
rectangular rooms, the windows of two overlooking South Grafton Square,
those of the third giving upon the court that leads to the curator’s private
entrance, and the fourth adjoining an enclosed garden attached to the
building. This fourth room is on the ground floor and is entered through the
hall from the Square, the other three, containing the principal and more
valuable exhibits, are upon the first floor and are reached by a flight of
stairs from the hall. The remainder of the building is occupied by an office
and the curator’s private apartments, and is completely shut off from that
portion open to the public, the only communicating door—an iron one—
being kept locked.
The room described in the catalogue as the “Greek Room” proved to be
the scene of the tragedy. This room is one of the two overlooking the
Square and contains some of the finest items of the collection. The Museum
is not open to the public until ten o’clock, and I found, upon arriving there,
that the only occupants of the Greek Room were the commissionaire on
duty, two constables, a plain-clothes officer and an inspector—that is, if I
except the body of poor Conway.

He had not been touched, but lay as he was found by Beale, the
commissionaire who took charge of the upper rooms during the day, and,
indeed, it was patent that he was beyond medical aid. In fact, the position of
his body was so extraordinary as almost to defy description.
There are three windows in the Greek Room, with wall cases between,
and, in the gap corresponding to the east window and just by the door
opening into the next room, is a chair for the attendant. Conway lay
downward on the polished floor with his limbs partly under this chair and
his clenched fists thrust straight out before him. His head, turned partially to
one side, was doubled underneath his breast in a most dreadful manner,
indisputably pointing to a broken neck, and his commissionaire’s cap lay
some distance away, under a table supporting a heavy case of vases.
So much was revealed at a glance, and I immediately turned blankly to
Coram.
“What do you make of it?” he said.
I shook my head in silence. I could scarce grasp the reality of the thing;
indeed, I was still staring at the huddled figure when the doctor arrived. At
his request we laid the dead man flat upon the floor to facilitate an
examination, and we then saw that he was greatly cut and bruised about the
head and face, and that his features were distorted in a most extraordinary
manner, almost as though he had been suffocated.
The doctor did not fail to notice this expression. “Made a hard fight of
it!” he said. “He must have been in the last stages of exhaustion when his
neck was broken!”
“My dear fellow!” cried Coram, somewhat irritably, “what do you mean
when you say that he made a hard fight? There could not possibly have
been any one else in these rooms last night!”
“Excuse me, sir!” said the inspector, “but there certainly was something
going on here. Have you seen the glass case in the next room?”
“Glass case?” muttered Coram, running his hand distractedly through his
thick black hair. “No; what of a glass case?”
“In here, sir,” explained the inspector, leading the way into the adjoining
apartment.
At his words, we all followed, and found that he referred to the glass
front of a wall case containing statuettes and images of Egyptian deities.
The centre pane of this was smashed into fragments, the broken glass
strewing the floor and the shelves inside the case.

“That looks like a struggle, sir, doesn’t it?” said the inspector.
“Heaven help us! What does it mean?” groaned poor Coram. “Who could
possibly have gained access to the building in the night, or, having done so,
have quitted it again, when all the doors remained locked?”
“That we must try and find out!” replied the inspector. “Meanwhile, here
are his keys. They lay on the floor in a corner of the Greek Room.”
Coram took them, mechanically. “Beale,” he said to the commissionaire,
“see if any of the cases are unlocked.”
The man proceeded to go around the rooms. He had progressed no farther
than the Greek Room when he made a discovery. “Here’s the top of this
unfastened, sir!” he suddenly cried, excitedly.
We hurriedly joined him, to find that he stood before a marble pedestal
surmounted by a thick glass case containing what Coram had frequently
assured me was the gem of the collection—the Athenean Harp.
It was alleged to be of very ancient Greek workmanship, and was
constructed of fine gold inlaid with jewels. It represented two reclining
female figures, their arms thrown above their heads, their hands meeting;
and the strings, several of which were still intact, were of incredibly fine
gold wire. The instrument was said to have belonged to a Temple of Pallas
in an extremely remote age, and at the time it was brought to light much
controversy had waged concerning its claims to authenticity, several
connoisseurs proclaiming it the work of a famous goldsmith of mediæval
Florence, and nothing but a clever forgery. However, Greek or Florentine,
amazingly ancient or comparatively modern, it was a beautiful piece of
workmanship and of very great intrinsic value, apart from its artistic worth
and unique character.
“I thought so!” said the plain-clothes man. “A clever museum thief!”
Coram sighed wearily. “My good fellow,” he replied, “can you explain,
by any earthly hypothesis, how a man could get into these apartments and
leave them again during the night?”
“Regarding that, sir,” remarked the detective, “there are a few questions I
should like to ask you. In the first place, at what time does the Museum
close?”
“At six o’clock in the summer.”
“What do you do when the last visitor has gone?”
“Having locked the outside door, Beale, here, thoroughly examines every
room to make certain that no one remains concealed. He next locks the

communicating doors and comes down into the hall. It was then his custom
to hand me the keys. I gave them into poor Conway’s keeping when he
came on duty at half-past six, and every hour he went through the Museum,
relocking all the doors behind him.”
“I understand that there is a tell-tale watch in each room?”
“Yes. That in the Greek Room registers 4 A.M., so that it was about then
that he met his death. He had evidently opened the door communicating
with the next room—that containing the broken glass case; but he did not
touch the detector and the door was found open this morning.”
“Someone must have lain concealed there and sprung upon him as he
entered.”
“Impossible! There is no other means of entrance or exit. The three
windows are iron-barred and they have not been tampered with. Moreover,
the watch shows that he was there at three o’clock, and nothing larger than
a mouse could find shelter in the place; there is nowhere a man could hide.”
“Then the murderer followed him into the Greek Room.”
“Might I venture to point out that, had he done so, he would have been
there this morning when Beale arrived? The door of the Greek Room was
locked and the keys were found inside upon the floor!”
“The thief might have had a duplicate set.”
“Quite impossible; but, granting the impossible, how did he get in, since
the hall door was bolted and barred?”
“We must assume that he succeeded in concealing himself before the
Museum was closed.”
“The assumption is not permissible, in view of the fact that Beale and I
both examined the rooms last night prior to handing the keys to Conway.
However, again granting the impossible, how did he get out?”
The Scotland Yard man removed his hat and mopped his forehead with
his handkerchief. “I must say, sir, it is a very strange thing,” he said; “but
how about the iron door here?”
“It leads to my own apartments. I, alone, hold a key. It was locked.”
A brief examination served to show that exit from any of the barred
windows was impossible.
“Well, sir,” said the detective, “if the man had keys he could have come
down into the hall and the lower room.”
“Step down and look,” was Coram’s invitation.

The windows of the room on the ground floor were also heavily
protected, and it was easy to see that none of them had been opened.
“Upon my word,” exclaimed the inspector, “it’s uncanny! He couldn’t
have gone out by the hall door, because you say it was bolted and barred on
the inside.”
“It was,” replied Coram.
“One moment, sir,” interrupted the plain-clothes man. “If that was so,
how did you get in this morning?”
“It was Beale’s custom,” said Coram, “to come around by the private
entrance to my apartments. We then entered the Museum together by the
iron door into the Greek Room and relieved Conway of the keys. There are
several little matters to be attended to in the morning before admitting the
public, and the other door is never unlocked before ten o’clock.”
“Did you lock the door behind you when you came through this
morning?”
“Immediately on finding poor Conway.”
“Could any one have come through this door in the night, provided he
had a duplicate key?”
“No. There is a bolt on the private side.”
“And you were in your rooms all last night?”
“From twelve o’clock, yes.”
The police looked at one another silently; then the inspector gave an
embarrassed laugh. “Frankly, sir,” he said, “I’m completely puzzled!”
We passed upstairs again and Coram turned to the doctor. “Anything else
to report about poor Conway?” he asked.
“His face is all cut by the broken glass and he seems to have had a
desperate struggle, although, curiously enough, his body bears no other
marks of violence. The direct cause of death was, of course, a broken neck.”
“And how should you think he came by it?”
“I should say that he was hurled upon the floor by an opponent
possessing more than ordinary strength!”
Thus the physician, and was about to depart when there came a knocking
upon the iron door.

“It is Hilda,” said Coram, slipping the key in the lock—“my daughter,”
he added, turning to the detective.

II

The heavy door swinging open, there entered Hilda Coram, a slim,
classical figure, with the regular features of her father and the pale gold hair
of her dead mother. She looked unwell, and stared about her
apprehensively.
“Good morning, Mr. Searles,” she greeted me. “Is it not dreadful about
poor Conway!”—and then glanced at Coram. I saw that she held a card in
her hand. “Father, there is such a singular old man asking to see you.”
She handed the card to Coram, who in turn passed it to me. It was that of
Douglas Glade of the Daily Cable, and had written upon it in Glade’s hand
the words, “To introduce Mr. Moris Klaw.”
“I suppose it is all right if Mr. Glade vouches for him,” said Coram. “But
does anybody here know Moris Klaw?”
“I do,” replied the Scotland Yard man, smiling shortly. “He’s an antique
dealer or something of the kind; got a ramshackle old place by Wapping Old
Stairs—sort of a cross between Jamrach’s and a rag shop. He’s lately been
hanging about the Central Criminal Court a lot. Seems to fancy his luck as
an amateur investigator. He’s certainly smart,” he added, grudgingly, “but
cranky.”
“Ask Mr. Klaw to come through, Hilda,” said Coram.
Shortly afterward entered a strange figure. It was that of a tall man who
stooped, so that his apparent height was diminished—a very old man who
carried his many years lightly, or a younger man prematurely aged; none
could say which. His skin had the hue of dirty vellum, and his hair, his
shaggy brows, his scanty beard were so toneless as to defy classification in
terms of colour. He wore an archaic brown bowler, smart, gold-rimmed
pince-nez, and a black silk muffler. A long, caped black cloak completely
enveloped the stooping figure; from beneath its mud-spattered edge peeped
long-toed continental boots.
He removed his hat.
“Good morning, Mr. Coram,” he said. His voice reminded me of the
distant rumbling of empty casks; his accent was wholly indescribable.

“Good morning” (to the detective), “Mr. Grimsby. Good morning, Mr.
Searles. Your friend, Mr. Glade, tells me I shall find you here. Good
morning, Inspector. To Miss Coram I already have said good morning.”
From the lining of the flat-topped hat he took out one of those small
cylindrical scent sprays and played its contents upon his high, bald brow.
An odour of verbena filled the air. He replaced the spray in the hat, the hat
upon his scantily thatched crown.
“There is here a smell of dead men!” he explained.
I turned aside to hide my smiles, so grotesque was my first impression of
the amazing individual known as Moris Klaw.
“Mr. Coram,” he continued, “I am an old fool who sometimes has wise
dreams. Crime has been the hobby of a busy life. I have seen crime upon
the Gold Coast, where the black fever it danced in the air above the
murdered one like a lingering soul, and I have seen blood flow in Arctic
Lapland, where it was frozen up into red ice almost before it left the veins.
Have I your permit to see if I can help?”
All of us, the police included, were strangely impressed now.
“Certainly,” said Coram; “will you step this way?”
Moris Klaw bent over the dead man.
“You have moved him!” he said, sharply.
It was explained that this had been for the purpose of a medical
examination. He nodded absently. With the aid of a large magnifying glass
he was scrutinizing poor Conway. He examined his hair, his eyes, his hands,
his fingernails. He rubbed long, flexible fingers upon the floor beside the
body—and sniffed at the dust.
“Someone so kindly will tell me all about it,” he said, turning out the
dead man’s pockets.
Coram briefly recounted much of the foregoing, and replied to the oddly
chosen questions which from time to time Moris Klaw put to him.
Throughout the duologue, the singular old man conducted a detailed search
of every square inch, I think, of the Greek Room. Before the case
containing the harp he stood, peering.
“It is here that the trouble centres,” he muttered. “What do I know of
such a Grecian instrument? Let me think.”
He threw back his head, closing his eyes.
“Such valuable curios,” he rumbled, “have histories—and the crimes they
occasion operate in cycles.” He waved his hand in a slow circle. “If I but

knew the history of this harp! Mr. Coram!”
He glanced toward my friend.
“Thoughts are things, Mr. Coram. If I might spend a night here—upon
the very spot of floor where the poor Conway fell—I could from the
surrounding atmosphere (it is a sensitive plate) recover a picture of the
thing in his mind”—indicating Conway—“at the last!”
The Scotland Yard man blew down his nose.
“You snort, my friend,” said Moris Klaw, turning upon him. “You would
snort less if you had waked screaming, out in the desert; screaming out with
fear of the dripping beaks of the vultures—the last dreadful fear which the
mind had known of him who had died of thirst upon that haunted spot!”
The words and the manner of their delivery thrilled us all.
“What is it,” continued the weird old man, “but the odic force, the ether
—say it how you please—which carries the wireless message, the
lightning? It is a huge, subtile, sensitive plate. Inspiration, what you call bad
luck and good luck—all are but reflections from it. The supreme thought
preceding death is imprinted on the surrounding atmosphere like a
photograph. I have trained this”—he tapped his brow—“to reproduce those
photographs! May I sleep here to-night, Mr. Coram?”
Somewhere beneath the ramshackle exterior we had caught a glimpse of
a man of power. From behind the thick pebbles momentarily had shone out
the light of a tremendous and original mind.
“I should be most glad of your assistance,” answered my friend.
“No police must be here to-night,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “No heavy-
footed constables, filling the room with thoughts of large cooks and small
Basses, must fog my negative!”
“Can that be arranged?” asked Coram of the inspector.
“The men on duty can remain in the hall, if you wish it, sir.”
“Good!” rumbled Moris Klaw.
He moistened his brow with verbena, bowed uncouthly, and shuffled
from the Greek Room.

III

Moris Klaw reappeared in the evening, accompanied by a strikingly
beautiful brunette.

The change of face upon the part of Mr. Grimsby of New Scotland Yard
was singular.
“My daughter—Isis,” explained Moris Klaw. “She assists to develop my
negatives.”
Grimsby became all attention. Leaving two men on duty in the hall,
Moris Klaw, his daughter, Grimsby, Coram, and I went up to the Greek
Room. Its darkness was relieved by a single lamp.
“I’ve had the stones in the Athenean Harp examined by a lapidary,” said
Coram. “It occurred to me that they might have been removed and paste
substituted. It was not so, however.”
“No,” rumbled Klaw. “I thought of that, too. No visitors have been
admitted here during the day?”
“The Greek Room has been closed.”
“It is well, Mr. Coram. Let no one disturb me until my daughter comes in
the morning.”
Isis Klaw placed a red silk cushion upon the spot where the dead man
had lain.
“Some pillows and a blanket, Mr. Klaw?” suggested the suddenly
attentive Mr. Grimsby.
“I thank you, no,” was the reply. “They would be saturated with alien
impressions. My cushion it is odically sterilized! The ‘etheric storm’ created
by Conway’s last mental emotion reaches my brain unpolluted. Good-night,
gentlemen. Good-night, Isis!”
We withdrew, leaving Moris Klaw to his ghostly vigil.
“I suppose Mr. Klaw is quite trustworthy?” whispered Coram to the
detective.
“Oh, undoubtedly!” was the reply. “In any case, he can do no harm. My
men will be on duty downstairs here all night.”
“Do you speak of my father, Mr. Grimsby?” came a soft, thrilling voice.
Grimsby turned, and met the flashing black eyes of Isis Klaw.
“I was assuring Mr. Coram,” he answered, readily, “that Mr. Klaw’s
methods have several times proved successful!”
“Several times!” she cried, scornfully. “What! has he ever failed?”
Her accent was certainly French, I determined; her voice, her entire
person, was certainly charming—to which the detective’s manner bore
witness.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with all his cases, miss,” he said. “Can I call
you a cab?”
“I thank you, no.” She rewarded him with a dazzling smile. “Good-
night.”
Coram opened the doors of the Museum, and she passed out. Leaving the
men on duty in the hall, Coram and I shortly afterward also quitted the
Museum by the main entrance, in order to avoid disturbing Moris Klaw by
using the curator’s private door.
To my friend’s study Hilda Coram brought us coffee. She was
unnaturally pale, and her eyes were feverishly bright. I concluded that the
tragedy was responsible.
“Perhaps, to an extent,” said Coram; “but she is studying music and, I
fear, overworking in order to pass a stiff exam.”
Coram and I surveyed the Greek Room problem from every conceivable
standpoint, but were unable to surmise how the thief had entered, how left,
and why he had fled without his booty.
“I don’t mind confessing,” said Coram, “that I am very ill at ease. We
haven’t the remotest idea how the murderer got into the Greek Room or
how he got out again. Bolts and bars, it is evident, do not prevail against
him, so that we may expect a repetition of the dreadful business at any
time!”
“What precautions do you propose to take?”
“Well, there will be a couple of police on duty in the Museum for the
next week or so, but, after that, we shall have to rely upon a night
watchman. The funds only allow of the appointment of four attendants:
three for day and one for night duty.”
“Do you think you’ll find any difficulty in getting a man?”
“No,” replied Coram. “I know of a steady man who will come as soon as
we are ready for him.”
I slept but little that night, and was early afoot and around to the
Museum. Isis Klaw was there before me, carrying the red cushion, and her
father was deep in conversation with Coram.
Detective-Inspector Grimsby approached me.
“I see you’re looking at the cushion, sir!” he said, smilingly. “But it’s not
a ‘plant.’ He’s not an up-to-date cracksman. Nothing’s missing!”
“You need not assure me of that,” I replied. “I do not doubt Mr. Klaw’s
honesty of purpose.”

“Wait till you hear his mad theory, though!” he said, with a glance aside
at the girl.
“Mr. Coram,” Moris Klaw was saying, in his odd, rumbling tones, “my
psychic photograph is of a woman! A woman dressed all in white!”
Grimsby coughed—then flushed as he caught the eye of Isis.
“Poor Conway’s mind,” continued Klaw, “is filled with such a picture
when he breathes his last—great wonder he has for the white woman and
great fear for the Athenean Harp, which she carries!”
“Which she carries!” cried Coram.
“Some woman took the harp from its case a few minutes before Conway
died!” affirmed Moris Klaw. “I have much research to make now, and with
aid from Isis shall develop my negative! Yesterday I learnt from the
constable who was on night duty at the corner of the Square that a heavy
pantechnicon van went driving round at four o’clock. It was shortly after
four o’clock that the tragedy occurred. The driver was unaware that there
was no way out, you understand. Is it important? I cannot say. It often is
such points that matter. We must, however, waste no time. Until you hear
from me again you will lay dry plaster of Paris all around the stand of the
Athenean Harp each night. Good morning, gentlemen!”
His arm linked in his daughter’s, he left the Museum.

IV

For some weeks after this mysterious affair, all went well at the Menzies
Museum. The new night watchman, a big Scot, by name John Macalister,
seemed to have fallen thoroughly into his duties, and everything was
proceeding smoothly. No clue concerning the previous outrage had come to
light, the police being clearly at a loss. From Moris Klaw we heard not a
word. But Macalister did not appear to suffer from nervousness, saying that
he was quite big enough to look after himself.
Poor Macalister! His bulk did not save him from a dreadful fate. He was
found, one fine morning, lying flat on his back in the Greek Room—dead!
As in the case of Conway, the place showed unmistakable signs of a
furious struggle. The attendant’s chair had been dashed upon the floor with
such violence as to break three of the legs; a bust of Pallas, that had
occupied a corner position upon a marble pedestal, was found to be hurled

down; and the top of the case which usually contained the Athenean Harp
had been unlocked, and the priceless antique lay close by, upon the floor!
The cause of death, in Macalister’s case, was heart failure, an
unsuspected weakness of that organ being brought to light at the inquest;
but, according to the medical testimony, deceased must have undergone
unnaturally violent exertions to bring about death. In other respects, the
circumstances of the two cases were almost identical. The door of the Greek
Room was locked upon the inside and the keys were found on the floor.
From the detector watches in the other rooms it was evident that his death
must have taken place about three o’clock. Nothing was missing, and the
jewels in the harp had not been tampered with.
But, most amazing circumstance of all, imprinted upon the dry plaster of
Paris which, in accordance with the instructions of the mysteriously absent
Moris Klaw, had nightly been placed around the case containing the harp,
were the marks of little bare feet!
A message sent, through the willing agency of Inspector Grimsby, to the
Wapping abode of the old curio dealer, resulted in the discovery that Moris
Klaw was abroad. His daughter, however, reported having received a letter
from her father which contained the words—

“Let Mr. Coram keep the key of the case containing the
Athenean Harp under his pillow at night.”

“What does she mean?” asked Coram. “That I am to detach that
particular key from the bunch or place them all beneath my pillow?”
Grimsby shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m simply telling you what she told me, sir.”
“I should suspect the man to be an impostor,” said Coram, “if it were not
for the extraordinary confirmation of his theory furnished by the footprints.
They certainly looked like those of a woman!”
Remembering how Moris Klaw had acted, I sought out the constable who
had been on duty at the corner of South Grafton Square on the night of the
second tragedy. From him I elicited a fact which, though insignificant in
itself, was, when associated with another circumstance, certainly singular.
A Pickford traction engine, drawing two heavy wagons, had been driven
round the Square at 3 A.M., the driver thinking that he could get out on the
other side.

That was practically all I learned from the constable, but it served to set
me thinking. Was it merely a coincidence that, at almost the exact hour of
the previous tragedy, a heavy pantechnicon had passed the Museum?
“It’s not once in six months,” the man assured me, “that any vehicle but a
tradesman’s cart goes round the Square. You see, it doesn’t lead anywhere,
but this Pickford chap he was rattling by before I could stop him, and
though I shouted he couldn’t hear me, the engine making such a noise, so I
just let him drive round and find out for himself.”
I now come to the event which concluded this extraordinary case, and,
that it may be clearly understood, I must explain the positions which we
took up during the nights of the following week; for Coram had asked me to
take a night watch, with himself, Grimsby, and Beale, in the Museum.
Beale, the commissionaire, remained in the hall and lower room—it was
catalogued as the “Bronze Room”—Coram patrolled the room at the top of
the stairs, Grimsby the next, or Greek, Room, and I the Egyptian Room.
None of the doors was locked, and Grimsby, by his own special request,
held the keys of the cases in the Greek Room.
We commenced our vigil on the Saturday, and I, for one, found it a
lugubrious business. One electric lamp was usually left burning in each
apartment throughout the night, and I sat as near to that in the Egyptian
Room as possible and endeavoured to distract my thoughts with a bundle of
papers with which I had provided myself.
In the next room I could hear Grimsby walking about incessantly, and, at
regular intervals, the scratching of a match as he lighted a cigar. He was an
inveterate cheroot smoker.
Our first night’s watching, then, was productive of no result, and the five
that followed were equally monotonous.
Upon Grimsby’s suggestion we observed great secrecy in the matter of
these dispositions. Even Coram’s small household was kept in ignorance of
this midnight watching. Grimsby, following out some theory of his own,
now determined to dispense altogether with light in the Greek Room.
Friday was intensely hot, and occasional fitful breezes brought with them
banks of black thundercloud, which, however, did not break; and, up to the
time that we assumed our posts at the Museum, no rain had fallen. At about
twelve o’clock I looked out into South Grafton Square and saw that the sky
was entirely obscured by a heavy mass of inky cloud, ominous of a
gathering storm.

Returning to my chair beneath the electric lamp, I took up a work of
Mark Twain’s, which I had brought as a likely antidote to melancholy or
nervousness. As I commenced to read, for the twentieth time, “The Jumping
Frog,” I heard the scratch of Grimsby’s match in the next room and knew
that he had lighted his fifth cigar.
It must have been about one o’clock when the rain came. I heard the big
drops on the glass roof, followed by the steady pouring of the deluge. For
perhaps five minutes it rained steadily, and then ceased as abruptly as it had
begun. Above the noise of the water rushing down the metal gutters, I
distinctly detected the sound of Grimsby striking another match. Then, with
a mighty crash, came the thunder.
Directly above the Museum it seemed as though the very heavens had
burst, and the glass roof rattled as if a shower of stones had fallen, the
thunderous report echoing and reverberating hollowly through the building.
As the lightning flashed with dazzling brilliance, I started from my chair
and stood, breathless, with every sense on the alert; for, strangely
intermingling with the patter of the rain that now commenced to fall again,
came a low wailing, like nothing so much as the voice of a patient
succumbing to an anæsthetic. There was something indefinably sweet, but
indescribably weird, in the low and mysterious music.
Not knowing from whence it proceeded, I stood undetermined what to
do; but, just as the thunder boomed again, I heard a wild cry—undoubtedly
proceeding from the Greek Room! Springing to the door, I threw it open.
All was in darkness, but, as I entered, a vivid flash of lightning
illuminated the place.
I saw a sight which I can never forget. Grimsby lay flat upon the floor by
the farther door. But, dreadful as that spectacle was, it scarce engaged my
attention; nor did I waste a second glance upon the Athenean Harp, which
lay close beside its empty case.
For the figure of a woman, draped in flimsy white, was passing across the
Greek Room!
Grim fear took me by the throat, since I could not doubt that what I saw
was a supernatural manifestation. Darkness followed. I heard a loud wailing
cry and a sound as of a fall.
Then Coram came running through the Greek Room.
Trembling violently, I joined him; and together we stood looking down at
Grimsby.

“Good God!” whispered Coram; “this is awful. It cannot be the work of
mortal hands! Poor Grimsby is dead!”
“Did you—see—the woman?” I muttered. I will confess it: my courage
had completely deserted me.
He shook his head; but, as Beale came running to join us, glanced
fearfully into the shadows of the Greek Room. The storm seemed to have
passed, and, as we three frightened men stood around Grimsby’s recumbent
body, we could almost hear the beating of each other’s hearts.
Suddenly, giving a great start, Coram clutched my arm. “Listen!” he said.
“What’s that?”
I held my breath and listened. “It’s the thunder in the distance,” said
Beale.
“You are wrong,” I answered. “It is someone knocking at the hall
entrance! There goes the bell, now!”
Coram gave a sigh of relief. “Heavens!” he said; “I’ve no nerves left!
Come on and see who it is.”
The three of us, keeping very close together, passed quickly through the
Greek Room and down into the hall. As the ringing continued, Coram
unbolted the door—and there, on the steps, stood Moris Klaw!
Some vague idea of his mission flashed through my mind. “You are too
late!” I cried. “Grimsby has gone!”
I saw a look of something like anger pass over his large pale features, and
then he had darted past us and vanished up the stairs.

V

Having rebolted the door, we rejoined Moris Klaw in the Greek Room.
He was kneeling beside Grimsby in the dim light—and Grimsby, his face
ghastly pale, was sitting up and drinking from a flask!
“I am in time!” said Moris Klaw. “He has only fainted!”
“It was the ghost!” whispered the Scotland Yard man. “My God! I’m
prepared for anything human—but when the lightning came and I saw that
white thing—playing the harp——”
Coram turned aside and was about to pick up the harp, which lay upon
the floor near, when—
“Ah!” cried Moris Klaw, “do not touch it! It is death!”

Coram started back as though he had been stung as Grimsby very
unsteadily got upon his feet.
“Turn up lights,” directed Moris Klaw, “and I will show you!”
The curator went out to the switchboard and the Greek Room became
brightly illuminated. The ramshackle figure of Moris Klaw seemed to be
invested with triumphant majesty. Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed.
“Observe,” he said, “I raise the harp from the floor.” He did so. “And I
live. For why? Because I do not take hold upon it in a natural manner—by
the top! I take it by the side! Conway and Macalister took hold upon it at
the top; and where are they—Conway and Macalister?”
“Mr. Klaw,” said Coram, “I cannot doubt that this black business is all
clear to your very unusual intelligence; but to me it is a profound mystery. I
have, myself, in the past, taken up the harp in the way you describe as fatal,
and without injury——”
“But not immediately after it had been played upon!” interrupted Moris
Klaw.
“Played upon! I have never attempted to play upon it!”
“Even had you done so you might yet have escaped, provided you set it
down before touching the top part! Note, please!”
He ran his long white fingers over the golden strings. Instantly there stole
upon my ears that weird, wailing music which had heralded the strange
happenings of the night!
“And now,” continued our mentor, “whilst I who am cunning hold it
where the ladies’ gold feet join, observe the top—where the hand would in
ordinary rest in holding it.”
We gathered around him.
“A needle-point,” he rumbled, impressively, “protruding! The player
touches it not! But who takes it from the hand of the player dies! By placing
the harp again upon its base the point again retires! Shall I say what is upon
that point, to drive a man mad like a dog with rabies, to stay potent for
generations? I cannot. It is a secret buried with the ugly body of Cæsar
Borgia!”
“Cæsar Borgia!” we cried in chorus.
“Ah!” rumbled Moris Klaw, “your Athenean Harp was indeed made by
Paduano Zelloni, the Florentine! It is a clever forge! I have been in Rome
until yesterday. You are surprised? I am sorry, for the poor Macalister died.
Having perfected, with the aid of Isis, my mind photograph of the lady who

plays the harp, I go to Rome to perfect the story of the harp. For why? At
my house I have records, but incomplete, useless. In Rome I have a friend,
of so old a family, and once so wicked, I shall not name it!
“He has recourse to the great Vatican Library—to the annals of his race.
There he finds me an account of such a harp. In those priceless parchments
it is called ‘a Greek lyre of gold.’ It is described. I am convinced. I am sure!
“Once the beautiful Lucrece Borgia play upon this harp. To one who is
distasteful to her she says: ‘Replace for me my harp.’ He does so. He is a
dead man! God! what cleverness!
“Where has it lain for generations before your Sir Menzies find it? No
man knows. But it has still its virtues! How did the poor Menzies die?
Throw himself from his room window, I recently learn. This harp certainly
was in his room. Conway, after dashing, mad, about the place, springs head
downward from the attendant’s chair. Macalister dies in exhaustion and
convulsions!”
A silence; when—
“What caused the harp to play?” asked Coram.
Moris Klaw looked hard at him. Then a thrill of new horror ran through
my veins. A low moan came from somewhere hard by! Coram turned in a
flash!
“Why, my private door is open!” he whispered.
“Where do you keep your private keys?” rumbled Klaw.
“In my study.” Coram was staring at the open door, but seemed afraid to
approach it. “We have been using the attendant’s keys at night. My own are
on my study mantelpiece now.”
“I think not,” continued the thick voice. “Your daughter has them!”
“My daughter!” cried Coram, and sprang to the open door. “Heavens!
Hilda! Hilda!”
“She is somnambulistic!” whispered Moris Klaw in my ear. “When
certain unusual sounds—such as heavy vehicles at night—reach her in her
sleep (ah! how little we know of the phenomenon of sleep!), she arises, and,
in common with many sleepwalkers, always acts the same. Something, in
the case of Miss Hilda, attracts her to the golden harp——”
“She is studying music!”
“She must rest from it. Her brain is overwrought! She unlocks the case
and strikes the cords of the harp, relocking the door, replacing the keys—I
before have known such cases—then retires as she came. Who takes the

harp from her hands, or raises it, if she has laid it down upon its side, dies!
These dead attendants were brave fellows both, for, hearing the music, they
came running, saw how the matter was, and did not waken the sleeping
player. Conway was poisoned as he returned the harp to its case; Macalister,
as he took it up from where it lay. Something to-night awoke her ere she
could relock the door. The fright of so awaking made her to swoon.”
Coram’s kindly voice and the sound of a girl sobbing affrightedly
reached us.
“It was my yell of fear, Mr. Klaw!” said Grimsby, shamefacedly. “She
looked like a ghost!”
“I understand,” rumbled Moris Klaw, soothingly. “As I see her in my
sleep she is very awesome! I will show you the picture Isis has made from
my etheric photograph. I saw it, finished, earlier to-night. It confirmed me
that the Miss Hilda with the harp in her hand was poor Conway’s last
thought in life!”
“Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby, earnestly, “you are a very remarkable man!”
“Yes?” he rumbled, and gingerly placed in its case the “Greek lyre of
gold” which Paduano Zelloni had wrought for Cæsar Borgia.
From the brown hat he took out his scent spray and squirted verbena
upon his heated forehead.
“That harp,” he explained, “it smells of dead men!”

SECOND EPISODE.
CASE OF THE POTSHERD OF ANUBIS

In examining the mass of material which I have collated respecting Moris
Klaw, several outstanding facts strike me as being worthy of some special
notice.
For instance, an unusual number of the cases in which he was concerned
centred about curios and relics of various kinds. His personal tastes (he was,
I think, primarily, an antiquarian) may have led him to examine such cases
in preference to others. Then again, no two of his acquaintances agree upon
the point of Moris Klaw’s actual identity and personality. He was a master
of disguise; and the grand secret of his life was one which he jealously
guarded from all.
But was the Moris Klaw who kept the curio shop in Wapping the real
Moris Klaw? And to what extent did he believe in those psychical
phenomena upon which professedly his methods were based? As
particularly bearing upon this phase of the matter, I have selected, for
narration here, the story of the potsherd.
Since the Boswell, in records of this kind, has often appeared, to my
mind, to overshadow the Johnson, I have decided to present this episode in
the words of Mr. J.E. Wilson Clifford, electrical engineer, of Copthall
House, Copthall Avenue, E.C., to whom I am indebted for a full and careful
account. I do not think I could improve upon his paper, and my own views
might unduly intrude upon the story; therefore, with your permission, I will
vacate the rostrum in favour of Mr. Clifford, for whom I solicit your
attention.

Mr. Clifford’s Story of the Egyptian Potsherd

I

During the autumn of 19—, I was sharing a pleasant set of rooms with
Mark Lesty, who was shortly taking up an appointment at a London
hospital, and it was, I think, about the middle of that month that the
extraordinary affair of Halesowen and his Egyptian potsherd came under
our notice.
Our rooms (they were in a southwest suburb) overlooked a fine expanse
of Common. Halesowen rented a flat commanding a similar prospect; and,
at the time of which I write, he had but recently returned from a protracted
visit to Egypt.
Halesowen was a tall, fair man, clean-shaven, very fresh coloured, and
wearing his hair cropped close to his head. He was well travelled and no
mean antiquary. He lived entirely by himself; and Lesty and I frequently
spent the evening at his place, which was a veritable museum of curiosities.
I distinctly recall the first time that he showed us his latest acquisitions.
Both the windows were wide open and the awning fluttered in the slight
breeze. Dusk was just descending, and we sat looking out over the Common
and puffing silently at our briars. We had been examining the relics that
Halesowen had brought back from the land of the Pharaohs, the one, I
remember, which had most impressed me, tyro that I was, being the
mummy of a sacred cat from Bubastis.
“It wouldn’t have been worth bringing back only for the wrapping,”
Halesowen assured me. “This, now, is really unique.”
The object referred to was a broken pot or vase, upon which he pointed
out a number of hieroglyphics and a figure with the head of a jackal. “A
potsherd inscribed with the figure of Anubis,” he explained. “Very
valuable.”
“Why?” Lesty inquired, in his lazy way.
“Well,” Halesowen replied, “the characters of the inscription are of a
kind entirely unfamiliar to me. I believe them to be a sort of secret writing,
possibly peculiar to some brotherhood. I am risking expert opinion,
although, in every sense, I stole the thing!”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Well, Professor Sheraton—you’ll see his name on a row of cases in the
B.M.—excavated it. But it’s a moral certainty he didn’t intend to advise the
authorities of his find. He was going to smuggle it out of Egypt into his
private collection. I had marked the spot where he found it for inquiries of
my own. This dishonest old fossil——”

Lesty laughed.
“Oh! my own motives weren’t above suspicion! But, anyway, the
Professor anticipated me. Accordingly, I employed one Ali, a distinguished
member of a family of thieves, to visit the learned gentleman’s tent! Cutting
the story—there’s the pot!”
“Here! I say!” drawled Lesty. “You’ll come to a bad end, young fellow!”
“The position is a peculiar one,” replied Halesowen, smiling. “Neither of
us had any legal claim to the sherd—whilst we were upon Egyptian
territory. Therefore, even if the Professor learnt that I had the thing—and he
may suspect—he couldn’t prosecute me!”
“Devilish high-handed!” commented Lesty.
“Yes. But remember we were well off the map—miles away from Cook’s
route. The possession of this potsherd ought to make a man’s reputation—
any man who knows a bit about the subject. Curiously enough, a third party
had had his eye upon the place where this much-sought sherd was found.
And in some mysterious fashion he tumbled to the fact that it had fallen into
my hands. He made a sort of veiled offer of a hundred pounds for it. I
refused, but ran across him again, a week or so later, in Cairo, and he raised
his price to two hundred.”
“That’s strange,” I said. “Who was he?”
“Called himself Zeda—Dr. Louis Zeda. He quite lost his temper when I
declined to sell, and I’ve not set eyes on him since.”
He relocked the fragment in his cabinet, and we lapsed into silence, to sit
gazing meditatively across the Common, picturesque in the dim autumn
twilight.
“By the way, Halesowen,” I said, “I see that the flat next door, same floor
as this, is to let.”
“That’s so,” he replied. “Why don’t you men take it?”
“We’ll think about it,” yawned Lesty, stretching his long limbs. “Might
look over it in the morning.”
The following day we viewed the vacant flat, but found, upon inquiry of
the agent, that it had already been let. However, as our own rooms suited us
very well, we were not greatly concerned. Just as we finished dinner the
same evening, Halesowen came in, and, without preamble, plunged into a
surprising tale of uncanny happenings at his place.
“Take it slow,” said Lesty. “You say it was after we came away?”

“About an hour after,” replied Halesowen. “I had brought out the
potsherd, and had it in the wooden stand on the table before me. I was
copying the hieroglyphics, which are unusual, and had my reading lamp
burning only, the rest of the room being consequently in shadow. I was
sitting with my back to the windows, facing the door, so no one could
possibly have entered the room unseen by me. It was as I bent down to
scrutinize a badly defaced character that I felt a queer sensation stealing
over me, as though someone were standing close behind my chair, watching
me!”
“Very common,” explained Lesty; “merely nerves.”
“Yes, I know; but not what followed. The sensation became so
pronounced that I stood up. No one was in the room. I determined to take a
stroll, concluding that the fresh air would clear these uncanny cobwebs out
of my brain. Accordingly, I extinguished the lamp and went out. I was just
putting my cap on when something prompted me to return and lock up the
potsherd.”
He fixed his eyes upon us with an expression of doubt.
“There was someone, or something, in the room!”
“What do you mean?” asked Lesty, incredulously.
“I quite distinctly saw a hand and bare white arm pass away from the
table—and vanish! It was dark in the room, remember; but I could see the
arm well enough. I switched on the reading lamp. Not a thing was to be
seen. There was no one in the room and no one but myself in the flat, for I
searched it thoroughly!”
Some moments of silence followed this remarkable story, and I sat
watching Lesty, who, in turn, was regarding Halesowen with the stolid,
vacant stare which sometimes served to conceal the working of his keen
brain.
“Pity you didn’t let us know sooner,” he said, rising slowly to his feet.
“This is interesting.”

II

Halesowen’s nerves evidently had been shaken by the inexplicable
incident. As the three of us strode across the corner of the Common, he
informed us that the new tenant of the adjoining flat had moved in. “I have

been away all day,” he said; “but the stuff was bundled in some time during
the afternoon.”
We proceeded upstairs and into the cosy room which had been the scene
of the remarkable occurrence related. As it was growing dark, Halesowen
turned on the electric light, and, indicating a chair by the writing table,
explained that it was there he had been seated at the time.
“Did you have the windows open?” asked Lesty.
“Yes,” was the reply. “I left the chairs and the awning out, too, as it was a
fine night; in fact, you can see that they still remain practically as you left
them.”
“When you returned, and saw, or thought you saw, the hand and arm—
you would have to pass around to this side of the table in order to reach the
lamp?”
“Yes.”
Apparently Lesty was about to make some observation, when an
interruption occurred in the form of a ringing on the door bell, followed by
a discreet fandango on the knocker.
“Who the deuce have we here!” muttered Halesowen. “I saw no one go
in below.”
As our host passed through the lighted room and into the hall, my friend
and I both leant forward in our chairs, the better to hear what should pass;
nor were we kept long in suspense, for, as we heard the outer door opened,
an odd, rumbling voice came, with a queer accent:
“Ah, my dear Mr. Halesowen, it is indeed an intrusion of me! But when I
find how we are neighbours I cannot resist to make the call and renew a so
pleasant acquaintance!”
“Doctor Zeda!” we heard Halesowen exclaim, with little cordiality.
“Ever your devoted servant!” replied the courteous foreigner.
I glanced at Lesty, and we rose together and stepped through the open
window in time to see a truly remarkable personage enter.
This was a large-framed man, with snow-white hair cut close to his skull,
French fashion. He had a high and very wrinkled brow and wore gold-
rimmed pince-nez. Jet-black and heavy eyebrows were his, and his waxed
moustache, his neat imperial, were likewise of the hue of coal. His
complexion was pallid; and in his well-cut frock coat, with a loose black tie
overhanging his vest, he made a striking picture, standing bowing
profoundly in the doorway.

Halesowen rapidly muttered the usual formalities; in fact, I remember
mentally contrasting our friend’s unceremonious manners with the courtly
deportment of Doctor Zeda.
The latter explained that he had taken the adjacent flat, only learning, that
evening, whom he had for a neighbour, and, despite the lateness of the hour,
he said, he could not resist the desire to see Halesowen, of whose company
in Egypt he retained such pleasant memories. Allowing for his effusiveness,
there was nothing one could take exception to in his behaviour, and I rather
wondered at the brusque responses of our usually polite host.
When, after a brief chat, the foreign gentleman rose to take his leave, he
extended an invitation to all of us to lunch with him on the following day.
“My place is in somewhat disorder,” he said, smiling, “but you are
Bohemian, like myself, and will not care!”
Though I half expected that Halesowen would decline, he did not do so;
I, therefore, also accepted, as did Lesty. Whereupon, Zeda departed.
Halesowen, returning to the chair which he had vacated to usher out his
visitor, lighted a cigarette, regarded it for a moment, meditatively, and then
frankly expressed his doubts.
“He’s been watching me!” he said; “and when he saw the next flat vacant
he jumped at the chance.”
“My dear chap,” I retorted, “he must be very keen on securing your
potsherd if he is prepared to take and furnish a flat next door to you simply
with a view to keeping an eye on it!”
“You have no idea how anxious he is,” he assured me. “If you had seen
his face, in Cairo, when I flatly declined to sell, you would be better able to
understand.”
“Why not sell, then?”
“I’m dashed if I do!” said Halesowen, stubbornly.
On the following day we lunched with Doctor Zeda and were surprised at
the orderly state of his establishment. Everything, from floor to ceiling, was
in its proper place.
“It hasn’t taken you long to get things straight,” commented Lesty.
“Ah, no,” replied the other. “These big firms, they do it all in a day if you
insist—and I insist, see?”
I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, for he proved an excellent host, and I
think even Lesty grew less suspicious of him. During the weeks that
followed, the doctor came several times to our rooms, and we frequently

met at Halesowen’s. The latter, who boldly had submitted photographs and
drawings of the sherd to the British Museum, experienced no repetition of
the mysterious phenomenon already described. Then, about seven o’clock
one morning, when the mists hung low over the Common in promise of a
hot day, a boy came for Lesty and myself with news of a fresh
development. He was a lad who did odd jobs for Halesowen, and he
brought word of an attempted burglary, together with a request that we
should go over without delay.
Our curiosity keenly aroused, we were soon with our friend, and found
him seated in the familiar room, before a large cabinet, with double glass
doors, which, as was clearly evident, had been hastily ransacked. Other
cases in which he kept various curios were also opened, and the place was
in general disorder.
“What’s gone?” asked Lesty, quickly.
“Nothing!” was the answer. “The potsherd is in the safe, and the safe is in
my bedroom—or perhaps something might have gone!”
“You lock it up at night, then? I thought you kept it in the cabinet.”
“Only during the day. It goes in the safe, with one or two other trifles, at
night; but everybody doesn’t know that!”
We looked at one another, silently; but the name that was on all our lips
remained unspoken—for we were startled by a loud knocking and ringing at
the door. Carter opening it, into the room ran Doctor Zeda!
“Oh, my dear friends!” he cried, in his hoarse, rumbling voice, “there has
been to my flat a midnight robber! He has turned completely upside-down
all my collections!”
Lesty coughed loudly; but, as I turned my head to look at him, his face
was quite expressionless. Halesowen seemed stricken dumb by surprise;
whilst, for my own part, as I watched the foreigner staring about the
disordered room, and noted the growing look of bewilderment creeping
over his pallid countenance, I was compelled to admit to myself that here
was either a consummate actor or a man of whom we hastily had formed a
most unwarrantable opinion.
“But, my friend—my good Halesowen,” he exclaimed, with widely
opened eyes and extended palms, “what is it that I see? You are as
disordered as myself!”
Halesowen nodded. “The burglar gave me a call, too!” he said, grimly.

“My dear sir!” gasped Zeda, seizing the speaker’s arm, “tell me quickly
—you have lost nothing?”
Halesowen glanced at him rather hard. “No,” he answered.
“Ah! what a relief! I feared,” rumbled the doctor. “But perhaps you
wonder for what it is they came?”
“I can guess!”
“You need no longer to guess; I will tell you. It is for your fragment of
the sacred vase, and to me they come for mine!”
We were even more astonished by this assertion than we had been by the
doctor’s first. “Your fragment!” said Halesowen, slowly, with his eyes fixed
on Zeda; “to what fragment do you refer?”
“To that which, together with your potsherd, makes up the complete
vase! But you doubt?” he suggested, shrugging his shoulders. “Wait but a
moment and I will prove!”
He moved from the room; his gait had a mincing awkwardness, quite
indescribable; and we heard his retreating, heavy footsteps as he passed
downstairs. Then we stood and gaped at one another. “His confounded
ingenuity,” rapped Halesowen, “has completely tied my hands.”
Being interrupted, at this moment, by the re-entrance of the gentleman in
question, further discussion of the subject was precluded. Zeda carried a
small iron box which he placed carefully upon the table and unlocked. A
second box of polished ebony was revealed within, and this, being unlocked
in turn, was proved to contain, reposing in a nest of blue velvet, a fragment
of antique pottery. Taking the fragment in his hand, the doctor begged that
the potsherd be produced.
Halesowen, after a momentary hesitation, retired from the room, to return
almost immediately with the broken vase in its wooden frame. Doctor Zeda,
placing the portion which he held in his hand against that in the frame, but
not so closely as to bring the parts in contact, turned to us with a triumphant
smile. “They correspond, gentlemen, to a smallest fraction!” he declared;
which, indeed, was perfectly true.
“And now,” continued Zeda, evidently gratified by the surprise which we
could not conceal, “I will relate to you a story. I do not ask that you shall
credit it; I only say that I have given up my life to such studies, and that I
am willing, as matters have so arrived, that you shall join me to prove false
or true what I think of the potsherd of Anubis.”

“Good!” said Lesty, and settled himself to listen, an example that was
followed by Halesowen and myself. Zeda paused for a moment, evidently
to collect his ideas, a pause upon which my stolid friend placed a dubious
interpretation, for he cleared his throat, significantly.

III

“The date is no matter,” said Doctor Zeda, “but there was at Gîzeh, to the
north of the Sphinx, a temple dedicated to Isis, but wherein the worship was
different. We only know of this shrine by the monuments, but they prove it
to have been—eh, Mr. Halesowen?”
Halesowen nodded.
“Here, then, the gods of the dead were adored—but the worship of
Anubis took precedence, and was conducted at a shrine apart. Here, locked
within three-and-thirty doors, having each its separate janitor who held the
key, reposed a sacred symbol—a symbol, my friends, upon which was
based the occult knowledge of the initiated; a symbol more precious than
the lives of a hundred-hundred warriors—for so it is written!”
“I have never met with the inscription!” said Halesowen, drily.
Doctor Zeda smiled.
“You never are likely to meet it!” he responded. “Your Belzoni and
Lepsius, your Birch, Renouf, Brugsch and Petrie, is a mere unseeing
vandal, blinded to the great truth—to the ultimate secret that Egypt holds
for him who has eyes to see and a brain to realize!”
The mysterious foreign gentleman looked about him with a sort of
challenge in his glance; then he quietly resumed his story.
“At the change of the moon in the sacred month, Methori, a maiden
selected from a noble house for her beauty and purity, and for a whole year
dedicated to the service of the gods, held in her hands the sacred thing—
held it aloft that the initiated might worship, until the first white beam lit up
the receptacle, when all bowed down their heads and chanted the ‘Hymn of
the Souls Who Are Passing.’ Then was it locked again within the three-and-
thirty doors, there to remain for another year. None saw the symbol itself
but the high priest, who looked upon it when he was so ordained—for any
other that gazed upon it died! It was contained in a holy vase!”

He paused impressively. We had all fallen under the peculiar fascination
of the speaker’s personality; we felt as though he spoke of matters wherein
he had had personal concern. I could almost believe him to have witnessed
the strange rites that he told of with such conviction.
“In a year so long ago,” he softly resumed, his voice now a kind of
jagged whisper, “that to speak of its date were to convey nothing to you, the
high-born virgin on whom the exalted office was conferred closed upon her
unhappy soul the gates of paradise for ages unnumbered; called down upon
her head the curse of the high priest and the anger of the most high gods;
was rejected of Set himself!
“She let fall from her hands the sacred vase, and the holy symbol was lost
to the children of earth for evermore! Lost was the key to the book of
wisdom; closed was that book to man for all time!”
“Go on!” said Halesowen, harshly, for Zeda had paused again.
“You do not grasp?” asked the doctor. “Well, then, know that the
sentence was ‘Until the parts of this vase be made whole again.’ Five
fragments there were: a large one, which is your potsherd, and four smaller.
The four smaller, after twenty years of untiring search, I have recovered and
joined together. What if we now make whole that which was broken? May I
not, by the exercise of such poor shreds of the lost wisdom as I have
gathered up, summon before me that wandering spirit ere it return again to
plead for rest at the judgment seat of Amenti?”
When I say that the man’s words proved electrical, I do not exaggerate
the effect which this astounding proposition had upon us. Halesowen was
fairly startled out of his chair, and stood with his eyes fixed on the other in a
fascinated gaze.
Zeda, entirely returning to his customary urbanity, shrugged and smiled.
“You believe my story?”
Lesty was the first to recover himself, and his reply was characteristic.
“Can’t say I do,” he drawled, frankly. “I don’t say that you may not,
though,” he added.
“Then do you not owe it to assist in proving my words? A little séance?
You are sceptical, quite? Very well; I try to show you. If I fail, then it is
unfortunate, but—I bow to an inevitable!”
We looked at each other, interrogatively, and then Halesowen answered,
“All right. It’s a queer yarn, but we leave the matter entirely in your hands.”
The doctor bowed. “Shall we say to-night to begin?” he said, tentatively.

“By all means.”
The doctor expressed himself delighted, and, carefully relocking the
fragment of the vase in its double case, he was about to depart, when a point
occurred to me.
“Might I ask whom you suspect of the attempted burglary?” I said.
He turned, in the door, and fixed a strange glance upon me. “There are
others,” he replied, “who seek as I seek, and who do not scruple to gain
their ends how they may. Of them we shall beware, my friends, for we
know they design upon us!”
With that and a low bow he retired.
Little of interest occurred during the day, until about four in the
afternoon, when Halesowen aroused us out of a lazy doze to show a letter
just received from the British Museum.
It was in reply to one asking why he had received no acknowledgment of
the photographs and drawings submitted; and it informed him that no such
photographs and drawings had come to hand!
We usually took tea in the afternoon, and Halesowen joined us on this
occasion, whilst, at about five o’clock, Doctor Zeda also looked in. He
remained until it began to grow dusk, when we all went over to
Halesowen’s to arrange the first “sitting”—for so the doctor referred to the
projected séance. Retiring, for a few minutes, to his own establishment,
Zeda returned with the iron box and explained what he proposed to do.
“Around this small table we sit, as at séance,” he said; “but no medium—
only the potsherd. With these flexible bands I will attach, temporarily, the
parts, and stand the vase in Mr. Halesowen’s frame, here by the window—
so. Beside it we will place the lamp, shaded thus—so that a dim light is
upon it. We can just see from where we sit in the dark. We will now wait
until it is more dusk.”
Accordingly, we went out on to the balcony and smoked for an hour,
Zeda polluting the clean air with the fumes of the long, black cigars he
affected. They had an appearance as of dried twigs and an odour so wholly
original as to defy simile. Between eight and nine o’clock he expressed
himself satisfied with the light—or, rather, lack of it—and we all gathered
around the table in the gloom, spreading our hands as he directed. For close
upon an hour we sat in tense silence, the room seeming to be very hot. A
slight breeze off the Common had wafted the fumes of Zeda’s cigar in
through the open windows, which he had afterward closed, and the reek

filled the air as with something palpable—and nauseous. I was growing
very weary of the business, and Lesty, despite the doctor’s warning against
disturbing the silence, had begun to cough and fidget irritably, when the
rumbling foreign voice came, so unexpectedly as to startle us all: “It is
useless to-night; something is not propitious. Turn up the lights.”
From the celerity with which Halesowen complied, I divined that he, too,
had been growing impatient.
“There is some not suitable condition,” said Zeda, relocking his portion
of the vase in its case. “To-morrow we shall make some changes in the
order.”
He seemed not at all disappointed, being apparently as confident as ever
in the ultimate success of the séances. One of the windows, he suggested,
should be left open on the following evening during our sitting; and this we
were only too glad to agree upon, since it would possibly serve to clear the
atmosphere, somewhat, of the odour emanating from the doctor’s cigars.
Several other points he also mentioned as being conceivably responsible for
our initial failure—such as our positions around the table, and the relative
distance of the potsherd. “We shall see to-morrow,” were his last words as
he left us.
“A perfect monument of mendacity!” muttered Lesty, as we heard the
retiring footsteps of our foreign friend on the gravel below; “and I think his
accent is assumed. I don’t know why we even seem to credit such an
incredible fable.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Halesowen, reflectively. “But he certainly
possesses the missing part of the vase, and if he does not believe the story
himself, what earthly object can he hope to serve by these séances?”
“Give it up!” replied Lesty, promptly; and that, I think, rather aptly
expressed the mental attitude of all three.
We saw nothing of Zeda throughout the following day, but he duly put in
an appearance in the evening, and placed us around the table again, but in
different order. One of the French windows was left open, and the potsherd,
with the lamp beside it, placed somewhat to the left.
After persevering for about forty minutes, we were rewarded by a rather
conventional phenomenon. The table rocked and gave forth cracking
sounds. There was no other manifestation, and, at about half-past ten, the
doctor again terminated the séance.

“Excellent!” said Zeda, enthusiastically, “excellent! We were en rapport,
and within the circle there was power. To-morrow we shall triumph, my
friends, but there is again an alteration that occurs to me. You, Mr. Clifford,
shall sit next to Mr. Lesty on the left, Mr. Halesowen shall be upon his right,
and I, facing Mr. Lesty between. Also, there is too much light from the
lamps in the road. It is good, I think, to have open the windows, but this
Japanese screen will keep out that too much light and shelter the vase. To-
morrow we will observe these things.”
This, then, concluded our second sitting, and brings me to the final
episode of that affair which, strange enough in its several developments,
was stranger still in its dénouement.

IV

Zeda, on the following day, entertained us to luncheon in town, followed
by an afternoon concert, for which he had procured seats, being interested,
or professing to be, in a certain fiddler who figured largely in the
programme. We had arranged that Halesowen and the doctor should dine
with us in the evening, before we went to the former’s flat for the séance,
and we accordingly returned direct to our rooms and chatted over the
doings of the day until dinner was served. Zeda surpassed himself in
brilliant conversation. He must, I remember thinking, have led a strange and
eventful life.
At about nine o’clock, we walked over, in the dark, to our friend’s flat,
where we had to grope for and light an oil lamp which he had, Zeda
declaring that something in the atmosphere was propitious and that the
electric light would tend to disturb these favourable conditions. He seemed
to be strung to high tension, perhaps with expectancy, but was not so
preoccupied as to forget his black cigars, one of which he lighted as he was
about to go out for the iron box. He borrowed my matches for the purpose
and forgot to return them.
It was, perhaps, a quarter to ten before Zeda had matters arranged to his
satisfaction, and so dark, by reason of the tall Japanese screen which stood
before the open windows, that I could see neither Zeda, on my left, nor
Lesty, who sat on my right. Halesowen was a dim silhouette against the
patch of light cast by the oil reading lamp beside the vase, which stood the

whole length of the room away. I was conscious of a suppressed
excitement, which I am sure was shared by my companions.
I heard a distant clock striking the half hour, and then the three quarters;
but still nothing had occurred. A motor car drove around from the road and
stopped somewhere at the outer end of the drive. I wondered, idly, if it were
that of the surgeon who lived at Number 10. After that, everything was very
quiet, and I was expecting to hear the hour strike, and straining my ears to
catch the sound of the first chime, when the rocking and cracking of the
table began. This was much more violent than hitherto, and Zeda’s gruff
tones came softly: “Whatever shall happen, do not remove your hands from
the table!”
He ceased speaking, and the rocking motions, together with the rapping
and cracking that had sounded from all about us, also ceased, with
disconcerting suddenness. A silence fell, so short in duration as to be
scarcely appreciable; for it was almost instantly broken by an unexpected
sound.
It was a woman’s voice, very low and clear, and it seemed to mutter
something in a weird, rising cadence, with a high note at the end of every
third bar or so, and this over and over again—an eerie thing, vaguely like a
Gregorian chant.
“Triumph!” whispered Zeda. “The ‘Hymn of the Souls Who Are
Passing.’ ”
His speech seemed to disturb the singer, but only for a moment. The
Hymn was continued.
This singular performance was proving too much for my nerves; at each
recurrence of the quiet, clear note on the fourth beat of the third bar, a cold
shudder ran down my spine. Then, as the very monotony of the thing was
beginning to grow appalling, I suddenly became aware of a slim, white
figure standing beside the vase!
The chant stopped, and I could hear nothing but the nervous breathing of
my companions. Seated as they were, I doubted whether Halesowen or
Lesty could see this apparition, but I was facing directly toward her—for it
was a woman. I could see every line of her figure—the curves of her throat
and arms and shoulders, the dull, metallic gleaming of her clustering hair.
As she extended her hand toward the light, I distinctly saw the large green
stone set in a ring on her index finger. She must be very beautiful, I thought,
and I was peering through the gloom in a vain endeavour to see her more

clearly, when there came a disconcerting crash—and utter darkness! The
table whereat we were seated was overturned, and I found myself capsized
from my chair!
“Hold him!” yelled the voice of Lesty. “Hold him, Halesowen—
Clifford!”
A door banged loudly.
“Confound it! I’m on the floor!”—from Halesowen.
I shouted for someone to turn up the light, at the same time scrambling
through the gloom with that intent. After severely damaging my shins
against the intervening furniture, I found the switch. It would not work!
“It’s cut off!” I cried. “Strike a match, somebody.”
“Haven’t got any!” said Lesty.
“Zeda has mine!” responded Halesowen. “Open the door.”
“Locked!” was Lesty’s next report.
“Break it down!” shouted Halesowen, hurling aside the Japanese screen.
“The potsherd is gone!”
Lesty applied his shoulder to the oak—once—twice—thrice. Then all
together we attacked it, and it flew open with a splintering crash.
“Round to his flat!” panted Halesowen, running downstairs.
Out on to the drive we sprinted, into the next entrance and up to the first
landing. Knocking and ringing proved ineffectual, and the door was too
strong to be burst open. We stood in dismayed silence, staring at one
another.
“Off your balcony, on to his and through the French window!” said Lesty,
suddenly; so back we all ran again.
I had never before realized how easy it was to get from one balcony to
another, until I saw Lesty swing himself across. Halesowen and I followed
in a trice, and we all blundered into the dark room through the open window
and made for the electric switch beside the mantelpiece. We turned on the
light. The room was unfurnished!
“Good Lord!” breathed Halesowen, hurrying into the next.
That, too, was quite bare, as were all the rest! The outer door was locked.
“While we were fooling at that concert, he had every scrap of stuff
removed!” I said. “He probably had the lot on hire from a big furnishing
firm—curios and all. I remember noticing that his curiosities were of a very
ordinary character, considering his extensive travels and the nature of his
studies.”

“No doubt whatever,” agreed Lesty. “His burglary proved a failure (and, I
think, must have been interrupted), though I am compelled to admire the
neat manner in which he handled the very delicate situation that resulted.
His more recent and elaborate device has turned out all that could be
desired—from Zeda’s point of view!”
“But how has he got away?” said Halesowen, in bewilderment.
“Motor waiting at the corner,” replied Lesty, promptly. “Heard it come
up. When the reading lamp was capsized, and whoever had crept from his
balcony to yours and in behind the screen had returned the same way—with
the vase!—Zeda overturned the table and pushed you two men backward in
your chairs. Then, before I could reach him, he bolted out and locked the
door after him. For, having lulled my suspicions by two practically
uneventful séances, he cunningly placed himself nearest to the door and me
farthest away. He probably removed the key when he went out for the box
and placed it outside in the lock when he returned. His accomplice had run
straight through Zeda’s flat and out to the waiting car, and there he joined
her. They may be thirty miles away by now!”
Being unable to open the door, we perforce returned to Halesowen’s
balcony by the same way that we had come, our friend bewailing his lost
potsherd and exclaiming: “The cunning, cunning scamp!”
“I knew he had some deep game in hand,” said Lesty; “but I hadn’t
bargained for this move. Of course, I had noticed the dodge of borrowing
all our matches, but I didn’t grasp its importance until too late. It never
occurred to me that he’d disconnected the electric light (which he probably
did sometime in the night, by the way). I was a fool not to realize it, too,
when he insisted on our using only the oil lamp. Then, again, I was slow not
to go straight through the window and into Zeda’s flat that way. It is just
possible I might have caught the lady songster if I had done that in the first
place. The possibility, however, had not been overlooked, since she took the
precaution to lock the door after her.”
“A clever rogue!” I declared. “But wasn’t the first attempt—for I suppose
we must classify the mysterious arm under that head—more than a trifle
indiscreet?”
“No doubt,” agreed Lesty. “But we didn’t know, then, that Zeda was in
London, and the flat was still unfurnished. Also, they may have thought
Halesowen was in bed; or the woman (whom he has so cleverly kept out of

sight) may have exceeded her instructions in attempting to touch the
potsherd while any one remained in the room.”
“But,” said Halesowen, slowly, “we don’t know that there was any
woman!”
“Eh?” queried Lesty.
“Did you see her?”
“No.”
“I did. She was lovely, very lovely—for a woman!”
Lesty stared curiously. “You surprise me,” he commented, drily.
“Zeda was a strange man,” pursued the other, “and there were certainly
things occurred as we sat round that table that need a lot of explaining.”
“Very ordinary three-and-six-a-head phenomena!” was the reply. “Merely
a blind.”
“Then what was the reason of his burning desire to secure my potsherd, if
not to complete the vase?”
“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Lesty, “that you are going to credit that
story about the priestess—now, after he has shown his hand? Do you wish
to suggest that he was aided by a spirit?”
“Then why was he so keen to get the thing?” persisted Halesowen.
Lesty looked at him, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and began to
load his pipe. Having done so, he sat smoking and staring at the brilliant
moon.
“Well?” inquired our host.
“Give it up!” admitted Lesty.

(Conclusion of Mr. Clifford’s Account)

V

One of my visits to the Wapping curio shop of Moris Klaw was made in
company with Mr. Halesowen, who, with the others mentioned in the
foregoing narrative, I subsequently had met.
Somewhere amid the misty gloom of this place, where loot of a hundred
ages, of every spot from pole to pole, veils its identity in the darkness, sits a
large gray parrot. Faint perfumes and scuffling sounds tell of hidden animal
life near to the visitor; but the parrot proclaims itself stridently:
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!”

That signal brings Moris Klaw from his hiding place. He shuffles into the
shop, a figure appropriate to its surroundings. Imagine a tall, stooping man,
enveloped in a very faded blue dressing gown. His skin is but a half-shade
lighter than that of a Chinaman; his hair, his shaggy brows, his scanty
beard, defy one to name their colour. He wears pince-nez.
When upon this particular occasion I introduced my companion, and
Moris Klaw acknowledged the introduction in his rumbling voice, I saw
Halesowen stare.
Klaw produced a scent spray from somewhere and sprayed verbena upon
his high yellow brow.
“It is very stuffy—in this shop!” he explained. “Isis! Isis! Bring for my
visitors some iced drinks!”
He invoked a goddess, and a goddess appeared: a brilliantly beautiful
brunette, with delightfully curved scarlet lips and flashing eyes whose fire
the gloom could not dim.
“Good God!” cried Halesowen—and fell back.
“My daughter Isis,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “This is Mr. Halesowen, from
whom we rescue the Egyptian potsherd!”
“What!”
Halesowen leant forward across the counter.
“You recognize my daughter?” continued Moris Klaw; “but not Doctor
Zeda, eh? Or only his poor old voice? You gave us great trouble, Mr.
Halesowen. Once, you came in just as Isis, who has climbed on to your
balcony, is about to take the potsherd——”
“There was no one in the room!”
“I was in the room!” interrupted the girl, coolly. “I was draped in black
from head to foot, and I slipped behind the window hangings, unseen,
whilst you fumbled with your lamp!”
“It was indiscreet,” continued Moris Klaw, “and made it harder for me;
because, afterward, you lock up the treasure and my search is unavailing.
Also, I am interrupted. Pah! I am clumsy! I waste time! But, remember, I
offered to buy it!”
“Suppose,” said Halesowen, slowly, “I give you both in charge?”
“You cannot,” was the placid reply; “for you cannot say how you came
into possession of the sherd! Professor Sheraton was in a similar forked
stick—and that is where I come in!”
“What! you were acting for him?”

“Certainly! I happen to be in Egypt at the time, and he is a friend of
mine. Your thief, Ali, left a small piece of the pot behind, and I am entrusted
to make it complete!”
“You have succeeded!” said Halesowen, grimly, all the time furtively
watching the beautiful Isis.
“Yes,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am the instrument of poetic justice. Isis,
those cool beverages. Let us drink to poetic justice!”
He sprayed his ample brow with verbena.

In conclusion, you may ask if the value of the potsherd justified the
elaborate and costly mode of its recovery.
I reply: Upon what does the present fame of Professor Sheraton rest? His
“New Key to the Egyptian Book of the Dead.” Upon what is that work
founded? Upon the hieroglyphics of the Potsherd of Anubis, which (no
questions being asked of so distinguished a savant) was recently acquired
from the Professor by the nation at a cost of £15,000!

THIRD EPISODE.
CASE OF THE CRUSADER’S AX

I

I have heard people speak of Moris Klaw’s failures. So far as my
information bears me, he never experienced any. “What,” I have been
asked, “of the Cresping murder case? He certainly failed there.”
Respecting this question of his failure or success in the sensational case
which first acquainted the entire country with the existence of Crespie Hall,
and that brought the old-world village of Cresping into such unwonted
prominence, I shall now invite your opinion.
The investigation—the crime having baffled the local men—ultimately
was placed in the hands of Detective-Inspector Grimsby; and through
Grimsby I was brought into close touch with the matter. I had met Grimsby
during the course of the mysterious happenings at the Menzies Museum,
and at that time I also had made the acquaintance of Moris Klaw.
Thus, as I sat over my breakfast one morning reading an account of the
Cresping murder case, I was no more than moderately surprised to see
Inspector Grimsby walk into my rooms.
He declined my offer of a really good Egyptian cigarette.
“Thanks all the same,” he said; “but there’s only one smoke I can think
on.”
With that he lighted one of the cheroots of which he smoked an
incredible quantity, and got up from his chair, restlessly.
“I’ve just run up from Cresping by the early train,” he began, abruptly.
“You’ve heard all about the murder, of course?”
I pointed to my newspaper, conspicuous upon the front page of which
was:

“THE MURDER AT CRESPIE HALL”

“Ah, yes,” he said, absently. “Well, I’ve been sent down and, to tell you
the white and unsullied truth, I’m in a knot!”
I passed him a cup of coffee.
“What are the difficulties?” I asked.
“There’s only one,” he rapped back: “who did it!”
“It looks to me a very clear case against Ryder, the ex-butler.”
“So it did to me,” he agreed, “until I got down there! I’d got a warrant in
my pocket all ready. Then I began to have doubts!”
“What do you propose to do?”
Grimsby hesitated.
“Well,” he replied, “it wouldn’t do any good to make a mistake in a
murder case; so what I should like to do would be to get another opinion—
not official, of course!”
I glanced across at him.
“Mr. Moris Klaw?”
He nodded.
“Exactly!”
“You’ve changed your opinion respecting him?”
“Mr. Searles, his investigation of the Menzies Museum outrages
completely stood me on my head! I’m not joking. I’d always thought him a
crank, and in some ways I think so still; but at seeing through a brick wall
I’d put all I’ve got on Moris Klaw any day!”
“But surely you are wasting time by coming to me?”
“No, I’m not,” said Grimsby, confidently. “Moris Klaw, for all his
retiring habits, is not a man that wants his light hidden under a bushel! He
knows that you are collecting material about his methods, and he’s more
likely to move for you than for me.”
I saw through Grimsby’s plan. He wanted me to invite Moris Klaw to
look into the Crespie murder case, in order that he (Grimsby) might reap
any official benefit accruing without loss of self-esteem! I laughed.
“All right, Grimsby!” I said. “Since he has made no move, voluntarily, it
may be that the case does not interest him; but we can try.”
Accordingly, having consulted an A.B.C., we presently entrained for
Wapping, and as a laggard sun began to show up the dinginess and the
dirtiness of that locality, sought out a certain shop, whose locale I shall no
more closely describe than in saying that it is close to Wapping Old Stairs.

One turns down a narrow court, with a blank wall on the right and a
nailed-up doorway and boarded-up window on the left. Through the cracks
of the latter boarding, the inquiring visitor may catch a glimpse, beyond a
cavernous place which once was some kind of warehouse, of Old Thames
tiding muddily.
The court is a cul de sac. The shop of Moris Klaw occupies the blind end.
Some broken marble pedestals stand upon the footway, among seatless
chairs, dilapidated chests, and a litter of books, stuffed birds, cameos,
inkstands, swords, lamps, and other unclassifiable rubbish. A black doorway
yawns amid the litter.
Imagine Inspector Grimsby and me as entering into this singular
Cumæan cave.
Our eyes at first failed to penetrate the gloom. All about moved rustling
suggestions of animal activity. The indescribable odour of old furniture
assailed our nostrils together with an equally indescribable smell of avian,
reptilian, and rodent life.
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!”
Thus the scraping voice of the parrot. A door opened, admitting a little
more light and Moris Klaw. The latter was fully dressed; whereby I mean
that he wore his dilapidated caped black cloak, his black silk muffler and
that rarest relic of his unsavoury reliquary, the flat-topped brown bowler.
In that inadequate light his vellum face looked older, his shaggy brows,
his meagre beard, more toneless, than ever. Through the gold-rimmed
pince-nez he peered for a moment, downward from his great height. He
removed the bowler.
“Good morning, Mr. Searles! Good morning, Inspector Grimsby! I am
just from Paris. It is so good of you to call so early to tell me all about the
poor murdered man of Cresping! Good morning! Good morning!”

II

Moris Klaw’s sanctum is certainly one of the most remarkable
apartments in London. It is lined with shelves, which contain what I believe
to be a unique library of works dealing with criminology—from Moris
Klaw’s point of view. Strange relics are there, too; and all of them have

histories. A neat desk, with flowers in a silver vase, and a revolving chair
standing upon a fine tiger skin are the other notable items of furniture.
The contrast on entering was startling. Moris Klaw placed his hat upon
the desk, and from it took out the scent spray without which he never
travels. He played the contents upon his high, yellow forehead—filling the
air with the refreshing odour of verbena.
“That shop!” he said, “it smell very strong this morning. It is not so much
the canaries as the rats!”
“I trust,” began Grimsby, respectfully, “that Miss Klaw is quite well?”
“Isis will presently be here to say for herself,” was the reply. “And now
—this bad business of Cresping. It seems I am just back in time, but, ah! it
is a fortnight old!”
Grimsby cleared his throat. “You will have read——”
“Ah, my friend!” Moris Klaw held up a long, tapering white hand. “As
though you do not know that I never confuse my poor brain with those
foolish papers. No, I have not read, my friend!”
“Oh!” said Grimsby, something taken aback. “Then I shall have to tell
you the family story——”
Isis Klaw entered.
From her small hat, with its flamingo-like plume, to her dainty shoes, she
was redolent of the Rue de la Paix. She wore an amazingly daring toilette; I
can only term it a study in flame tones. A less beautiful woman could never
have essayed such a scheme; but this superb brunette, with her great
flashing eyes and taunting smile, had the lithe carriage of a Cleopatra, the
indescribable diablerie of a ghaziyeh.
Inspector Grimsby greeted her with embarrassed admiration. Greetings
over—
“We must hurry, Father!” said the girl.
Moris Klaw reclaimed his archaic bowler.
“Mr. Searles and Inspector Grimsby will perhaps be joining us?” he
suggested.
“Where?” began Grimsby.
“Where but by the 9:5 train for Uxley!” said Klaw. “Where but from
Uxley to Cresping! Do I waste time, then—I?”
“You have been retained?” suggested Grimsby.
“Ah, no!” was the reply. “But I shall receive my fee, nevertheless!”

At the end of the court a cab was waiting. Outside the cavernous door a
ramshackle man with a rosy nose bowed respectfully to the proprietor.
“You hear me, William,” said Moris Klaw, to this derelict. “You are to
sell nothing—unless it is the washstand! Forget not to change the canaries’
water. The Indian corn is for the white rats. If there is no mouse in the trap
by eight o’clock, give the owl a herring. And keep from the drink; it will be
your ruin, William!”
We entered the cab. My last impression of the place was derived from the
invisible parrot, who gave us Godspeed with:
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! the devil’s come for you!”
As we drove stationward, Grimsby, his eyes rarely leaving the piquant
face of Isis Klaw, outlined the history of the Crespie family to the silent
Moris. In brief it was this:
The late Sir Richard Crespie, having become involved in serious
monetary difficulties, employed such methods of drowning his sorrows as
were far from conducive to domestic felicity; and after a certain unusually
violent outburst the home was broken up. His son, Roland, was the first to
go; and he took little with him but his mother’s blessing and his father’s
curses. Then Lady Crespie went away to her sister in London, only
surviving her departure from the Hall by two years. Alone, and deserted,
first by son and then by wife, the debauched old baronet continued on his
course of heavy drinking for some years longer. The servants left him, one
by one, so that in the end, save for faithful old Ryder, the butler, whose
family had served the Crespies for time immemorial, he had the huge
mansion to himself. Apoplexy closed his unfortunate career; and, since
nothing had been heard of him for years, it was generally supposed that the
son had met his death in Africa, whither he had gone on leaving home.
With the passing of Sir Richard came Mr. Isaac Heidelberger, and he
wasted no time in impressing his noxious personality upon the folks of
Cresping. He was a German Jew, large and oily, with huge coarse features
and a little black moustache that had been assiduously trained in a futile
attempt to hide a mouth that had well befitted Nero. A week after Sir
Richard’s burial, Mr. Heidelberger took possession of the Hall.
The new occupant brought with him one Heimer, a kind of confidential
clerk, and, old Ryder the butler having been sent about his business, the two
Jewish gentlemen proceeded to make themselves comfortable. The nature

of their business was soon public property; the grand old Hall was to be
turned into a “country mansion for paying guests.”
Very strained relations existed between the big Jew and the ex-butler,
who, having a little money saved, had settled down in Cresping. One night,
at the Goblets—the historic village inn—Heidelberger having swaggered
into the place, there arose an open quarrel. Said Ryder:
“Sir Richard, with all his faults, was once a good English gentleman, and,
but for such as you, a good English gentleman he might have died!”
It was exactly a week later that the tragedy occurred.
“We come to it now, eh?” interrupted Moris Klaw at this point. “So—we
also come to the station! I will ask you to reserve us a first-class carriage!”
Grimsby made arrangements to that end. And, as the train moved out of
the station, resumed his story.
“What I gather is this,” he said.
[I condense his statement and append it in my own words.]
The Goblets was just closing its doors, and the villagers who nightly met
there were standing in a group under the swinging sign, when a man came
running down the street from the direction of the Hall, and, observing the
gathering, ran up. It was Heimer, Isaac Heidelberger’s secretary. He was
hatless and his flabby face, in the dim light, was ghastly.
“Quick!” he rasped, hoarsely. “Where does the doctor live?”
“Last house but one,” somebody said. “What’s the matter?”
“Murder!” cried Heimer, as he rushed off down the village street.
Such was the dramatic manner in which the news of the subsequently
notorious case was first carried to the outside world. The facts, as soon
made known throughout the length and breadth of the land, were, briefly, as
follows:
Heidelberger and his secretary, who were engaged in making an
inventory of the contents of the Hall and in arranging for such alterations of
the rooms and laying out of the neglected grounds as they considered
necessary, had practically reached the end of their task. In fact, had nothing
intervened, Cresping would, on the following day, have seen the old
mansion in the hands of an army of London workmen.
At about half-past seven in the evening, Heidelberger had entered the
room occupied by Heimer and had mentioned that he expected a visitor.
The secretary, who had more work than he could well accomplish, did not
pause to inquire concerning him, believing the other to allude either to the

architect or to Heidelberger’s man, who was coming down from London.
Heidelberger had then gone up to the library, saying that he should not
require Heimer again that night.
Between eight and half-past—Heimer was not sure of the time—there
was a ring at the bell (that of the tradesmen’s entrance). Knowing that
Heidelberger could admit the visitor directly to the library, Heimer, hearing
nothing more, concluded that the two were closeted there.
The first intimation that he received of anything amiss was a loud and
angry cry, apparently proceeding from the old banqueting hall directly
overhead, and unmistakably in the voice of Heidelberger. Springing from
his chair, he took a step toward the door, and then paused in doubt. There
was an angry murmur from above, the tones of the Jew being clearly
distinguishable; then a sudden scuffle and an oscillation of the floor as
though two heavy men were at hand grips; next, a crash that shook the
room, and a high-pitched cry of which he only partially comprehended the
last word. This he asserted to be “holy.”
That Heimer stood transfixed at the open door throughout all this,
suffices to brand him a coward. It was, in fact, only his stories of shadowy
figures in the picture gallery and his general disinclination to leave his room
after dusk that had prompted Heidelberger—a man of different mettle—to
wire to London for the servant.
At this juncture, however, moved as much by a fear of the sudden silence
as by any higher motive, he took a revolver from the table drawer, and,
holding it cocked in one hand and seizing the lamp in the other, he crept,
trembling, up a narrow little stair that led to a door beneath the minstrel’s
gallery. To open it he had to place the lamp on the floor, and, at the moment
of doing so, he heard a sound inside the hall like the grating of a badly oiled
lock.
Then, with the lamp held high above his head, he peered inside; and,
considering the character of the man, it is worthy of note that he did not
faint on the spot, for the feeble light, but serving, as it did, to intensify the
gloom of the long and shadowy place, revealed a scene well calculated to
shake the nerves of a stouter man than Heimer.
Less than six feet from where he stood, and lying flat on his back with
his head toward the light, was Heidelberger in a perfect pool of blood, his
skull cleft almost to the chine! Beside him on the floor lay the fearful
weapon that had wrought his end—an enormous battle-ax, a relic of the

Crusades such as none but a man of Herculean strength could possibly
wield.
Sick with terror, and scarcely capable of keeping his feet, Heimer gave
one glance around the gloomy place, which showed him that, save for the
murdered man, it was empty; then he staggered down the narrow stairs and
let himself out into the grounds. Slightly revived by the fresh night air, but
fearful of pursuit by the unknown assassin, he ran, as fast as his condition
would allow, into the village.
“Here it is—Uxley!” jerked Moris Klaw.

III

“Ah!” cried Moris Klaw, in a species of fanatic rapture, “look at the
blood!”
We stood in the ancient banqueting hall of Crespie. By a distant door I
could see a policeman on duty. A ghostly silence was the marked feature of
the place. Klaw’s harsh, rumbling voice echoed eerily about that chamber
sacred to the shades of departed Crespies.
Isis Klaw stood beside her father. They were a wildly incongruous
couple. The girl looked down at the bloodstained flooring with the calm
scrutiny of an experienced criminologist.
“This spot must be alive with odic impressions,” she said, softly.
A local officer, who formed one of the group, stared uncomprehendingly.
Moris Klaw instinctively turned to him.
“You stare widely, my friend!” he said. “It is clear you know nothing of
the psychology of crime! Let me, then, enlighten you. First: all crime”—he
waved one long hand characteristically—“operates in cycles. Its history
repeats itself, you understand. Second: thoughts are things. One who dies
the violent death has, at the end, a strong mental emotion—an etheric storm.
The air—the atmosphere—retains imprints of that storm.”
“Indeed!” said the officer.
“Yes, indeed! I shall not sleep in this place—as is my usual custom in
such inquiries. Why? Because I am afraid of the shock of experiencing such
an emotion as was this late Heidelberger’s! Ah! you are dense as a bull!
Once, my bovine friend, I slept upon a spot in desolate Palestine where a
poor woman had been stoned to death. In my dreams those merciless stones

struck me! Upon the head and the face they crashed! And I was helpless—
bound—as was the unhappy one who for her poor little sins had had her life
crushed from her tender body!”
He ceased. No one spoke. In such moments, Moris Klaw became a
magician; a weaver of spells. The most unimpressionable shuddered as
though the strange things which this strangest of men told of, lived, moved,
before their eyes. Then—
“Yonder is the ax, sir,” said the local man, with a sudden awed respect.
Klaw walked over to where the huge battle-ax stood against a post of the
gallery.
“Try to lift it, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby. “It will give you some idea of
what sort of man the murderer must have been! I can’t raise it upright by
the haft with one hand.”
Moris Klaw seized the ax. Whilst Grimsby, the local man and myself
stared amazedly, he swung it about his head as one swings an Indian club!
He struck with it—to right—to left; he laid it down.
“My father has a wrist of steel!” came the soft voice of Isis. “Did you not
know that he was once a famous swordsman?”
Klaw removed his hat, took out the scent spray and bathed his forehead
with verbena.
“That is a man’s ax!” he said. “Isis, what do we know of such an ax? We,
who have so complete a catalogue of such relics?”
Isis Klaw produced from her bag a bulky notebook.
“It is the third one,” she replied, calmly, passing the open book to her
father; “the one we thought!”
“Ah,” rumbled Klaw, adjusting his pince-nez, “ ‘Black Geoffrey’s’ ax!”
He turned again to Palmer, the local officer. “All such antiques,” he said,
“have histories. I collect those histories, you understand. This ax was
carried by ‘Black Geoffrey,’ a very early Crespie, in the first Crusade. It
slew many Saracens, I doubt not. But this does not interest me. In the reign
of Henry VIII we find it dwelt, this great ax, at Dyke Manor, which is in
Norfolk. It was not until Charles II that it came to Crespie Hall. And what
happened at Dyke Manor? One Sir Gilbert Myerly was slain by it! Who
wielded it? Patience, my friends! All is clear to me! What a wonderful
science is the Science of Cycles!”
Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed with excitement. It seemed as
though his notes (how obtained I was unable to conjecture) had furnished

him with a clue; although to me they seemed to have not the slightest
bearing upon the case.
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” continued Moris Klaw: “In a few words, what is
the evidence against Ryder, the butler?”
“Well,” was the reply, “you will note where the ax used to hang, up there
before the rail of the minstrels’ gallery. The theory is that the murderer
rushed up, wrenched the ax from its fastening——”
“Theories, my friend,” interrupted Moris Klaw, “are not evidence!”
Isis gazed at Mr. Grimsby with a smile. He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry!” he said, humbly. “Here are the facts, then. In the right hand of
the dead man was an open pocket knife. It is assumed—— Sorry! Several
spots of blood were found on the knife. Do you want to see it?”
Moris Klaw shook his head.
“It has been ascertained,” continued Grimsby, “that Ryder went out at
eight o’clock on the night of the murder and didn’t return until after ten. He
was interrogated. Listen to this, Mr. Klaw, and tell me why I haven’t
arrested him! He admitted that he was the man who rang the bell; he
admitted being closeted with Heidelberger in the library; and he admitted
that he was in the hall when the Jew met his death!”
“Good!” said Moris Klaw. “And he is still at large?”
“He is! He’s made no attempt to run away. I had his room searched, and
found a light coat with both sleeves bloodstained! He had a cut on his left
hand such as might be caused by the slash of a pocket knife! He said he had
caught his hand on a door-latch, but blankly declined to say what he was
doing here on the night of the murder! Yet, I didn’t arrest him! Why?”
“Why?” said Moris Klaw. “Tell me.”
“Because I didn’t think it feasible that a man of his age could wield that
ax—and I hoped to use Ryder as a trap to catch his accomplice!”
“Ah! clever!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “French, Mr. Grimsby! Subtle! But
you have just seen what a poor old fool can do with that ax!”
I have never observed a man so suddenly lose faith in himself as did
Grimsby at those words. He flushed, he paled; he seemed to become
speechless.
“Tell me, Mr. Grimsby,” said Klaw, “what does the suspected man do that
is suspicious? What letters does he write? What letters does he receive?”
“None!” replied the now angry Grimsby. “But he visits Doctor Madden,
in Uxley, every day.”

“What for, eh?”
“The doctor says the interviews are of a purely professional nature, and I
can’t very well suspect a man in his position!”
“You have done two silly things,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “You have
wasted much time in the matter of Ryder, and you have accepted,
unquestioned, the word of a doctor. Mr. Grimsby, I have known doctors
who were most inspired liars!”
“Then you are of opinion——”
Klaw raised his hand.
“It is Doctor Madden we shall visit,” he said. “This Ryder cannot escape
us. Isis, my child, I need not have troubled you. This is so simple a case that
we need no ‘mental negatives’ to point out to us the culprit!”
“Mr. Klaw——” began Grimsby, excitedly.
“My friend,” he was answered, “I shall make a few examinations and
then we shall be off to Uxley. The assassin returns to London with us by the
3:45 train!”

IV

As we drove through the village street, in the car which Grimsby had
hired, upon the gate of one of the last cottages a tall, white-haired old man
was leaning. His clear-cut, handsome features wore an expression of
haggard sorrow.
“There he is!” rapped Grimsby. “Hadn’t I better make the arrest at once?”
“Ah, no, my friend!” protested Klaw. “But stop—I have something to say
to him.”
The car stopping, Moris Klaw descended and approached the old man,
who perceptibly paled at sight of us.
“Good day, Mr. Ryder!” Klaw courteously saluted the ex-butler.
“Good day to you, sir,” replied the old man, civilly.
Whereupon Moris Klaw said a simple thing, which had an astounding
effect.
“How is he to-day?” he inquired.
Ryder’s face became convulsed. His eyes started forth. He made a
choking sound, staring, as one possessed, at his questioner.
“What—what—do you mean?” he gasped.

“Never mind, Mr. Ryder—never mind!” rumbled Klaw. “Isis, my child,
remain with this gentleman and tell him all we know about the ax of ‘Black
Geoffrey.’ He will be glad to hear it!”
The beautiful Isis obeyed without question. As the rest of us drove on our
way, I could see the flame-coloured figure passing up the garden path
beside the tall form of the old butler. Grimsby, a man badly out of his depth,
watched until both became lost to view.
“I’ve got evidence,” he suddenly burst out, “that Ryder declared
Heidelberger to be the direct cause of Sir Richard’s downfall! And I’ve got
witnesses who heard him say, ‘Please God! the Jew won’t be here much
longer!’ ”
“Good!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Very good!”
During the remainder of the journey, Grimsby talked on incessantly,
smoking cheroots the whole time. But Moris Klaw was silent.
Doctor Madden had but recently returned from his morning visits. He
was a typical country practitioner, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, with iron-
gray hair and a good head. He conveyed the impression, in some way, that
he knew himself to be in a tight corner.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he said, briskly.
“We have called, Doctor Madden,” rumbled Moris Klaw, wagging his
finger, impressively, “to tell you that Ryder is in imminent danger—
imminent danger—of arrest!”
The doctor started.
“And therefore we want a word with one of your patients!”
“I do not understand you. Which of my patients?”
Moris Klaw shook his head.
“Let us be intelligent,” he said, “you and I, and not two old fools! You
understand so perfectly which of your patients.”
Doctor Madden drummed his fingers on the table.
“Are you a detective?” he snapped.
“I am not!” replied Moris Klaw. “I am a student of the Science of Cycles
—not motor cycles; and a humble explorer of the etheric borderland! You
lay yourself open to grave charges, Doctor!”
The doctor began to fidget nervously.
“If indeed I am culpable,” he said, “my culpability only dates from last
night.”
“So!” rumbled Klaw. “He has been insensible?”

Doctor Madden started up.
“Mr. Klaw,” he replied, “I do not know who you may be, but your
penetration is uncanny. He had lost his memory!”
“What?—lost his memory! How is that?”
“He was thrown from his horse! Come; I see it is useless, now, to waste
time. I will take you to him.”
As we filed out to the waiting car, I glanced at Grimsby. His stupefaction
was almost laughable.
“What in heaven’s name is it all about, Mr. Searles?” he whispered to me.
“I feel like a man in a strange country. People talk, and it doesn’t seem to
mean anything!”
En route:
“Tell me, Doctor,” said Moris Klaw, “about your patient.”
The doctor, without hesitation, now explained that he had been called to
attend a Mr. Rogers, an artist, who was staying at Hinxman’s farm, off the
Uxley Road. On the evening of the tragedy Mr. Rogers went out on Bess, a
mare belonging to the farm, and, not having returned by ten, some anxiety
was felt concerning him, the mare possessing a very bad reputation. At
about a quarter-past ten the animal returned, riderless, and Rogers was
brought home later, in an insensible condition, by two farm hands, having
been found beside the road some distance from the farm.
For some time Mr. Rogers lay in a critical condition, suffering from
concussion. Finally, a change for the better set in, but the patient was found
to have lost his memory.
“Last Saturday,” added the doctor, “a specialist whom I had invited to
come down from London performed a successful operation.”
“Ah,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “so we can see him?”
“Certainly. He is quite convalescent. His memory returned to him
completely last night.”
In a state of uncertainty which can well be imagined, we arrived at, and
entered, Hinxman’s farm. Seated in the shade of the veranda, smoking his
pipe, was a bronzed young man who wore a bandage about his head. He
was chatting to the farmer when we arrived.
Moris Klaw walked up the steps beside Doctor Madden.
“Good day, Mr. Farmer,” he said, amiably. A rosy-cheeked girl face was
thrust from an open window. “Good day, Miss Farmer!” He removed the

brown bowler. He turned to the bronzed young man. “Good day, Sir Roland
Crespie!”

V

When Grimsby and I had somewhat recovered from the shock of this
dramatic meeting, and Sir Roland, Madden, and Moris Klaw had talked
together for a few moments, said Moris Klaw:
“And now Sir Roland will tell us all about the death of Mr.
Heidelberger!”
Inspector Grimsby was all eyes when the young baronet began:
“You must know, then, that I, together with three others, have been
engaged, since my departure from England, in a mining venture in West
Africa. Up to the time when I left, and, for the sake of my health, came to
England, our efforts had been attended by only moderate success. Thus, on
arriving in Cresping and taking lodgings with Hinxman as ‘Mr. Rogers’—
for the circumstances under which I left home made me desirous of
remaining unknown in the village—I, on learning that my father had just
died and that the Hall had fallen into Heidelberger’s hands, realized that my
slender capital would not allow of my buying him out. The facts of the case
came as a great shock to me, and, without revealing my identity—the beard
which I had cultivated in Africa, but which the doctors have removed,
acting as an effectual disguise—I made inquiries concerning Ryder. I had
little difficulty in finding him, and he alone, in Cresping, knew who I really
was.
“I now come to the events that immediately preceded Heidelberger’s
death. There was one object in the old place for which I determined to
negotiate, and which, owing to its associations, I particularly desired to
retain. This was my mother’s portrait. I may mention here that, for certain
reasons which I would prefer not to specify, I had rather have burnt the
picture than see it fall into the hands of the Jew.
“With this object in view, then, I enlisted the services of Ryder, though
from none other than myself would he have accepted the task. This brings
me to the day prior to Heidelberger’s death, and, on that morning, I received
news from Africa which led me to hope that I might, after all, be able to
save my old home from an ignominious fate. Herein my hopes have since

been realized, for I learnt to-day that the mine has made rich men of us all;
and I assume that some ill-advised remark upon the part of Ryder, regarding
Heidelberger’s possible expulsion, gave rise to the idea that the old man
contemplated a violent deed.
“It therefore came about that he made an appointment with Heidelberger,
an appointment which he duly kept; and it was solely due to my anxiety on
Ryder’s behalf, and lest he should meet with some ill-treatment from the
Jew—whom I knew for a man of most brutal disposition—that I took
certain steps which, indirectly, brought about the tragedy.
“In common with most old mansions of the period, the Hall has its
hidden entrances and exits—though, in accordance with certain ancient
traditions, the secret of their existence is strictly preserved among the
family. With a view, therefore, to becoming an unseen witness of the
transactions between Ryder and Heidelberger, I made use of a passage that
opens into a shrubbery some fifty yards from the west wing. Entering, and
mounting the steps at whose foot the tunnel terminates, I found myself at
the back of an old painting in the banqueting hall. The frame of this picture
forms a door which opens upon pressing a spring, but the apparatus, owing
to its great age, works very stiffly. From this position, then, I could hear all
that took place in the hall, where, I had anticipated, the negotiations would
be conducted, as my mother’s picture hangs there.
“This proved to be the case; for I had but just gained the top of the steps
when I heard the two enter the hall. Heidelberger spoke first.
“ ‘Think of you wanting to buy Lady Crespie’s picture, you sentimental
old fool!’ he said. ‘If it had been another I could name who wanted it, the
case would have been different!’
“Then I heard Ryder’s voice. ‘What do you mean, Mr. Heidelberger?’ he
asked.
“I awaited the Jew’s reply with some curiosity. As I had anticipated, it
consisted of a foul and unfounded imputation against my poor mother. It
was, in fact, more than I could bear in silence, and the tolerance of old
Ryder, too, had reached its limit. For, at the moment that I wrenched open
the panel and sprang into the room to confront this slanderer, I heard the
sound of a blow, followed by an animal-like roar of anger from
Heidelberger.
“The next moment, he seized the old man by the throat. Before he had
time to proceed further I struck him heavily with my fist, so that he released

his grip and turned to face his new assailant.
“One tribute I must pay to Heidelberger. He was, seemingly, incapable of
fear; for this sudden attack by a person he had not known to be present
seemed only to arouse a new resentment. His face, as he turned and looked
me up and down, contained no trace of fear.
“ ‘So it’s you that wants the picture, is it?’ he sneered. ‘I suppose you are
——’
“ ‘Stop!’ I said. ‘I am Roland Crespie, and can listen to no more of your
foul slanders!’
“For a second he hesitated, looking from me to Ryder and then toward
the picture, dimly discernible in the light of the candle which he had
brought with him. Then, before I could divine his intention, he drew a knife
from his pocket, and, opening a blade, took a step in the direction of the
portrait. ‘You shall never have it!’ he said.
“He had actually inserted the blade in the canvas—as an examination will
show—when I came upon him, and we closed in a desperate struggle.
“In what followed, one can almost trace the finger of destiny.
Heidelberger was a more powerful man than myself, but in his fury he
endeavoured to stab me with the knife which he held in his hand!
“I seized his wrist, but he wrenched it from my grasp. I leapt back from
him—as he struck down with the knife—and to the left of one of the posts
supporting the minstrels’ gallery.
“In the blindness of his anger, Heidelberger failed to perceive the
proximity of this post. Moreover, it was very dark under the gallery. He
threw himself forward savagely—and struck his shoulder against the post.
The impact was tremendous.
“Gentlemen! I tremble, now, to relate what happened! The ax of ‘Black
Geoffrey,’ which had hung for centuries before the rail above, was shaken
from its place by the shock and its time-worn fastenings were torn bodily
from their hold. At the instant that Heidelberger’s huge body struck the
post, the great ax, as though detached by invisible hands, fell, blade
downward, cleaving the head of the unfortunate man and remaining, with
quivering shaft, upright in the oaken floor!
“The suddenness of the tragedy almost dazed me, and I was awakened to
its awful reality by old Ryder’s cry—‘Oh, Master Roly!’ As Master Roly I
had always been known to the old butler, and this name it was which
someone stated to be ‘holy.’

“Our subsequent action was, perhaps, ill-advised. Removing the ax and
raising the head of the victim, examination showed him to be dead, and,
hearing hesitating footsteps upon the narrow stair beneath the gallery, we
seized the candle and retreated through the secret panel, Ryder severely
cutting his hand in endeavouring to force the rusty bolt into place. It was
not until we stood in a lane bordering the grounds, where I had tethered the
mare upon which I had ridden from the farm, that the seemingly guilty
nature of our action dawned upon me. Now, however, was too late to atone
for what I attribute to a momentary panic; and requesting Ryder to keep
silence until he received instructions from me, I mounted the mare,
intending to return to my lodgings and think the matter quietly over.
“By an unlucky accident, the brute threw me, at some distance from the
farm, thereby all but bringing about a second tragedy; and what followed is
already known to you.
“Of Ryder I need only say that rather than incriminate me he was
prepared to pay the penalty for a deed which was in truth a visitation of
God. Doctor Madden recognized me, of course, and to him also I am
eternally indebted. I had proposed to make this statement before a
magistrate later to-day.”
“You see,” said Moris Klaw. “I have done nothing! It would all have
happened the same if I had been in Peru!”
Grimsby cleared his throat.
“Without casting any doubt upon Sir Roland’s word,” he began, “there’s
no evidence to go to a jury that he didn’t——”
“Pull down the ax himself?” suggested Klaw.
Grimsby looked uncomfortable.
“Well—is there?”
“There is!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am he! This case most triumphantly
substantiates my theory of Cycles! Almost parallel it occurred hundreds of
years ago, at Dyke Manor! The ax has repeated itself!”
“H’um!” said Grimsby. “Your theory of Cycles wouldn’t hold water with
twelve good men and true, I’m afraid, Mr. Klaw!”
“Yes?” replied Moris Klaw. “No? You think not, eh? Well, then, there is
another little point. I am an old crank-fool, eh? So? But you? You are
sublimely mad, my Grimsby! You say he, or Mr. Ryder, may have snatched
down the black ax? Yes? Have you tried to reach the spot where it hung
before the rail?”

“No,” confessed Grimsby, with the light as of the dawning of an
unpleasant idea in his eyes.
“No,” said Klaw, placidly; “but I have. Mr. Grimsby, it is impossible to
reach within three feet of the spot, from the stair or from the gallery; and no
live thing but a giraffe could reach it from the floor!”

We were seated in the train, homeward bound.
“For this case,” grumbled Klaw, “I get no credit. It will be said that it all
came out without aid from you or from me. Never mind—I have my fee!”
He patted the haft of the great ax, which ghastly relic in some way he had
arranged to appropriate. Grimsby was watching Isis Klaw out of the corner
of his eye. From a dainty gold case she offered him a cigarette. Grimsby is
no cigarette smoker but he accepted, with alacrity.
The beautiful Isis took one also, and lay back puffing sinuous spirals
from between her perfect red lips.

FOURTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE IVORY STATUE

I

Where a case did not touch his peculiar interests, appeals to Moris Klaw
fell upon deaf ears. However dastardly a crime, if its details were of the
sordid sort, he shrank within his Wapping curio shop as closely as any
tortoise within its shell.
“Of what use,” he said to me on one occasion, “are my acute psychic
sensibilities to detect who it is with a chopper that has brained some
unhappy washerwoman? Shall I bring to bear those delicate perceptions
which it has taken me so many years to acquire in order that some ugly old
fool shall learn what has become of his pretty young wife? I think not—
no!”
Sometimes, however, when Inspector Grimsby of Scotland Yard was at a
loss, he would induce me to intercede with the eccentric old dealer, and
sometimes Moris Klaw would throw out a hint.
Beyond doubt the cases that really interested him were those that
afforded scope for the exploiting of his pet theories: the Cycle of Crime, the
criminal history of all valuable relics, the indestructibility of thought. Such
a case came under my personal notice on one occasion, and my friend
Coram was instrumental in enlisting the services of Moris Klaw. It was, I
think, one of the most mysterious affairs with which I ever came in contact,
and the better to understand it you must permit me to explain how Roger
Paxton, the sculptor, came to have such a valuable thing in his studio as that
which we all assumed had inspired the strange business.
It was Sir Melville Fennel, then, who commissioned Paxton to execute a
chryselephantine statue. Sir Melville’s museum of works of art, ancient and
modern, is admittedly the second finest private collection of the kind in the
world. The late Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s alone took precedence.

The commission came as something of a surprise. The art of
chryselephantine sculpture, save for one attempt at revival, in Belgium, has
been dead for untold generations. By many modern critics, indeed, it is
condemned, as being not art but a parody of art.
Given carte blanche in the matter of cost, Paxton produced a piece of
work which induced the critics to talk about a modern Phidias. Based upon
designs furnished by the eccentric but wealthy baronet, the statue
represented a slim and graceful girl reclining as in exhaustion upon an
ebony throne. The ivory face, with its wearily closed eyes, was a veritable
triumph, and was surmounted by a headdress of gold intertwined among a
mass of dishevelled hair. One ivory arm hung down so that the fingers
almost touched the pedestal; the left hand was pressed to the breast as
though against a throbbing heart. Gold bracelets and anklets, furnished by
Sir Melville, were introduced into the composition; and, despite the artist’s
protest, a heavy girdle, encrusted with gems and found in the tomb of some
favourite of a long-dead Pharaoh, encircled the waist. When complete, the
thing was, from a merely intrinsic point of view, worth several thousand
pounds.
As the baronet had agreed to the exhibition of the statue prior to its
removal to Fennel Hall, Paxton’s star was seemingly in the ascendant, when
the singular event occurred that threatened to bring about his ruin.
The sculptor gave one of the pleasant little dinners for which he had
gained a reputation. His task was practically completed, and his friends had
all been enjoined to come early, so that the statue could be viewed before
the light failed. We were quite a bachelor party, and I shall always
remember the circle of admiring faces surrounding the figure of the
reclining dancer—warmed in the soft light to an almost uncanny semblance
of fair flesh and blood.
“You see,” explained Paxton, “this composite work, although it has
latterly fallen into disrepute, affords magnificent scope for decorative
purposes; such a richness of colour can be obtained. The ornaments are
genuine antiques and of great value—a fad of my patron’s.”
For some minutes we stood silently admiring the beautiful workmanship;
then Harman inquired, “Of what is the hair composed?”
Paxton smiled. “A little secret I borrowed from the Greeks!” he replied,
with condonable vanity. “Polyclitus and his contemporaries excelled at the
work.”

“That jewelled girdle looks detachable,” I said.
“It is firmly fastened to the waist of the figure,” answered the sculptor. “I
defy any one to detach it inside an hour.”
“From a modern point of view the thing is an innovation,” remarked one
of the others, thoughtfully.
Coram, curator of the Menzies Museum, who up to the present had stood
in silent contemplation of the figure, now spoke for the first time. “The cost
of materials is too great for this style of work ever to become popular,” he
averred. “That girdle, by the way, represents a small fortune, and together
with the anklets, armlets, and headdress, might well tempt any burglar.
What precautions do you take, Paxton?”
“Sleep out here every night,” was the reply; “and there is always
someone here in the daytime. Incidentally, a curious thing occurred last
week. I had just fixed the girdle, which, I may explain, was once the
property of Nicris, a favourite of Ramses III, and my model was alone here
for a few minutes. As I was returning from the house I heard her cry out,
and when I came to look for her she was crouching in a corner trembling.
What do you suppose had frightened her?”
“Give it up,” said Harman.
“She swore that Nicris—for the statue is supposed to represent her—had
moved!”
“Imagination,” replied Coram, “but easily to be understood. I could
believe it, myself, if I were here alone long enough.”
“I fancy,” continued Paxton, “that she must have heard some of the tales
that have been circulated concerning the girdle. The thing has a rather
peculiar history. It was discovered in the tomb of the dancer by whom it had
once been worn; and it is said that an inscription was unearthed at the same
time containing an account of Nicris’s death under particularly horrible
circumstances. Seton—you fellows know Seton—who was present at the
opening of the sarcophagus, tells me that the Arabs, on catching sight of the
girdle, all prostrated themselves and then took to their heels. Sir Melville
Fennel’s agent sent it on to England, however, and Sir Melville conceived
the idea of this statue.”
“Luckily for you,” added Coram.
“Quite so,” laughed the sculptor, and, carefully locking the studio door,
he led the way up the short path to the house.

We were a very merry party, and the night was far advanced ere the
gathering broke up. Coram and I were the last to depart; and having listened
to the voices of Harman and the others dying away as they neared the end
of the street, we also prepared to take our leave.
“Just come with me as far as the studio,” said Paxton, “and having seen
that all’s well I’ll let you out by the garden door.”
Accordingly, we donned our coats and hats, and followed our host to the
end of the garden, where his studio was situated. The door unlocked, we all
three stepped inside the place and gazed upon the figure of Nicris—the
pallid face and arms seeming almost unearthly in the cold moonlight,
wherein each jewel of the girdle and headdress glittered strangely.
“Of course,” muttered Coram, “the thing’s altogether irregular—a fact
which the critics will not fail to impress upon you; but it is unquestionably
very fine, Paxton. How uncannily human it is! I don’t entirely envy you
your bedchamber, old man!”
“Oh, I sleep well enough,” laughed Paxton. “No luxury, though; just this
corner curtained off and a camp bedstead.”
“A truly Spartan couch!” I said. “Well, good-night, Paxton. We shall
probably see you to-morrow—I mean later to-day!”
With that we parted, leaving the sculptor to his lonely vigil at the shrine
of Nicris, and as my rooms were no great distance away, some half-hour
later I was in bed and asleep.
I little suspected that I had actually witnessed the commencement of one
of the most amazing mysteries which ever cried out for the presence of
Moris Klaw.

II

Some few minutes subsequent to retiring—or so it seemed to me; a
longer time actually had elapsed—I was aroused by the ringing of my
telephone bell. I scrambled sleepily out of bed and ran to the instrument.
Coram was the caller. And now, fully awake, I listened with an ever-
growing wonder to his account of that which had prompted him to ring me
up. Briefly, it amounted to this: some mysterious incident, particulars of
which he omitted, had aroused Paxton from his sleep. Seeking the cause of
the disturbance, the artist had unlocked the studio door and gone out into

the garden. He was absent but a moment and never out of earshot of the
door; yet, upon his return, the statue of Nicris had vanished!
“I have not hesitated to ’phone through to Wapping,” concluded Coram,
“and get a special messenger sent to Moris Klaw. You see, the matter is
urgent. If the statue cannot be recovered, its loss may spell ruin for Paxton.
He had heard me speak of Moris Klaw and of the wonders he worked in the
Greek Room mysteries, and, accordingly, called me up. I knew, if Klaw
came, you would be anxious to be present.”
“Certainly,” I replied, “I wouldn’t miss one of his inquiries for anything.
Shall I meet you at Paxton’s?”
“Yes.”
I lost little time in dressing. From Coram’s brief account, the mystery
appeared to be truly a dark one. Would Moris Klaw respond to this
midnight appeal? There was little chance of a big fee, for Paxton was not a
rich man; but in justice to the remarkable person whom it is my privilege to
present to you in these papers, I must add that monetary considerations
seemingly found no place in Klaw’s philosophy. He acted, I believe, from
sheer love of the work; and this affair, with its bizarre details—the ancient
girdle of the dancing girl—the fear of the model, who had declared that the
statue moved—was such, I thought, as must appeal to him.
Ten minutes later I was at Paxton’s house. He and Coram were in the
hall, and Coram admitted me.
“Do you mean,” he asked of Paxton, pursuing a conversation which my
advent had interrupted, “that the statue melted into the empty air?”
“The double doors opening on to the street were securely locked and
barred; that of the garden was also locked; I was in the garden and not ten
yards from the studio,” was Paxton’s reply. “Nevertheless, Nicris had
vanished, leaving no trace behind!”
Incredible though the story appeared, its confirmation was to be found in
the speaker’s face. I was horrified to see how haggard he looked.
“It will ruin me!” he said, and reiterated the statement again and again.
“But, my dear fellow,” I cried, “surely you have not given up hope of
recovering the statue? After all, such a robbery as this can scarcely have
been perpetrated without leaving some clue behind.”
“Robbery!” repeated Paxton, looking at me strangely; “you would be less
confident that it is a case of robbery, Searles, if you had heard what I
heard!”

I glanced at Coram, but he merely shrugged his shoulders.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Then Coram has not told you?”
“He has told me that something aroused you in the night and that you left
the studio to investigate the matter.”
“Correct, so far. Something did arouse me; and the thing was a voice!”
“A voice?”
“It would be, I suppose, about two hours after you had gone, and I was
soundly asleep in the studio, when I suddenly awoke and sat up to listen, for
it seemed to me that I heard a cry immediately outside the door.”
“What kind of cry?”
“Of that I was not, at first, by any means certain; but after a brief interval
the cry was repeated. It sounded more like the voice of a boy than that of a
man and it uttered but one word: ‘Nicris!’ ”
“And then?”
“I sprang on to the floor and stood for a moment in doubt—the thing
seemed so uncanny. The electric light is not, as you know, installed in the
studio, or I should have certainly switched it on. For possibly a minute I
hesitated, and then, as I pulled the curtains aside and stood by the door to
listen, for the third time the cry was repeated and was now coming
indisputably from immediately outside.”
“You refer to the door that opens on to the garden?”
“Exactly—close to which stands my bed. This, then, decided me. Taking
up the small revolver which I have always kept handy since Nicris was
completed, I unlocked the door and stepped out into the garden——”
A vehicle, cab or car, was heard to draw up outside the house. Came the
sound of a rumbling voice. Coram sprang to the door.
“Moris Klaw!” I cried.
“Good morning, Mr. Coram!” said the strange voice, from the darkness
outside. “Good morning, Mr. Searles!”
Moris Klaw entered.
He wore his flat-topped brown bowler of effete pattern; he wore his long,
shabby, caped coat; and from beneath it gleamed the pointed glossy toe-
caps of his continental boots. Through his gold-rimmed glasses he peered
into the shadows of the hall. His scanty, colourless beard appeared less
adequate than ever to clothe the massive chin. The dim light rendered his
face more cadaverous and more yellow even than usual.

“And this,” he proceeded, as the anxious sculptor came forward, “is Mr.
Paxton, who has lost his statue? Good morning, Mr. Paxton!”
He bowed, removing the bowler and revealing his great high brow.
Coram was about to reclose the door.
“Ah, no!” Moris Klaw checked him. “My daughter is to come yet with
my cushion!”
Paxton stared, not comprehending, but stared yet harder when Isis Klaw
appeared, carrying a huge red cushion. She was wrapped in a cloak which
effectually concealed her lithe figure, and from the raised hood her darkly
beautiful face looked out with bewitching effect. She divided between
Coram and myself one of her dazzling smiles.
“It is Mr. Paxton,” said her father, indicating the sculptor. Then,
indicating the girl, “It is my daughter, Isis. Isis will help us to look for
Nicris. Why am I here, an old fool who ought to be asleep? Because of this
girdle your statue wore. I so well remember when it was dug up. I cannot
know its history, but be sure it is evil. From the beginning, please, Mr.
Paxton!”
“I’m awfully indebted to you! Won’t you come in and sit down?” said
Paxton, glancing at the girl in bewilderment.
“No, no!” replied Klaw, “let us stand. It is good to stand, and stand
upright; for it is because he can do this that man is superior to the other
animals!”
Coram and I knew Klaw’s mannerisms, but I could see that Paxton
thought him to be a unique kind of lunatic. Nevertheless, he narrated
something of the foregoing up to the point reached at Moris Klaw’s arrival.
“Proceed slowly, now,” said Klaw. “You left the door open behind you?”
“Yes; but I was never more than ten yards from it. It would have been
physically impossible for any one to remove the statue unknown to me. You
must remember that it was no light weight.”
“One moment,” I interrupted. “Are you sure that the statue was in its
place before you came out?”
“Certain! There was a bright moon, and the figure was the first thing my
eyes fell upon when I pulled the curtain aside.”
“Did you touch it?” rumbled Moris Klaw.
“No. There was no occasion to do so.”
“How much to be regretted, Mr. Paxton! The sense of touch is so
exquisite a thing!”

We all wondered at his words.
“Stepping just outside the door,” Paxton resumed, “I looked to right and
left. There was no one in sight. Then I walked to the wall—a matter of
some ten yards—and, pulling myself up by my hands, looked over into the
street. It was deserted, save for a constable on the opposite corner. I know
him, slightly, and his presence convinced me that no one could either have
come into or gone out of the garden by way of the wall. I did not call him,
but immediately returned to the studio door.”
“In all, you were absent from the studio about how long?” asked Moris
Klaw.
“Not a second over half a minute!”
“And on returning once more to the door?”
“A single glance showed me that the statue had gone!”
“Good Heavens!” I said; “it sounds impossible. Was the constable on
point duty?”
“He was; there is always an officer there. He stood in sight of the double
doors opening on to the street during the whole time, so that ‘Nicris’
unquestionably came out by way of the garden or melted into thin air. Since
the only exit from the garden also opens on to the street, how, but by magic,
can the statue have been removed from the premises?”
“Ah, my friend,” said Moris Klaw, “you talk of magic as one talks of
onions! How little you know”—he swept wide his arms, looking upward
—“of the phenomena of the two atmospheres! Proceed!”
“The throne,” continued Paxton, who was becoming impressed as was
evident by the uncanny sense of power which emanated in some way from
Moris Klaw, “remains.”
“And the statue—it was attached to it?”
“As to the figure being attached, I may say that it was only partially so.
Materials for completing the work were to have arrived to-day.”
“How long would it have taken to detach it?” growled Klaw.
“Granting some knowledge of the nature of the work, not long—for, as I
have said, in this respect it was incomplete. Half an hour or so, I should
have believed!”
“Then,” I said, “the matter, in brief, stands thus: In the course of thirty
seconds, during which time a constable was in view of one entrance and
you were ten yards from the other, someone detached the statue from the

throne—an operation involving half an hour’s skilled labour—and, unseen
by yourself or the officer, removed it from the premises.”
“Oh, the thing is impossible!” groaned Paxton. “There is something
unearthly in the affair. I wish I had never set eyes upon that accursed
girdle!”
“Curse not the girdle,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Curse instead its wearer,
and inform us, on finding Nicris to be missing, what did you do?”
“I hastily searched the studio. A brief investigation convinced me that
neither statue nor thief was concealed there. I then came out, locked the
door, and, having examined the garden, hailed the constable. He had been
on duty for four hours at that point and had observed absolutely nothing of
an unusual nature. He saw you fellows come out by the garden entrance,
and from that time until I hailed him, nothing, he declared, had come in or
gone out!”
“He heard no cry?”
“No; it was not loud enough to be audible from the corner.”
“Lastly,” said Klaw, “have you informed Scotland Yard?”
“No,” answered the sculptor; “nor will the constable lodge information;
moreover, I withheld from him the object of my inquiries. If this business
gets into the papers I shall be a ruined man!”
“I have hopes,” Klaw assured him, “that it will get in no papers. Let us
proceed now to the scene of these wonderful happenings. It is my custom,
Mr. Paxton, to lay my old head down upon the scene of a mystery, and from
the air I can sometimes recover the key to the labyrinth!”
“So I have heard,” said Paxton.
“You have heard so, yes? You shall see! Lead on, Mr. Paxton! No time
must be wasted. I am another like Napoleon, and can sleep on an instant. I
do not know insomnia! Lead on. Isis, my child, be careful that it brushes
against no object in passing—my odically sterilized cushion!”
We proceeded to the studio.
“I feel that I am responsible for dragging you here at this unearthly hour,”
said Paxton to Isis Klaw.
She turned her fine eyes upon him.
“My father is indebted for the opportunity,” she replied; “and since he
has need of me, I am here. I, too, am indebted.”
Her supreme self-possession and tone of finality silenced the artist. So far
as I could see, everything in the studio was exactly as before, save that

Nicris’s throne was vacant. The top of the studio was partially glazed, and
Moris Klaw peered up at it earnestly.
“From above,” he rumbled, “I should wish to look down into below. How
do I reach it?”
“The only stepladder is that in the studio,” answered Paxton. “I will bring
it out.”
He did so. The gray light of dawn was creeping into the sky, and against
that sombre background we watched Moris Klaw crawling about the roof
like some giant spider.
“Did you find anything?” asked Paxton, anxiously, as the investigator
descended.
“I find what I look for,” was the reply; “and no man is entitled to find
more. Isis, my child, place that cushion in the ebony chair.”
The girl stepped on to the dais, and disposed the red cushion as directed.
“You see,” explained Morris Klaw, “whoever has robbed you, Mr.
Paxton, runs some one great danger, however clever his plans. There is, in
every criminal scheme, one little point that only Fate can decide—either to
hitch or to smooth out—to bring success and riches or whistling policemen
and Brixton Gaol! Upon that so critical point his or her mind will
concentrate at the critical moment. The critical moment, here, was that of
getting Nicris out of your studio.
“I sleep upon that throne where she reclined—the ivory dancer. This
sensitive plate”—he tapped his brow—“will reproduce a negative of that
critical moment as it seemed in the mind of the one we look for. Isis, return
in the cab that waits and be here again at six o’clock.”
He placed his quaint bowler upon a table and laid beside it his black
cloak. Then, a ramshackle figure in shabby tweed, reclined upon the big
ebony chair, his head against the cushion.
“Place my cloak about me, Isis.”
The girl did so.
“Good morning, my child! Good morning, Mr. Searles! Good morning,
Mr. Coram and Mr. Paxton!”
He closed his eyes.
“Excuse me,” began Paxton.
Isis placed her finger to her lips, and signed to us to withdraw silently.

“Ssh!” she whispered. “He is asleep!”

III

At five minutes to six sounded Isis Klaw’s ring upon the door bell.
Paxton, Coram, and I had spent the interval in discussing the apparently
supernatural happening which threatened to wreak the artist’s ruin. Again
and again he had asked us, “Should I call in the Scotland Yard people? If
Moris Klaw fails, consider the priceless time lost!”
“If Moris Klaw fails,” Coram assured him, “no one else will succeed!”
We admitted Isis, who wore now a smart tweed costume and a
fashionable hat. Beyond doubt, Isis Klaw was strikingly beautiful.
At the door of the studio stood her father, staring straight up to the
morning sky, as though by astrological arts he hoped to solve the mystery.
“What time does your model come?” he asked, ere Paxton could question
him.
“Half-past ten. But, Mr. Klaw——” began our anxious friend.
“Where does it lead to,” Klaw rumbled on, “that lane behind the studio?”
“Tradesmen’s entrance to the next house.”
“Whose house?”
“Doctor Gleason.”
“M.D.?”
“Yes. But tell me, Mr. Klaw—tell me, have you any clue?”
“My mind, Mr. Paxton, records for me that Nicris was not stolen away,
but walked! Plainly, I feel her go tiptoe, tiptoe, so silent and cautious! She is
concerned, this barbaric dancing girl who escapes from your studio, with
two things. One is some very big man. She thinks, as she tiptoes, of one
very tall: six feet and three inches at least! So it is not of you she thinks, Mr.
Paxton. We shall see of whom it is. Tell me the name of your acquaintance,
the point-policeman.”
We were all staring at Moris Klaw, spellbound with astonishment. But
Paxton managed to mumble:
“James—Constable James.”
“We shall seek him, this James, at the section house of the police depot,”
rumbled Klaw. “Be silent, Mr. Paxton; let no one know of your loss. And
hope.”

“I can see no ground for hope!”
“No? But I? I recognize the clue, Mr. Paxton! What a great science is that
of mental photography!”
What did he mean? None of us could surmise, and I could see that poor
Paxton reposed no faith whatever in the eccentric methods of the
investigator. He would have voiced his doubts, I think, but he met a glance
from the dark eyes of Isis Klaw which silenced him.
“My child,” said Klaw to his daughter, “take the cushion and return. My
negative is a clear one. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” replied Isis, with composure.
“Breakfast——” began Paxton, tentatively.
But Moris Klaw waved his hands and enveloped himself in the big cloak.
“There is no time for such gross matters!” he said. “We are busy.”
From the brown bowler he took out a scent spray and bedewed his high,
bald forehead with verbena.
“It is exhausting, that odic photography!” he explained.
Shortly afterward he and I walked around to the local police depot.
Something occurred to me, en route.
“By the way,” I said, “what was the other thing of which you spoke? The
thing that you declared Nicris to be thinking of, though I don’t understand
in the least how one can refer to the ‘thoughts’ of an ivory statue!”
“Ah,” rumbled my companion, “it is something I shall explain later—that
other fear of the missing one.”
Arriving at the police depot, “Shall I ask for Constable James?” I said.
“Ah, no,” replied Klaw. “It is for the constable that he relieved at twelve
o’clock I am looking.”
Inquiry showed that the latter officer—his name was Freeman—had just
entered the section house. Moris Klaw’s questions elicited the following
story, although its bearing upon the matter in hand was not evident to me.
Toward twelve o’clock, that is, shortly before Freeman was relieved, a
man, supporting a woman, came down the street and entered the gate of
Doctor Gleeson’s house. The woman was enveloped in a huge fur cloak
which entirely concealed her face and figure, but from her feeble step the
constable judged her to be very ill. Considering the lateness of the hour,
also, he concluded that the case must be a serious one; he further supposed
the sick woman to be resident in the neighbourhood, since she came on
foot.

He had begun to wonder at the length of the consultation, when, nearly
an hour later, the man appeared again from the shadows of the drive, still
supporting the woman. Pausing at the gate he waved his hand to the
policeman.
Constable Freeman ran across the road immediately.
“Fetch me a taxicab, officer!” said the stranger, supporting his
companion and exhibiting much solicitude.
Freeman promptly ran to the corner of Beira Road and returned with a
cab from the all-night rank.
“Open the door!” directed the man, who was a person of imposing height
—some six-feet-three, Freeman averred.
“Ha, ha!” growled Moris Klaw, “six-feet-three! What a wondrous
science!”
He seemed triumphant; but I was merely growing more nonplussed.
With that, carefully wrapping the cloak about the woman’s figure, the big
man took her up in his arms and placed her inside the cab—the only
glimpse of her which the constable obtained being that of a small foot clad
in a silk stocking. She had apparently dropped her shoe.
Tenderly assisting her to a corner of the vehicle, the man, having bent
and whispered some word of encouragement in her ear, directed the cabman
to drive to the Savoy.
“Did you give him your assistance?” asked Moris Klaw.
“No. He did not seem to require it.”
“And the number of the cabman?”
Freeman fetched his notebook and supplied the required information.
“Thank you, Constable Freeman,” said Klaw. “You are a very alert
constable. Good morning, Constable Freeman!”
Again satisfaction beamed from behind my companion’s glasses. But to
my eyes the darkness grew momentarily less penetrable. For these inquiries
bore upon matters which had occurred prior to twelve o’clock; and, Coram,
myself, and Paxton had seen the statue in its usual place considerably after
midnight! My brain was in a turmoil.
Said Moris Klaw: “That cab was from the big garage at Brixton. We shall
ring up the Brixton garage and learn where the man may be found. Perhaps,
if Providence is with us—and Providence is with the right—he has not yet
again left home.”

From a public call office we rang up the garage, and learned that the man
we wanted was not due to report for duty until ten o’clock. We experienced
some difficulty in obtaining his private address, but finally it was given to
us. Thither we hastened, and aroused the man from his bed.
“A big gentleman and a sick lady,” said Moris Klaw, “they hired your cab
from Doctor Gleeson’s, near Beira Road, at about twelve o’clock last night,
and you drove them to the Savoy Hotel.”
“No, sir. He changed the address afterward. I’ve been wondering why. I
drove him to Number 6A, Rectory Grove, Old Town, Clapham.”
“Was the lady by then recovered—no? Yes?”
“Partly, sir. I heard him talking to her. But he carried her into the house.”
“Ah,” said Moris Klaw, “there is much genius wasted; but what a great
science is the science of the mind!”

IV

Many times Moris Klaw knocked upon the door of the house in Clapham
Old Town, a small one, standing well back from the roadway. Within we
could hear someone coughing.
Then the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man appeared who must
have stood some six feet three inches. He had finely chiselled features, was
clean-shaven, and wore pince-nez.
Klaw said a thing that had a surprising effect.
“What!” he rumbled, “has Nina caught cold?”
The other glared, with a sudden savagery coming into his eyes, fell back
a step, and clenched his great fists.
“Enough, Jean Colette!” said Morris Klaw, “you do not know me, but I
know you. Attempt no tricks, or it is the police and not a meddlesome,
harmless old fool who will come. Enter, Jean! We follow.”
For a moment longer the big man hesitated, and I saw the shadows of
alternate resolves passing across his fine features. Then clearly he saw that
surrender was inevitable, shrugged his shoulders, and stared hard at my
companion.
“Enter, messieurs,” he said, with a marked French accent.
He said no more, but led the way into a long, bare room at the rear of the
house. To term the apartment a laboratory would be correct but not

inclusive; for it was, in addition, a studio and a workshop. Glancing rapidly
around him, Moris Klaw asked, “Where is it?”
The man’s face was a study as he stood before us, looking from one to
the other. Then a peculiar smile, indescribably winning, played around his
lips. “You are very clever, and I know when I am beaten,” he remarked;
“but had you come four hours later it would have been one hour too late.”
He strode up the room to where a tall screen stood, and, seizing it by the
top, hurled it to the ground.
Behind, on a model’s dais, reclined the statue of Nicris, in a low chair!
“You have already removed the girdle and one of the anklets,” rumbled
Klaw.
This was true. Indeed, it now became evident that the man had been
interrupted in his task by our arrival. Opening a leather case that stood upon
the floor by the dais, he produced the missing ornaments.
“What action is to be taken, messieurs?” he asked, quietly.
“No action, Jean,” replied Moris Klaw. “It is impossible, you see. But
why did you delay so long?”
The other’s reply was unexpected.
“It is a task demanding much time and care, if the statue is not to be
ruined; otherwise I should have performed it in Mr. Paxton’s studio instead
of going to the trouble of removing the figure—and—— Nina’s condition
has caused me grave anxiety throughout the night.” He stared hard at Moris
Klaw. We could hear the sound of coughing from some room hard by. “Who
are you, m’sieur?” he asked, pointedly.
“An old fool who knew Nina when she posed at Julien’s, Jean,” was the
reply, “and who knew you, also, in Paris.”

V

Paxton, Coram, myself, and Moris Klaw sat in the studio, and all of us
gazed reflectively at the recovered statue.
“It was so evident,” explained Klaw, “that, since you were absent from
here but thirty seconds, for any one to have removed the statue during that
time was out of the question.”
“But someone did——”

“Not during that time,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Nicris was removed whilst
you all made merry within the house!”
“But, my dear Mr. Klaw, Searles, Coram, and I saw the statue long after
that—some time about one o’clock!”
“Wrong, my friend! You saw the model!”
“What! Nina?”
“Madame Colette, whom you knew in Paris as Nina—yes! Listen—when
I drop off to sleep here and dream that I am afraid for what may happen to
some very large man, I dream, also, that I fear to be touched! I look down at
myself, and I am beautiful! I am ivory of limb and decked with gold! I
creep, so cautiously, out of the studio (in my dream—you would call it a
dream), and I know, when I wake, that I must have been Nicris! Ah, you
wonder! Listen.
“At about midnight, whilst your party is amiable together, comes one,
Jean Colette, a clever scamp from that metropolis of such perverted genius
—Paris. Into Doctor Gleeson’s he goes, supporting Madame—your model.
This is seen by Constable Freeman. When the trees hide them they climb
over the fence into the lane and over the wall into your garden. Nina has a
cast of the studio key. How easy for her to get it!
“Jean, a clever rogue with his hands, and a man who promised to be,
once, a great artist, detaches the figure from the throne and arrays it as
Madame—in Madame’s outer garb! Beneath her cloak, Madame is Nicris—
with copies of the jewels and all complete. He is clever, this Jean! He is,
too, a man of vast strength—a modern Crotonian Milo. Not only does he
carry that great piece of ivory from the studio, he lifts it over the wall—did
Madame assist?—and into Doctor Gleeson’s drive. He bears it to the gate,
wrapped in Nina’s furs. He calls a policeman! Ah, genius is here! He gives
the wrong address. He is as cool as an orange!
“Do they escape now? Not so! He sees that you, finding Nicris missing,
will apply to the point-policeman and get hold upon a thread. He says, ‘I
will make it to appear that the robbery took place at a later time. I will thus
gain hours! Another policeman will be on duty when the discovery is made;
he will know nothing.’ He leaves Nina to pretend to be Nicris!
“Ah! she has courage, but her fears are many. Most of all she dreads that
you will touch her! You do not. And Jean, the ivory statue safe at Clapham,
returns for Nina. He comes into the doctor’s drive by the farther gate—
where the point-policeman cannot see him. He wears rubber shoes. He

mounts to the studio roof. He lies flat upon the ledge above the door. His
voice is falsetto. He calls, ‘Nicris!’
“Presently, you come out. You peep over the wall. Ah! out, also, is
Madame! She stretches up her white arms—so like the real ivory!—he
stretches down his steel hands. He raises her beside him! Name of a dog, he
is strong!
“Why to the roof and not over the wall? The path is of gravel and her feet
are bare. On the roof, to prove me correct, upon the grime are marks of
small bare feet; are marks of men’s rubber shoes; are, halfway along, marks
of smaller rubber shoes—which he had brought for Nina. He has
forethought. They retire by the farther gate of your neighbour’s drive.
“No doubt he bring her furs as well—no doubt. But she contracts a chill,
no wonder! Ah! he is cool, he is daring, he is a great man——”
A maid entered the studio.
“A gentleman to see you, sir.”
“Ask him to come along here.”
A short interval—and Jean Colette entered, hat in hand!
“These two wedges, m’sieur”—he bowed to Paxton—“which help to
attach the girdle. I forgot to return them. Adieu!”
He placed the wedges on a table and, amid a dramatic silence, withdrew.
Moris Klaw took out the cylindrical scent spray from the lining of the
brown bowler.
“A true touch of Paris!” he rumbled. “Did I not say he was a great man?”

FIFTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE BLUE RAJAH

I

Inspector Grimsby called upon me one evening, wearing a great glumness
of countenance.
“Look here,” said he, “I’m in a bit of a corner. You’ll have heard that a
committee of commercial magnates has been formed to buy, and on behalf
of the City of London to present to the Crown, the big Indian diamond?”
I nodded and pushed the box of cigarettes toward him.
“Well,” he continued, thoughtfully selecting one, “they are meeting in
Moorgate Street to-morrow morning to complete the deal and formally take
over the stone. Sir Michael Cayley, the Lord Mayor, will be present, and
he’s received a letter, which has been passed on to me.”
He fumbled for his pocket-case. Grimsby is a man who will go far. He is
the youngest detective-inspector in the service, and he has that priceless gift
—the art of using other people for the furtherance of his own ends. I do not
intend this criticism unkindly. Grimsby does nothing dishonourable and
seeks to rob no man of the credit that may be due. There is nothing
underhand about Grimsby, but he is exceedingly diplomatic. He imparts
official secrets to me with an ingenuousness entirely disarming—but always
for reasons of his own.
“Here you are,” he said, and passed a letter to me.
It read as follows:

“To the Right Hon. the Lord Mayor of London.
“My Lord:
“Beware that the Blue Rajah is not stolen on Wednesday the
13th inst. Do not lose sight of it for one moment.
“Your Lordship’s obedient servant,
“Moris Klaw.”

“You see,” continued Grimsby, “Wednesday the thirteenth is to-morrow,
when the thing is being brought to Moorgate Street. Naturally, Sir Michael
communicated with the Yard, and as I’m in the know about Moris Klaw, I
got the job of looking into the matter. I was at the Mansion House this
morning.”
“I suppose Sir Michael regards this note with suspicion?”
“Well, he’s not silly enough to suppose that anybody who thought of
stealing the diamond would drop him a line advising him of the matter! But
he’d never heard of Moris Klaw until I explained about him. When I told
him that Klaw had a theory about the Cycle of Crime, and his letter
probably meant that, according to said theory, on Wednesday the thirteenth
the Blue Rajah was due to be lifted, so to speak, he laughed. You’ll have
noticed that people mostly laugh at first about Moris Klaw?”
“Certainly. You did, yourself!”
“I know it—and I’m suffering for it! Klaw won’t lift his little finger
when I ask him; and as for his daughter, she giggles as though she was
looking at a comedian when she looks at me! She thinks I’m properly
funny!”
“You’ve been to Wapping, then?”
“Yes, this afternoon. The Lord Mayor wanted a lot of convincing that
Moris Klaw was on the straight after I’d told him that the old gentleman
was a dealer in curios in the East End. Finally, he suggested that I should
find out what the warning meant exactly. But I couldn’t get to see Klaw; his
daughter said he was out.”
“I suppose every precaution will be taken?”
“To-morrow morning we have arranged that I and two other C.I.D. men
are to accompany the party to the safe deposit vaults to fetch the diamond
and we shall guard it on the way back afterward.”
“Who’s going to fetch it?”
“Sir John Carron, representing the India Office, Mr. Mark Anderson—the
expert—representing the city, and Mr. Gautami Chinje, representing the
Gaekwar of Nizam. I was wondering”—he surveyed the burning end of his
cigarette—“if you had time to run down to Wapping yourself and find out
from what direction we ought to look for trouble?”
“Sorry, Grimsby,” I replied; “I would do it with pleasure, but my evening
is fully taken up. Personally, it appears to me that Moris Klaw’s warning
was a timely one. You seem to be watching the stone pretty closely.”

“Like a cat watches a mouse!” he rapped. “If any one steals the Blue
Rajah to-morrow, he’ll be a clever fellow.”

II

Basinghall House, Moorgate Street, is built around a courtyard. You enter
under an archway, and find offices before you, offices to right and offices to
left. As a matter of fact, Basinghall House was designed for a hotel, but
subsequently let off in suites of chambers. The offices of Messrs. Anderson
& Brothers are on the left, as you enter, and from the window of the
principal’s sanctum you may look down into the courtyard.
The room chosen for the meeting on Wednesday morning, however, was
one opening off this. In common with the adjoining office—as I have said,
that of the principal—it had a second door, opening on a corridor. This latter
door, however, was never used and was always kept double-locked. Thus,
the doorway from the other office was really its only means of entrance or
egress. A large window offered a prospect of the courtyard.
At a quarter to eleven on Wednesday morning, Mr. Anderson (one of the
City Aldermen) entered his own private office from the corridor. He was
accompanied by Sir John Carron, Mr. Gautami Chinje, and Inspector
Grimsby. These three had come with him from the safe deposit vaults. Mr.
Anderson had possession of the case containing the diamond.
In the office, already awaiting the party, were Sir Michael Cayley (the
Lord Mayor); Mr. Morrison Dell, of the Goldsmiths & Silversmiths
Company; Sir Vernon Rankin (ex-Lord Mayor); Mr. Werner, of the great
engineering firm; and Mr. Anderson, junior. These constituted the
Presentation Committee duly appointed by the City of London (excluding,
of course, Sir John Carron, of the India Office; Mr. Chinje, representing the
vendor of the jewel; and Mr. Grimsby, representing New Scotland Yard).
“We are all present, gentlemen,” said Mr. Anderson. “But before we
proceed to the business which brings us here, we will enter the inner room,
where we shall be quite private.”
Accordingly the party of eight passed through the doorway; and Mr.
Anderson, senior, entering last, relocked the door behind him. Inspector
Grimsby remained alone in the private office.

Eight oaken chairs and a small oaken table bearing a pewter inkpot, two
pens, and a blotting pad represent, with a square of red carpet and a framed
photograph bearing the legend: “Jagersfontein Diamond Workings, Orange
Free State, 1909,” an inventory of the furniture.
The company being seated, Mr. Anderson, by the table, rose and said:
“Gentlemen, our business this morning can be briefly dealt with. I have
here”—he produced a leather case, opened it, and placed it on the table
before him—“the diamond known as the Blue Rajah. Its history may be
summarized thus: It appeared in the year 1680 and is supposed to have been
found in the Kollur Mine, on the Kostna. It had a weight of 254½ carats in
the rough, but was reduced to 132 carats in the cutting. It has been
successively owned by Nadîr Shah, Princess de Lambelle, the Sultan Abdúl
Hámid, Mr. Simon Rabstein of New York, and, finally, the Gaekwar of
Nizam. It has no flaws; in fact, two of the original facets were retained
when the stone passed through the cutter’s hands. It is rose cut and its
colour is of the finest water, having the rare blue tint.”
He paused, raising the diamond from its receptacle, and holding it in his
hand. The sunlight, pouring in through the window, struck flame-spears
from the wonderful thing.
“In fact, gentlemen,” he concluded, “the Blue Rajah is a fitting offering
for the City of London to make to the Crown.”
“Hear, hear!” chorused the others; and the diamond was passed from
hand to hand. The formal business of making over the stone to the
Committee was then transacted. A huge check was placed in the pocket-
case of Mr. Gautami Chinje, autographs were affixed to two formidable
documents; and the Blue Rajah became the property of the loyal City of
London.
“You see,” said Sir John Carron, holding the stone daintily between
thumb and forefinger, and pointing, lecturer-fashion, “the diamond is
perfectly proportioned, being a full three fifths as deep as it is broad.”
“Quite so,” agreed Mr. Morris Dell, looking over his shoulder.
“It is the most perfectly proportioned stone I have ever handled, Sir
John,” said the younger Mr. Anderson—and he stood back surveying the
gem with the caressing glance of a connoisseur.
Sir John turned and tenderly laid the diamond in its case. At which
moment, exactly, arose a blood-curdling scream in the courtyard below.
“Good Lord!” cried Mr. Werner. “What is that?”

There was a crowded rush to the window—those in the second rank
peering over the heads and shoulders of those in the first. The horrid cries
continued, in a choking yet shrill crescendo.
“Ah! God in Heaven! You are killing me! No! No! Mercy! … Mercy! …
Mercy! …”
“It is someone in the archway,” said Sir Vernon Rankin, excitedly. “Can
any of you see him?”
No one could, though all craned necks vigorously.
“Unfortunately, the window cannot be opened,” cried Mr. Anderson.
“The catch has jammed in some way. I am having it removed immediately.”
The cries ceased. People were running about below, and the blue uniform
of a city constable showed among the group in the archway.
“I’ll run down and see what has happened,” said Mr. Chinje, stepping to
the door which opened on the corridor. “Hullo! it is locked!”
Young Mr. Anderson turned to him with a smile.
“Both doors are locked, Mr. Chinje,” he said. “For the time being we are
virtually prisoners.”
“Give me the case,” said his father, selecting the key of the door
communicating with his private office. “There is no occasion for further
delay.”
The Lord Mayor turned from the window, through which he had still
been vainly peering, and stepped to the table.
“Mr. Anderson!”
“Yes?” said the latter, glancing back, keys in hand.
“Have you the diamond?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then who has it?”
No one had it. But the case was empty!

III

Mr. Anderson replaced the keys in his pocket. His ruddy face suddenly
had grown pale. Sir Michael Cayley, the empty case in his hand, stood
staring across the room like a man dazed. Then he forced speech to his lips.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “since it is physically impossible for the diamond
to have left this room, in this room it must be searched for—and found.

First, is it by any chance upon the floor?”
A brief examination showed that it was not.
“Then,” continued Sir Michael, “the painful conclusion is unavoidable
that it is upon someone’s person!”
An angry murmur arose. Mr. Anderson raised his hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “Sir Michael states no more than the fact.”
And, his face remaining very pale, he removed his coat and waistcoat and
threw them upon the table, emptied his trouser pockets and turned out the
linings.
“Be good enough to examine them, gentlemen,” he said.
There was a momentary hesitation; but the Lord Mayor stepped forward
and in a businesslike way examined the contents of the several pockets. He
turned to Mr. Anderson.
“Thank you,” he said. “If the others are satisfied, I am.”
There was a murmur of assent; and as the owner of the office picked up
his property, Sir Michael, in turn, submitted himself to examination. All the
others followed suit, without further hesitation. And the result of the inquiry
was nil.
Eight anxious faces surrounded the little table.
“I suggest,” said Mr. Anderson, quietly, “that we admit the detective who
is in my office. His experience may enable him to succeed where we have
failed.”
All agreeing, the communicating door was opened. Mr. Anderson,
without quitting the room, called to Inspector Grimsby. The inspector
entered. The door was relocked.
“Inspector,” said Mr. Anderson, “the diamond is missing!”
Whereupon Grimsby’s eyes opened widely in amazement.
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot doubt it.”
“When did you last see it?”
“At the moment when that uproar broke out below,” said Mr. Dell.
“Ah,” murmured Grimsby, thoughtfully. “You all rushed to the window, I
expect?”
“Exactly.”
“Leaving the diamond on the table?”
“Yes.”
“That’s when it was stolen!”

“Very possibly, Inspector,” said the Lord Mayor, a stoutly built man with
an imperious manner. “But who took it and where did he conceal it?”
“You must all submit to be searched, gentlemen!”
“We have already done so.”
“I am more used to that sort of thing. Do you all agree to being searched
by me?”
All did. The previous performance was repeated. Grimsby not only
searched the garments but passed his hands all over the persons of the eight,
even making them open their mouths and tapping at their teeth with a lead
pencil!
“I did some I.D.B. work in South Africa,” he explained. “It’s wonderful
where a clever man can hide a diamond.”
But no diamond was found!
The better to bring home to those who read these records the truly
amazing nature of this circumstance, I will explain again, here, the
construction and furniture of the apartment.
It was a small room, some fourteen feet by eighteen. It contained eight
oak chairs and an oak table; a red carpet; its walls were distempered and
bare, save for the framed photograph previously mentioned. The one
window was closed and fastened. The door opening on the corridor was
double-locked. Save when it had been opened to admit Grimsby, the door
communicating with the next office had also been locked throughout the
course of the meeting. There was no fireplace. Ventilation was provided for
by a small, square ventilator above the corridor door.
Having convinced himself that the diamond was not upon the person of
any one present, Inspector Grimsby took but two or three minutes to satisfy
himself that it was not concealed elsewhere.
“Gentlemen,” he said, slowly, “the Blue Rajah is not in this room!”
The Lord Mayor glared. He was a director of the company with which
the diamond was insured.
“My good man,” he said, “it isn’t humanly possible for anything—
anything—to have gone out of this room since we entered it!”
“I’m disposed to agree with you, sir,” replied Grimsby. “But at the same
time I’ll stake my reputation that the diamond isn’t inside these four walls!
Although my search of you gentlemen was a mere formality, I assure you it
was thorough. I’ve searched a few score Kaffirs and I know my business.
As to the room itself, it’s as bare as a drawing board. A child could find the

smallest bead in it inside twenty seconds. You can take it from me as a stone
certainty that the diamond has gone!”
“Then we are wasting precious time!” cried Sir Michael. “Commence the
pursuit at once, Inspector!”
Grimsby’s jaw shot out doggedly.
“If you could give me a hint where to begin, sir,” he said, “I shouldn’t
waste another second!”
“Hang it all, that’s your business, my man!”
“I know it is, sir. But I’m only a poor human policeman, after all. We
sha’n’t gain anything by getting angry, shall we? This room, to all intents
and purposes, is a locked box from which something has been abstracted
without lifting the lid. That’s a conjuring trick, and as puzzling to me as it is
to you.”
Sir Michael softened. Inspector Grimsby is not a man who can be
browbeaten.
“Quite right, Inspector,” he said; “I recognize the difficulties. But this
loss is horrible. It reflects upon all of us—all of us. If the news of this theft
leaks out—if the stone cannot be recovered—a certain stigma—I cannot
blind myself to the fact—a certain stigma will attach to our personal
integrity. Clean as our records may be, we cannot hope to escape it. For
God’s sake, Inspector, set your wits to work.”
Indeed, those were anxious faces that surrounded the detective. Suddenly
—
“Ah!” cried the Lord Mayor, “the man Klaw! On his own showing he
knows something of this matter! Mr. Grimsby——”
Grimsby held up his hand and nodded.
“With your permission, gentlemen,” he said, “I will try to get into
communication with Moris Klaw at once.”
“Good,” said Mr. Anderson; “and meanwhile, whilst we await the result
of your efforts, Inspector, I suggest, in the interests of all, that we lunch in
my office. It may be inconvenient for many of you, but for my own part I
am anxious to remain on these premises until we have news of the
whereabouts of the diamond.”
The proposal was carried unanimously. No one of those substantial men
of affairs was anxious to lay himself open to the suspicion of having
removed the great Blue Rajah from the office! For, as Sir Michael quite

justly had pointed out, where a diamond worth an emperor’s ransom is
concerned, reputations melt like ice beneath a tropical sun.
In this way, then, I found myself concerned in the case; for Grimsby
hastened to call me up, begging me to urge the retiring Moris Klaw to quit
his Wapping haunt, to which he clung like Diogenes to his wooden cavern,
and to journey to Moorgate Street. Fortunately, I was in my rooms, and,
willing enough to enjoy an opportunity of studying Klaw at work, I
despatched a district messenger to him, trusting that he would be at his
shop.
Since evidently he had apprehended that an attempt would be made this
morning, I did not doubt that he would be at home. Indeed, he rang me up
less than half an hour later and arranged to meet me at Mr. Anderson’s
office.
“I warned him—that Lord Mayor,” came his rumbling continental tones
along the wire, “how he must not let it out of his sight. He ignored me. So!
Ring him up immediately, and tell him to have ready for me hot black
coffee. It stimulates the inner perception when green tea is not obtainable.”
Without delay I followed Moris Klaw’s instructions, and then hurried out
and into a cab. My duties, as Klaw’s biographer—self-appointed—forbade
my delaying.
We arrived at Basinghall House simultaneously. Our cabs drew up one
behind the other. Except for the presence of Inspector Grimsby at the
entrance, there was nothing to show that a stupendous robbery had been
committed there less than an hour before. As I descended, Grimsby ran and
opened the door of the other cab. He offered his hand to the beautiful girl
who was within, according her all the nervous deference due to a queen.
And indeed no queen of ancient times could have looked more queenly
than Isis Klaw—no Hatshepsu could have carried herself more regally. She
wore a dark, close-fitting costume and ermine furs. In contrast to the snowy
peltry, her large black eyes and perfect red lips rendered her a study for the
brush of a painter, but, like her Oriental grace, defied the pen of the scribe.
Moris Klaw’s daughter, her dazzling beauty enhanced by all the feminine
arts of Paris, was a rare exotic one would not have sought in the
neighbourhood of Wapping Old Stairs. But her father afforded a contrast at
least as singular as her residence.
Behind this seductive vision he appeared, enveloped in his caped coat,
his yellow bearded face crowned by the brown bowler of Early Victorian

pattern—indeed, apparently of Early Victorian manufacture. He peered at
the taximeter through his gold-rimmed pince-nez.
“Two and tenpence,” he rumbled, hoarsely. “That meter requires
inspection, my friend. I have watched it popping up those two pennies, and
I have perceived that it does so every time the cab bumps upon a drain-hole.
I am to pay, then, for all the drains between Wapping and Moorgate Street.
Here it is—three shillings. One and fourpence for the company and one and
eightpence for yourself.”
He turned aside, raising his hat.
“Good morning, Mr. Searles! Good morning, Mr. Grimsby! I shall charge
the City of London one and sixpence for drains. Let us walk on as far as the
courtyard I see yonder, and you shall tell me all the facts before I interview
those others, who will be, of course, so prejudiced by their misfortune.”
We passed on, and many a clerkly glance followed the furry figure of Isis
beneath the archway. Hemmed in by offices, a certain quietude prevailed in
the courtyard.
“It is a chilly morning,” said Moris Klaw; “but here we will stop and
talk.”
Accordingly Grimsby related the known facts of the case, more often
addressing his story to the girl than to her father.
“Yes, yes,” growled the latter, when the tale was told; “and this crying
out—this screaming of murder—what occasioned it?”
“That’s the mystery!” explained the detective. “I wish I had run out at
once. I might have learned something. As it is, all I can find out amounts to
nothing. The clerks and porters and other people who came flocking to the
scene found no one here who knew anything about it!”
“The screamer was missing, eh?”
“Vanished! I can’t help thinking it was a ruse; though what anybody
profited by it isn’t clear.”
“It is not clear, you say?” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Ah! you have a fog of
the mentality, my friend!” Grimsby flushed.
“Of course,” he added, hurriedly, “I can see that it served to divert the
attention of the people who ought to have been guarding the diamond. But
as both the doors and the window were locked, how did it help to get the
stone out of the office?”
Moris Klaw pulled reflectively at his scanty beard.
“We shall see,” he rumbled. “Let us ascend.”

We entered the lift and went up to the office of Messrs. Anderson &
Brothers. The Presentation Committee were awaiting the mysterious Moris
Klaw but had not anticipated a visit from a pretty woman. They were
prepared to adopt toward the man who would seem to have had some
foreknowledge of the robbery a certain attitude of suspicion. It was amusing
to note the change of front when Isis entered. Moris Klaw singled out the
Lord Mayor and the owner of the office with unerring instinct. He removed
his hat.
“Good morning, Mr. Anderson!” he said. “Good morning, Sir Michael!
Good morning, gentlemen!”
“This is Mr. Moris Klaw,” explained Grimsby, “and Miss Klaw. Mr.
Searles.”
Mr. Anderson hastened to place chairs. We became seated. Following a
short interval, Sir Michael Cayley cleared his throat.
“We are—er—indebted to you, Mr. Klaw,” he began, “for taking this
trouble. But, in view of your note to me——”
Moris Klaw raised his hand.
“So simple,” he said, whilst the Committee watched him, puzzled and
surprised—that is, those who were not watching Isis did so. “I have a
library, you understand, of records dealing with such historic gems. To
show you that I have made some study of these matters I will tell you that
the diamond called the Blue Rajah was discovered on the morning of April
the thirteenth, 1680, in the Kollur Mine, and stolen the same evening!”
“What is your authority for the exact date, Mr. Klaw?” asked Anderson,
with interest; “and for the statement that the diamond was stolen on the day
of its discovery?”
“Fact, Mr. Anderson, is my authority,” was the rumbling reply, “and I can
tell you more. The diamond is the birth stone of the month of April, and this
diamond was itself born on the thirteenth of that month. To illustrate how its
history is associated with April, I shall only tell you of the beautiful and
unhappy Marie de Lamballe. This great diamond was presented to her on
the ninth of April, 1790, and taken from her on the twelfth of April, 1792,
after her return from England, and only six months before her fair head was
stuck upon a pike and held up to the Queen’s window!”
He paused impressively, waving his long hands in the air.
“I could recount to you,” he resumed, “many such incidents in the history
of the Blue Rajah—and all took place within a week of its birthday! What

day is to-day?”
“Why, it’s the thirteenth of April!” said Sir Michael Cayley, with a start.
“The thirteenth of April,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “For many years the
diamond has been too closely guarded for any new incident to occur, but
when I learn how to-day it is to be brought here, how many hands will
touch it, how many eyes will look upon it, I know that there is danger! Its
history repeats. These incidents”—again he waved his hands—“proceed in
cycles. I warned you. But it was perhaps inevitable. The Cycle of Crime is
as inevitable and immutable as the cycle of the ages. Man’s will has no
power to check it.”
Everyone in the room was deeply impressed. Indeed, no one could have
failed to recognize in the speaker a man of powerful mind, one of
penetrating and unusual intellect.
“Had I had the good fortune to meet you, Mr. Klaw,” said the Lord
Mayor, “I should have attached a greater, and—er—a different, significance
to your note. Your theories are strange ones, but to-day they have received
strange and ample substantiation. I can only hope—and I do so with every
confidence in your great ability”—Moris Klaw rose and bowed—“that you
will be able to recover the diamond whose loss you so truly predicted.”
“I will ask you,” replied Moris Klaw, “to have sent in to me the black
coffee. Myself, my daughter, Mr. Searles, and Mr. Grimsby will view the
room from which the robbery took place.”
“You would wish us to remain here?” asked Mr. Anderson, glancing at
the others.
“I would so wish it, yes.”
“I hope, Mr. Klaw,” said Sir Michael Cayley, “that you will not hesitate
to send me an account of your fee and expenditures.”
“I shall not so hesitate,” replied Moris Klaw.

IV

We entered the small room from which the Blue Rajah had been spirited
away. Grimsby, who was badly puzzled, was evidently glad of Klaw’s
coöperation. Moris Klaw’s letter of warning, leading to the request for
Moris Klaw’s attendance, had enabled the Scotland Yard man to summon
that keen intellect to his aid without compromising his professional

reputation. He would lose no credit that might accrue if the gem were
recovered and, in short, was congratulating himself upon a diplomatic
move.
“It’s beyond me,” he said, “how the thing was got out of the room. With
this door shut, the window fastened, and the other door double-locked, as it
always is, practically the place is a box.”
Moris Klaw, from its hiding place in the lining of his hat, took out the
scent spray and squirted verbena upon his face.
“A box—yes,” he rumbled; “and so stuffy. No air.”
“There’s no ventilation,” explained Grimsby. “That square hole over the
door is intended for ventilation, but as there’s no corresponding aperture
over the window or elsewhere it’s useless. Anyway, it only opens on the
passage.”
“Ah. You searched them all quite thoroughly?”
“Certainly; like Kaffirs. But I didn’t expect to find it.”
“Blessed is he who expecteth little. Isis, my child, there is someone
knocking.”
Isis opened the door communicating with Mr. Anderson’s office, and a
boy entered carrying a tray with a coffee pot and cup upon it.
“Good,” said Moris Klaw. “I shall not sleep in this room, Mr. Searles. It
is difficult to sleep in the morning and I cannot wait for night. I shall sit
here at this table for one hour with my mind a perfect blank. I shall think of
nothing. That is a great art, Mr. Searles—to think of nothing. Few people
but ascetics can do it. Try it for yourself, and you will find that thinking of
trying not to think is the nearest you will get to it! I shall expose my mind, a
sensitive blank, to the etheric waves created here by mental emotion.
“I shall secure many alien impressions of horror at finding the Blue
Rajah to be missing. That is unavoidable. But I hope, amongst all these, to
find that other thought-thing—the fear of the robber at the critical moment
of his crime! That should be a cogent and forceful thought—keener and
therefore stronger to survive, because a thought of danger but of gain, than
the thoughts of loss with which this atmosphere is laden.”
He stood up, removing his caped coat and revealing the shabby tweed
suit which he wore. A big French knot of black silk looked grotesquely out
of place beneath his yellow face with its edging of toneless beard.
“Isis,” he said, “lay my cloak carefully upon that chair by the window. I
will sit there.”

Grimsby stepped forward to assist.
“No, no!” said Isis, but smiled enchantingly. “No hand but mine must
touch it until my father has secured his impression!”
She laid the coat upon the chair, completely covering it; and Moris Klaw
sat down.
“Another cup of coffee,” he said; and his daughter poured one out and
handed it to him. “This is Java coffee and truly not coffee at all. There is no
coffee but Mocha—a thing you English will never learn. Return in an hour,
gentlemen. Isis, ask that no disturbing sound is allowed within or without.
That Committee, it can go home. None of it has the diamond.”
“And the other gentlemen?” asked Grimsby. “They’ll be anxious to get
about their business, too. There’s Sir John Carron from the India Office and
Mr. Gautami Chinje—the Gaekwar’s representative.”
“Of course—certainly,” mused Moris Klaw. “But, of course, too, they
will all be anxious to know immediately the result of my inquiries. Listen—
Mr. Anderson will remain; he can represent the city. Mr. Chinje, you will
perhaps ask him to remain, to represent the Gaekwar—the vendor; and Sir
John Carron, he might be so good. Make those arrangements, Mr. Grimsby,
and let nothing again disturb me.”
We left him, returning to the outer office.
Sir John Carron expressed himself willing to remain.
“If I may use your telephone for a moment, Mr. Anderson,” he said, “I
can put off an engagement.”
Mr. Chinje had no other engagement, and Mr. Anderson’s duties had
detained him in any event. There was some general, but subdued,
conversation before the rest of the party left; but finally Sir John, Chinje,
Grimsby, Isis Klaw, and myself found ourselves in a waiting room on the
opposite side of the corridor, provided with refreshments, and the
gentlemen of the party with cigars, whilst the hospitable and deeply anxious
Messrs. Anderson piled the table with periodical literature for our
entertainment.
It was a curious interlude, which I shall always remember.
Sir John Carron, a tall, bronzed military man, middle-aged and perfectly
groomed, surveyed Isis Klaw through his monocle with undisguised
admiration. She bore this scrutiny with the perfect composure which was
hers, and presently engaged the admiring baronet in some conversation
about India, in which Mr. Chinje presently joined. Chinje had all the quiet

self-possession of a high-caste Hindu, and his dark handsome face exhibited
no signs of annoyance when Sir John adopted that tone of breezy patronage
characteristic of some Anglo-Indian officers who find themselves in the
company of a well-bred native. Grimsby, with recognition of his social
inferiority written large upon him, smoked, for the most part, in silence—
Isis having given him permission to light up. Seeing his covert glances at
this intimate trio, I ultimately succeeded in making the conversation a
general one, thereby earning the Scotland Yard man’s evident gratitude.
“You know, Inspector Grimsby,” said Sir John, “I never was searched
before to-day! But, by Jove, you did it very efficiently! I was dreadfully
tempted to strike you when you calmly turned out my purse! Your method
was far more workmanlike than Sir Michael Cayley’s a few minutes earlier.
He forgot to look in my watch case, but you didn’t!”
Grimsby smiled.
“There’s more in a simple thing like searching a man than most people
take into consideration,” he replied. “I’ve known a Kaffir in the mines who
—excuse me, Miss Klaw—wore no more than Adam, to walk off with
stones worth my year’s wages.”
“I’m prepared to accept your assurance, Inspector,” said Sir John, “that
none of us had the diamond about our persons.”
“My father has accepted it,” added Isis Klaw; “and that is conclusive.”
Which brought us face to face again with the amazing problem that we
were there to solve. How, by any known natural law, had the Blue Rajah
been taken out of the room? None of us could conjecture. That the detective
was hopelessly mystified, his inaction, awaiting the result of Moris Klaw’s
séance, was sufficient proof. I wondered if the Commissioner would have
approved of his passive attitude and entire dependence upon the efforts of
an amateur, yet failed to perceive what other he could adopt. One thing was
certain: if the diamond was recovered, its recovery would be recorded
among Detective-Inspector Grimsby’s successful cases! And there he sat
placidly smoking one of Mr. Anderson’s habanas.

At the expiration of the hour specified, Isis Klaw rose and walked across
to Mr. Anderson’s office. Mr. Anderson, his ruddy face—typically that of a
lowland Scot—a shade paler than was its wont, I fancy, was glancing from
his watch to the clock.
Isis knocked on the inner door, opened it, and entered. Sir John Carron
was watching with intense interest. Mr. Chinje met my glance and smiled a
little sceptically.
Moris Klaw came out with his caped coat on and carrying his bowler in
his hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have secured a mental negative, somewhat
foggy, owing to those other thought forms with which the atmosphere is
laden. But I have identified him—the thief!”
A sound like a gasp repressed came from somewhere immediately behind
me. I turned. Mr. Anderson and Mr. Anderson, junior, stood at my elbow;
close by were Mr. Chinje, Grimsby, and Sir John Carron.
“Who snorts?” rumbled Moris Klaw, peering through his pince-nez.
“Not I,” said Sir John, staring about him.
We all, in turn, denied having uttered the sound.
“Then there is in this office a ghost,” declared Klaw, “or a liar!”
“Excuse me, Mr. Klaw,” began Mr. Anderson, with some heat.
Moris Klaw raised his hand. His daughter’s magnificent eyes blazed
defiance at us all.
“No anger,” implored the rumbling voice. “No anger. Anger is a misuse
of the emotions. There are present eight persons here. Someone snorted.
Eight persons deny the snort. It is a ghost or a liar. Am I evident to you?”
“Your logic is irrefutable,” admitted the younger Mr. Anderson, glancing
from face to face. “It pains me to have to admit that you are right!”
In turn, I examined the faces of those present. Grimsby was a man witless
with wonder. Both the Andersons were embarrassed and angry. Isis Klaw
was scornfully triumphant; her father was, as ever, nonchalant. Sir John
Carron looked ill at ease; Mr. Chinje appeared to have changed his opinion
of the eccentric investigator and now studied him with the calm interest of
the cultured Oriental.
“I shall now make you laugh,” said Moris Klaw. “I shall tell you what he
was thinking of at the psychological instant—that mysterious thief. He was
thinking of two things. One was a very pretty, fair young lady, and the other

was a funny thing. He was thinking of throwing twelve peanuts into a
parrot’s cage!”

V

There are speeches so entirely unexpected that their effect is
unappreciable until some little time after the utterance. This speech of
Moris Klaw’s was of that description. For some moments no one seemed to
grasp exactly what he had said, simple though his words had been. Then, it
was borne home to us—that grotesque declaration; and I think I have never
seen men more amazed.
Could he be jesting?
“Mr. Klaw——” began Sir John Carron. But—
“One moment, Sir John,” interrupted Klaw. “Let all remain here for one
moment. I shall return.”
Whilst we stared, like so many fools, he shuffled from the office with his
awkward gait. During his brief absence no one spoke. We were restrained,
undoubtedly, by the presence of Isis Klaw, who, one hand upon her hip and
with the other swinging her big ermine muff, smiled at us with a sort of
pitying scorn for our stupidity.
Moris Klaw returned.
“Let me see,” he rumbled, reflectively, “have you, Sir John Carron or Mr.
Chinje, a specimen of the handwriting of the Gaekwar of Nizam?”
Chinje and Sir John stared.
“At the office—possibly,” replied Sir John.
“I have my instructions, signed by him,” said Mr. Chinje. “But not here.”
“At your hotel, yes?”
“Yes,” replied Chinje, shortly.
He gave me the impression that he resented Moris Klaw’s catechizing as
that of a fool and an incompetent meddler with affairs of great importance.
“Then, gentlemen,” said Klaw, “we must adjourn to examine that
signature.”
“Really,” the younger Mr. Anderson burst out, “I must protest against
this! You will pardon me, Mr. Klaw; I believe you to be sincere in your
efforts on our behalf, but such an expedition can be no more than a wild-

goose chase! What can the Gaekwar’s signature have to do with the theft of
the diamond?”
“I will tell you something, my feverish friend,” said Moris Klaw, slowly.
“The Blue Rajah is not on these premises. It is gone! It went before I came.
If it is ever to come back you will put on your hat and accompany me to
examine the signature to Mr. Chinje’s instructions.”
“I must add my protest to Mr. Anderson’s,” remarked Chinje. “This is
mere waste of time.”
“Mr. Grimsby,” resumed Klaw, placidly, “it is a case to be hushed up,
this. There must be no arrests!”
“Eh?” cried Grimsby.
“Sir John Carron will ring up the Commissioner and he will say that
Detective-Inspector Grimsby has traced the Blue Rajah, which was stolen,
but that, for reasons of state, Detective-Inspector Grimsby will make a
confidential report and no arrest!”
“Really——” began Sir John.
“Mr. Klaw,” cried Anderson, interrupting excitedly. “You are jesting with
men who are faced by a desperate position! I ask you, as man to man, if you
know who stole the Blue Rajah and where it is?”
“I reply,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “that I suspect who stole it, that I am
doubtful how it was stolen, and that when I have examined the Gaekwar’s
signature I may know where it is!”
His reply had a tone of finality quite unanswerable. His attitude was that
of a stone wall; and he had, too, something of the rugged strength of such a
wall—of a Roman wall, commanding respect.
Sir John got into communication with the Commissioner, as desired by
Klaw, and we all left the office and went down in the lift to the hall.
“Two cabs will be needful,” said Moris Klaw; and two cabs were
summoned.
Sir John Carron, the Andersons, and Moris Klaw entered one; Isis Klaw,
Grimsby, Chinje, and I the other.
“The Hotel Astoria,” directed Chinje.
Throughout the drive to the Strand, Isis chatted to Grimsby, to his great
delight. Mr. Chinje contented himself with monosyllabic replies to my
occasional observations. He seemed to be disgusted with the manner in
which the inquiry was being conducted. When the two cabs drove into the
courtyard of the hotel, the one in which I was seated followed the other. Mr.

Chinje, on my left, descended first, and Moris Klaw also descended first
from the cab in front. As he did so he stumbled on the step and clutched at
Chinje for support. Isis leapt forward to his assistance.
“Ah,” growled Klaw, hobbling painfully, and resting one hand upon
Chinje’s shoulder and the other upon his daughter’s. “That foolish ankle of
mine! How unfortunate! An accident, Mr. Chinje, which I met with in
Egypt. I fell quite twenty feet in the shaft of a tomb and broke my ankle. At
the least strain, I suffer yet.”
“Allow me, Mr. Chinje,” said Grimsby, stepping forward.
“No, no!” rumbled Klaw. “If you will hand me my hat which I have
dropped, and see that my verbena has not fallen out—thank you—Mr.
Chinje and Isis will be so good as to walk with me to the lift. A few
moments’ rest in Mr. Chinje’s apartments will restore me.”
This arrangement accordingly was adopted, and we presently came to the
rooms occupied by the Gaekwar’s representative, upon the fourth floor of
the hotel. At the door, Mr. Chinje asked me to take his place whilst he found
his key.
I did so and Chinje opened the door. To my great surprise he entered first.
To my greater surprise, Moris Klaw, scorning my assistance and apparently
forgetting his injury, rapidly followed him in. The rest of us flocked behind,
possessed with a sense of something impending. We little knew what
impended.
One thing, as I entered the little sitting room, struck my vision with a
sensation almost of physical shock. It was a large, empty parrot cage
standing on the table!
I had an impression that Chinje dashed forward in a vain attempt to
conceal the cage ere Moris Klaw entered. I saw, as one sees figures in a
dream, a pretty, fair-haired girl in the room. Then the Hindu had leapt to an
inner door—and was gone!
“Quick!” cried Klaw, in a loud voice. “The door! The door!”
He brushed the girl aside with a sweep of his arm and hurled himself
against the locked door.
“Mr. Grimsby! Mr. Searles! Someone! Help with this door. Isis! hold her
back, this foolish girl!”
The inner meaning of the scene was a mystery to us all, but the urgency
of Moris Klaw’s instructions brooked no denial. With a shrill scream the

girl threw herself upon him, but Isis, exhibiting unsuspected strength, drew
her away.
Then Sir John Carron joined Klaw at the door and they applied their
combined weights to the task of forcing it open.
Once they put their shoulders to it; twice—and there was a sound of
tearing woodwork; a third time—and it flew open, almost precipitating
them both into the room beyond. Hard on the din of the opening rang the
crack of a pistol shot. A wisp of smoke came floating out.
“Ah, just God!” said Moris Klaw, hoarsely, “we are too late!”
And, at his words, with a leap like that of a wild thing, the fair girl broke
from Isis, and passing us all, entered the room beyond. Awed and fearful,
we followed and looked upon a pitiful scene.
Gautami Chinje lay dead upon the floor, a revolver yet between his
nerveless fingers and a red spot in his temple. Beside him knelt the girl,
plucking with both hands at her lower lip, her face as white as paper and her
eyes glaring insanely at the distorted features.
“Dearest,” she kept whispering, in a listless way, “my dearest—what is
the matter? I have the diamond—I have it in my bag. What is it, my
dearest?”
We got her away at last.
“He had only been in London six months,” Moris Klaw rumbled in my
ear, “and you see, she adored him—helped him to steal. It is wonderful,
snake-like, the power of fascination some Hindus have over women—and
always over blondes, Mr. Searles, always blondes. It is a psychological
problem.”

So ended the case of the Blue Rajah robbery, one of the most brief in the
annals of Moris Klaw. The great diamond we found in the girl’s handbag,
wrapped in a curious little rubber covering, apparently made to fit it.
“You see,” explained Moris Klaw, later, to his wondering audience, “this
girl—I have yet to find out who she is—was perhaps married to Mr. Chinje.
He would, of course, have deserted her directly he returned to India. But
here at the Astoria she was known as Mrs. Chinje. Who would have been
the losers by the robbery? The insurance company, if I do not mistake the
case. For the Gaekwar, through his representative, Chinje, had the diamond
insured for all the time it was his property and in England, and the
Committee had it insured from the time it became their property. It had

become their property. The Gaekwar would have got his check. He gets it
now; it is in Chinje’s pocket-case. The city would have lost its Blue Rajah,
and the insurance company would have paid the city for the loss!
“The next office along the corridor from Mr. Anderson’s is the Central
London Electric Lighting Company. Many consumers call. Mrs. Chinje was
not suspected of any felonious purpose when she was seen in that corridor
—and she was seen by a clerk and by an engineer. After my mental negative
had told me of a pretty young lady of whom the thief thinks at the moment
of his theft, I went to inquire—you recall?—if such a one had been seen
near the office.
“From the first my suspicions are with Chinje. The emotions have each a
note, distinct, like the notes of a piano, though only audible to the trained
mind. Both Isis and myself detect from Chinje the note of fear. I arrange,
then, that he remains. My talk of examining the Gaekwar’s writing is a ruse.
It is Chinje’s apartment and the fair lady I expect to find there that I am
anxious to see.
“Then, in spite that he is the most cool of us all, I see that he suspects me
and I have to hold him fast; for, if he could have got first to his room and
hidden the parrot cage, where had been our evidence? Indeed, only that I
have the power to secure the astral negative, there had been no evidence at
all. There is a third accomplice—him who howled in the courtyard; but I
fear, as he so cleverly vanished, we shall never know his name.
“And how was it done, and why did this someone howl?”
Moris Klaw paused and looked around. We awaited his next words in
tense silence.
“He howled because Chinje had looked out from the window (which,
though hidden, the howler was watching) and made him some signal. The
signal meant: ‘The Blue Rajah has been placed upon the table—howl!’
“The one below obeyed, and the Committee, like foolish sheep—yes,
gentlemen, like no-headed cattle things!—flocked to the window. But
Chinje did not flock with them! Like a deft-handed conjurer he was at the
table, the diamond was in the little rubber purse held ready, and Mrs.
Chinje, with her large handbag open, was waiting outside the door, in the
corridor, like some new kind of wicket-keeper. Chinje tossed the diamond
through the little square ventilator!
“He had been practising for weeks—ever since he knew that the
Committee would meet in that room—tossing peanuts into the square

opening of a parrot cage, placed at the same height from the floor as the
ventilator over Mr. Anderson’s doorway! He had practised until he could do
it twelve times without missing. He had nerves like piano wires, yet he was
a deadly anxious man; and he knew that a woman cannot catch!
“But she caught—or, if she dropped it, no one saw her pick it up.
“Gentlemen, these Hindus are very clever, but talking of their cleverness
makes one very thirsty. I think I heard Mr. Anderson make some cooling
speech about a bottle of wine!”

SIXTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE WHISPERING POPLARS

I

One afternoon Moris Klaw walked into my office and announced that
“owing to alterations” he had temporarily suspended business at the
Wapping emporium, and thus had found time to give me a call. I always
welcomed a chat with that extraordinary man, and although I could
conceive of no really useful “alteration” to his unsavoury establishment
other than that of setting fire to it, I made no inquiries, but placed an easy
chair for him and offered a cigar.
Moris Klaw removed his caped overcoat and dropped it upon the floor.
Upon this sartorial wreckage he disposed his flat-topped brown bowler and
from it extracted the inevitable scent spray. He sprayed his dome-like brow
and bedewed his toneless beard with verbena.
“So refreshing,” he explained; “a custom of the Romans, Mr. Searles. It
is a very warm day.”
I admitted that this was so.
“My daughter Isis,” continued Klaw, “has taken advantage of the
alterations and decorations to run over so far as Paris.”
I made some commonplace remark, and we drifted into a conversation
upon a daring robbery which at that time was flooding the press with copy.
We were so engaged when, to my great surprise (for I had thought him at
least a thousand miles away), Shan Haufmann was announced. As my old
American friend entered, Moris Klaw modestly arose to depart. But I
detained him and made the two acquainted.
Haufmann hailed Klaw cordially, exhibiting none of the ill-bred surprise
which so often greeted my eccentric acquaintance of singular aspect.
Haufmann had all that bonhomie which overlooks the clothes and
welcomes the man. He glanced apologetically at his right hand which hung
in a sling.

“Can’t shake, Mr. Klaw,” said the big American, a good-humoured smile
on his tanned, clean-shaven face. “I stopped some lead awhile back and my
right is still off duty.”
Naturally I was anxious at once to know how he had come by the hurt;
and he briefly explained that in the discharge of certain official duties he
had run foul of a bad gang, two of whom he had been instrumental in
convicting of murder, whilst the third had shot him in the arm and escaped.
“Three dagoes,” he explained, in his crisply picturesque fashion, “—been
wanted for years. Helped themselves to a bunch of my colts this fall; killed
one of the boys and left another for dead. So I went after them hot and
strong. We rounded them up on the Mexican border and got two—Schwart
Sam and one of the Costas; but the younger Costa—we call him Corpus
Chris—broke away and found me in the elbow with a lump of lead!”
“So you’ve come for a holiday?”
“Mostly,” replied Haufmann. “Greta hustled me here. She got real ill
when I said I wouldn’t come. So we came! I’m centring in London for six
months. Brought the girls over for a look round. I’m not stopping at a hotel.
We’ve rented a house a bit outside; it’s Lal’s idea. Settled yesterday. All
fixed. Expect you to dinner to-night! You, too, Mr. Klaw! Is it a bet?”
Moris Klaw was commencing some sort of a reply, but what it was never
transpired, for Haufmann, waving his sound hand cheerily, quitted the
office as rapidly as he had entered, calling back:
“Dine seven-thirty. Girls expecting you!”
That was his way; but so infectious was his real geniality that few could
fail to respond to it.
“He is a good fellow, that Mr. Haufmann,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Yes, I
love such natures. But he has forgotten to tell us where he lives!”
It was so! Haufmann in his hurry and impetuosity had overlooked that
important matter; but I thought it probable that he would recall the
oversight and communicate, so prevailed upon Klaw to remain. At last,
however, I glanced at my watch, and found it to be nearly six o’clock,
whereupon I looked blankly at Moris Klaw. That eccentric shrugged his
shoulders and took up the caped coat. Then the ’phone bell rang. It was
Haufmann.
I was glad to hear his familiar accent as he laughingly apologized for his
oversight. Rapidly he acquainted me with the whereabouts of The Grove—
for so the house was called.

“Come now,” he said. “Don’t stop to dress; you’ve only just got time,”
and rang off.
I thought Moris Klaw stared oddly through his pince-nez when I told him
the address, but concluded, as he made no comment, that I had been
mistaken. There was just time to catch our train, and from the station where
we alighted it was only a short drive to the house. Haufmann’s car was
waiting for us, and in less than three quarters of an hour from our quitting
the Strand, we were driving up to The Grove, through the most magnificent
avenue of poplars I had ever seen.
“By Jove!” I cried, “what fine trees!”
Moris Klaw nodded and looked around at the towering trunks with a
peculiar expression, which I was wholly at a loss to account for. However,
ere I had leisure to think much about the matter, we found ourselves in the
hall, where Haufmann and his two fascinating daughters were waiting to
greet us. I do not know which of the girls looked the more charming: Lilian
with her bright mass of curls and blue eyes dancing with vivacity, or Greta
in her dark and rather mystic beauty. At any rate, they were dangerous
acquaintances for a susceptible man. Even old Moris Klaw showed
unmistakably that his mind was not so wholly filled with obscure sciences
as to be incapable of appreciating the society of a pretty woman.
Greta I noticed looking thoughtfully at him, and during dinner she
suddenly asked him if he had read a book called “Psychic Angles.”
Rather unwillingly, as it seemed to me, Klaw admitted that he had, and
the girl displayed an immediate and marked interest in psychical matters.
Klaw, however, though usually but too willing to discuss this, his pet
subject, foiled her attempt to draw him into a technical discussion and
rather obviously steered the conversation into a more general channel.
“Don’t let her get away on the bogey tack, Mr. Klaw,” said Haufmann,
approvingly. “She’s a perfect demon for haunted chambers and so on.”
Laughingly the girl pleaded guilty to an interest in ghostly subjects. “But
I’m not frightened about them!” she added, in pretended indignation. “I
should just love to see a ghost.”
“Oh, Greta!” cried her sister. “What a horrid idea.”
“You have perhaps investigated cases yourself, Mr. Klaw?” asked Greta.
“Yes,” rumbled Klaw, “perhaps so. Who knows?”
Since he thus clearly showed his wish to drop the subject, the girl made a
little humorously wry face, whereat her father laughed boisterously; and no

more was said during the evening about ghosts. I could not well avoid
noticing two things, however, in regard to Moris Klaw: one, his evident
interest in Greta; and the other, a certain preoccupation which claimed him
every now and again.
We left at about ten o’clock, declining the offer of the car, as we had
ample time to walk to the station. Haufmann wanted to come along, but we
dissuaded him, with the assurance that we could find the way without any
difficulty. Klaw, especially, was very insistent on the point, and when at last
we swung sharply down the avenue and, rounding the bend, lost sight of the
house, he pulled up and said:
“For this opportunity, Mr. Searles, I have been waiting. It may not, of
course, matter, but this house where the good Haufmann resides was
formerly known as The Park.”
“What of that?” I asked, turning on him sharply.
“It is,” he replied, “celebrated as what foolish people call a haunted
house. No doubt that is the reason why the name has been changed. As The
Park it has been dealt with many times in the psychical journals.”
“The Park,” I mused. “Is it not included in that extraordinary work on the
occult—‘Psychic Angles’—of which Miss Haufmann spoke to-night—the
place where the monk was supposed to have been murdered, where an old
antiquary died, and some young girl, too, if I remember rightly?”
“Yes,” replied Moris Klaw, “yes. I will tell you a secret. ‘Psychic Angles’
is a little book of my own, and so, of course, I know about this place.”
His words surprised me greatly, for the book was being generally talked
about. He peered around him into the shadows and seemed to sniff the air
suspiciously.
“Setting aside the question of any supernatural menace,” I said, “directly
the servants find out, as they are sure to do from others in the
neighbourhood, they will leave en bloc. It is a pleasant way servants have in
such cases.”
“We must certainly tell him, the good Haufmann,” agreed Klaw, “and he
will perhaps arrange to quit the place without letting the ladies to know of
its reputation. That Miss Greta she has the sympathetic mind”—he tapped
his forehead—“the plate so sensitive, the photo film so delicate! For her it
is dangerous to remain. There is such a thing, Mr. Searles, as sympathetic
suicide! That girl she is mediumistic. From The Park she must be removed.”

“There is no time to lose,” I said. “We must decide what to do to-night.
Suppose you come along to my place?”
Moris Klaw agreed, and we resumed our walk through the poplar grove.
Although the night was very still, an eerie whispering went on without
pause or cessation along the whole length of the avenue. Against the star-
spangled sky the tall trees reared their shapes in a manner curiously
suggestive of dead things. Or this fancy may have had birth in the
associations of the place. It was a fatally easy matter mentally to fashion
one of the poplars into the gaunt form of a monk; and no one, however
unimaginative, being acquainted with the history of The Grove, could fail to
find, in the soft and ceaseless voices of the trees, something akin to a
woman’s broken sighs. In short, I was not sorry when the gate was passed,
and we came out upon the high road.
Later, seated in my study, we discussed the business thoroughly. From
my bookcase I took down “Psychic Angles” and passed it to Moris Klaw.
“There we are,” he rumbled, turning over the leaves. I read: “On August
8, 1858, a Fra Giulimo, of a peculiar religious brotherhood who occupied
this house from 1851 to 1858, was found strangled at the foot of a poplar
close by the entrance gate.” “I could never find out much about them, this
brotherhood,” he added, looking up; “but they were, I believe, decent
people. They left the place almost immediately after the crime. No arrest
was ever made. Then”—referring to the book—“ ‘about the end of February
or early in the March of 1863, a Mr. B—— J—— took the house. He was
an antiquarian of European repute and a man of retired habits. With only
two servants—an old soldier and his wife—he occupied The Park’—that is
The Grove—‘from the spring of ’63 to the autumn of ’65.’ Then follow
verbatim reports by the well-known Pepley of interviews with people who
had heard Mr. J—— declare that a hushed voice sometimes called upon him
by name in the night, from the poplar grove. Also, an interview with his
manservant and with wife of latter, corroborating other statements. Mr. B
—— J—— was found one September morning dead in the grove. Cause of
death never properly established. The house next enters upon a period of
neglect. It is empty; it is shunned. From ’65 right up to ’88 it stood so
empty. It was then taken by a Mr. K——; but he only occupied it for two
months, this K——. Three other tenants subsequently rented the place.
Only one of them actually occupied it—for a week; the other, hearing, we
presume, of its evil repute, never entered into residence. Seventeen years

ago the last tragedy connected with the unpleasant Grove took place. An
eccentric old bachelor took the house, and, in the summer of ’03, had a
niece there to stay with him. The evidence clearly indicates to me that this
unhappy one was highly neurotic—oh, clearly; so that the tragedy explains
itself. She fell, or sprang, from her bedroom window to the drive one night
in June, and was picked up quite dead at the foot of the first poplar in the
grove. Sacré! it is a morgue, that house!”
He returned the book and sat watching me in silence for some moments.
“Did you spend any time in the house, yourself?” I asked.
“On four different occasions, Mr. Searles! It is only from certain of the
rooms that the whispering is audible, and then only if the windows are
open. You will notice, though, that all the tragedies occurred in the warm
months when the windows would be so open.”
“Did you note anything supernormal in this whispering?”
“Nothing. You have read my explanation.”

II

Haufmann looked rather blank when we told him.
“Just my luck!” he commented. “Greta’s read your book, Mr. Klaw, and
if she hasn’t fixed it yet she’s sure to come to it that The Park and The
Grove are one and the same. It was largely because of her I arranged this
trip,” he added. “The trouble I’ve told you about got on her nerves and she
had the idea some guy was tracking her around. The medicos said it was a
common enough symptom and ordered a change. Anyhow, I quitted, to give
her a chance to tone up. Confound this business!”
He ultimately left quite determined to change his place of residence. But
so averse was his practical mind from the idea of inconveniencing oneself
on such ghostly grounds, that two weeks slipped by, and still the
Haufmanns occupied The Grove. The decoration of Moris Klaw’s
establishment being presumably still in progress, Klaw accompanied me on
more than one other occasion to visit Shan Haufmann and the girls. At last,
one afternoon, Greta asked him point-blank if he thought the house to be
that dealt with in “Psychic Angles.”
Of course, he had to admit that it was so; but far from exhibiting any
signs of alarm, the girl appeared to be delighted.

“How dense I have been!” she cried. “I should have known it from the
description! As a matter of fact, I might never have found out, but this
morning the servants resigned unanimously!”
Klaw looked at me significantly. All was befalling as we had foreseen.
“They told you, then!” he said. “Yes? No?”
“They said the house was haunted,” she replied, “but they didn’t seem to
know much more about it. That simple fact was enough for them!”
Haufmann came in and in answer to our queries declared himself
helpless.
“Lal and Greta won’t quit,” he declared; “so what’s to do? I’ve cabled for
servants from home. Meanwhile, we’re at the mercy of day girls and
charwomen!”
The concern evinced by Moris Klaw was very great. He seized an early
opportunity of taking Haufmann aside and questioning him relative to the
situation of the rooms occupied by the family.
“My room overlooks the avenue,” replied Haufmann, “and so does
Greta’s. Lal’s is on the opposite side. Come up and see them!”
Klaw and I accompanied him. It was a beautiful clear day, and from his
window we gazed along the majestic ranks of poplars, motionless as a giant
guard, in the still summer air. It was difficult to conjure up a glamour of the
uncanny, with the bright sunlight pouring gladness upon trees, flowers,
shrubs, and lawn.
“This is the room from which the whisper is the most clearly audible!”
said Moris Klaw. “I could tell you—ah! I spent several nights here!”
“The devil you did,” rapped Haufmann. “I must sleep pretty soundly. I’ve
never heard a thing. Greta’s room is next on the right. She has said
nothing.”
Klaw looked troubled.
“There is no sound unusual to hear,” he answered. “I quite convinced
myself of that. But it is the tradition that speaks, Mr. Haufmann! In those
silent watches, even so insensible an old fool as I can imagine almost
anything, aided by such gruesome memories. Excepting the monk, who
probably fell foul of a prowler thief, the tragedies are easily to be explained.
The old antiquarian died of syncope, and the poor girl, in all probability, fell
from the balcony in her sleep. She had a tremendously neurotic
temperament.”

“It’s bad, now Greta knows,” mused Haufmann. “Her nerves are all
unstrung. It’s just the thing I wanted to avoid!”
“Can’t you induce her at any rate to change her room?” I suggested.
“No! She’s as obstinate as a pony! Her poor mother was the same. It’s the
Irish blood!”
Such was the situation when we left. No development took place for a
couple of days or so, then that befell which we had feared and half
expected.
Haufmann walked into my office with:
“It’s started! Greta says she hears it every night!”
Prepared though I had been for the news, his harshly spoken words sent a
cold shudder through me.
“Haufmann!” I said, sternly. “There must be no more of this. Get the girls
away at once. On top of her previous nerve trouble this morbid imagining
may affect her mind.”
“You haven’t heard me out,” he went on, more slowly than was his wont.
“You talk of morbid imagining. What about this: I’ve heard it!”
I stared at him blankly.
“That’s one on you!” he said, with a certain grim triumph. “After Greta
said there was something came in the night that wasn’t trees rustling, I sat
up and smoked. First night I read and nothing happened. Next night I sat in
the dark. There was no breeze and I heard nothing for my pains. Third night
I stayed in the dark again, and about twelve o’clock a breeze came along.
All mixed up with the rustling and sighing of the leaves I heard a voice
calling as plain as I ever heard anything in my life! And it called me!”
“Haufmann!”
“It blame-well called me! I’d take my oath before a jury on it!”
“This is almost incredible!” I said. “I wish Moris Klaw were here.”
“Where is he?”
“He is in Paris. He will be away over the week-end.”
“I met a man curiously enough,” continued Haufmann, “just outside the
Charing Cross Tube, on my way here, who’s coming down to have a look
into the business—a hot man on mysteries.” He mentioned the name of a
celebrated American detective agency. “I’m afraid it’s right outside his
radius, but he volunteered and I was glad to have him. I’d like Klaw down
though.”
“What about the girls?”

“I was going to tell you. They’re at Brighton for a while. Greta didn’t
want to quit, but poor Lal was dead scared! Anyway, I got them off.”
The uncanny business claimed entire possession of my mind, and further
work was out of the question. I accordingly accompanied Haufmann to the
hotel where the detective was lodged and made the acquaintance of Mr. J.
Shorter Ottley. He was a typical New Yorker, clean-shaven and sallow
complexioned with good gray eyes and an inflexible mouth.
“We don’t deal in ghosts!” he said, smilingly; “I never met a ghost that
couldn’t stop a bullet if it came his way!”
“I’ll make a confession to you,” remarked Haufmann. “When I heard that
soft voice calling, I hadn’t the sand to go and look out! How’s that for
funk?”
“Not funk at all,” replied Ottley, quietly. “Maybe it was wisdom!”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve got an idea about it, that’s all. Did Miss Haufmann hear it the same
night?”
“Not the same night I did—no. She seems to have dozed off.”
“When she did hear it, was it calling you?”
“She couldn’t make out what it called!”
“Did she go to the window?”
“Yes, but she only looked out from behind the blind.”
“See anything?”
“No.”
“I should have very much liked an interview with her,” said Ottley,
thoughtfully.
“She could tell you no more than I have.”
“About that, no! There’s something else I would like to ask her.”
That evening we all three dined at The Grove, dinner being prepared by a
woman who departed directly we were finished. A desultory game of
billiards served to pass the time between twilight and darkness, and the
detective and I departed, leaving Haufmann alone in the house. This was
prearranged by Ottley, who had some scheme in hand. Side by side we
tramped down the poplar avenue, went out by the big gate, and closed it
behind us. We then skirted the grounds to a point on the side opposite the
gate, and, scaling the wall, found ourselves in a wilderness of neglected
kitchen garden. Through this the American cautiously led the way toward
the house, visible through the tangle of bushes and trees in sharp silhouette

against the sky. On all fours we crossed a little yard and entered a side door
which had been left ajar for the purpose, closing it softly behind us. So,
passing through the kitchen, we made our way upstairs and rejoined
Haufmann.
A post had been allotted to me in the room next to his and I was enjoined
to sit in the dark and watch for anything moving among the trees.
Haufmann departed to a room on the west front with similar injunctions,
and the detective remained in Haufmann’s room.
As I crept cautiously to the window, avoiding the broad moonbeam
streaming in, I saw a light on my left. Ottley was acting as Haufmann
would have done if he had been retiring for the night. Three minutes later
the light vanished, and the nervous vigil was begun.
There was very little breeze, but sufficient to send up and down the
poplar ranks waves of that mysterious whispering which Klaw and I had
previously noted. The moon, though invisible from that point, swam in an
absolutely cloudless sky, and the shadow of the house lay black beneath me,
its edge tropically sharp. A broad belt of moon-bright grass and gravel
succeeded, and this merged into the light-patched gloom of the avenue. On
the right of the poplars lay a shrubbery, and beyond that a garden stretching
to the east wall. Just to the left, an outbuilding gleamed whitely. Some
former occupant had built it for a coach house and it now housed
Haufmann’s car. The apartments above were at present untenanted.
I cannot say with certainty when I first detected, mingled with the
whistling of the branches, something that was not caused by the wind. But
ultimately I found myself listening for this other sound. With my eyes fixed
straight ahead and peering into the shadows of the poplars I crouched, every
nerve at high tension. A slight sound on my left told of a window softly
opened. It was Ottley creeping out on to the balcony. He, too, had heard it!
Then, with awful suddenness, the inexplicable happened.
A short, shrill cry broke the complete silence, succeeding one of those
spells of whispering. A shot followed hot upon it—then a second.
Somebody fell with a muffled thud upon the drive—and I leapt to the
window, threw it widely open, and stepped out on the balcony.
“Ottley!” I cried. “Haufmann!”
A door banged somewhere and I heard Haufmann’s muffled voice:
“Downstairs! Come down!”

I ran across the room, out on to the landing, and down into the hall.
Haufmann was unfastening the bolts. His injured arm was still stiff, and I
hastened to assist him.
“My God!” he cried, turning a pale face toward me. “It’s Ottley gone!
Did you see anything?”
“No! Did you?”
“Curse it! No! I had just slipped away from the window to get my
repeater! You heard the voice?”
“Clearly!”
The door was thrown open and we ran out into the drive.
There was no sign of Ottley, and we stood for a moment, undecided how
we should act. Then, just inside the shadow belt we found the detective
lying.
Thinking him dead, we raised and dragged him back to the house.
Having refastened the door, we laid him on a sofa in the morning room. His
face was deathly and blood flowed from a terrible wound on his skull.
Strangest of all, though, he had a gaping hole just above the right wrist. The
skin about it was discoloured as if with burning. Neither of us could detect
any sign of life, and we stood, two frankly frightened men, looking at each
other over the body.
“It’s got to be done!” said Haufmann, slowly. “One of us has to stay here
and do what he can for him, and one has to go for a doctor! There’s no
telephone!”
“Where’s the nearest doctor?” I asked.
“There’s one at the corner of the first road on the right.”
“I’ll go!” I said.
Without shame I confess that from the moment the door closed behind
me, I ran my hardest down the poplar avenue until I had passed the gate!
And it was not anxiety that spurred me, for I did not doubt that Ottley was
dead, but stark fear!

III

Moris Klaw deposited a large grip and a travelling rug upon the veranda.
“Good day, Mr. Haufmann! Good day, Mr. Searles!” At an open window
the white-aproned figure of a nurse appeared. “Good day, Nurse! I am direct

from Paris. This is a case which cannot be dealt with under the head of the
Cycle of Crime, and I do not think it has any relation with the history of
The Park. But thoughts are things, Mr. Haufmann. How helpful that is!”
Forty-eight hours had elapsed since Haufmann and I had picked up
Ottley for dead in the poplar avenue. Now he lay in a bed made up in the
billiard room hovering between this world and another. I had a shrewd
suspicion that the doctor who attended him was mystified by some of the
patient’s symptoms.
Haufmann stared oddly at Moris Klaw, not altogether comprehending the
drift of his words.
“If only Ottley could tell us!” he muttered.
“He will tell us nothing for many a day,” I said; “if, indeed, he ever
speaks again.”
“Ah,” interrupted Moris Klaw, “to me he will speak! How? With the
mind! Something—we have yet to learn what—struck him down that night.
The blow, if it was a blow, made so acute an impression upon his brain that
no other has secured admittance yet! Good! That blow, it still resides within
his mind. To-night I shall sleep beside his bed. I shall be unable odically to
sterilize myself, but we must hope. From amid the phantasms which that
sick brain will throw out upon the astral film—upon the surrounding ether
—I must trust that I find the thought, the last thought before delirium
came!”
Haufmann looked amazed. I had prepared him, to some extent, for
Klaw’s theories, but, nevertheless, he was tremendously surprised. Klaw,
however, paid no attention to this. He looked around at the trees.
“I am glad,” he rumbled, impressively, “that you managed to hush up.
Distinctly, we have now a chance.”
“A chance of what?” I cried. “The thing seems susceptible of no ordinary
explanation! How can you account for what happened to Ottley and for his
condition? What incredible thing came out from the poplars?”
“No thing!” answered Moris Klaw. “No thing, my good friend!”
“Then what did he fire at?”
“At the coach house!”
I met the gaze of his peculiar eyes, fixed upon me through the pince-nez.
“If you will look at the coach-house chimney,” he continued, “you will
see it—the hole made by his bullet!”

I turned quickly, and even from that considerable distance the hole was
visible; a triangular break on the red-tiled rim.
“What on earth does it mean?” I asked, more hopelessly mystified than
ever.
“It means that Ottley is a clever man who knows his business; and it
means, Mr. Searles, that we must take up this so extraordinary affair where
the poor Ottley dropped it!”
“What do you propose?”
“I propose that you invite yourself to a few days’ holiday, as I have done.
You stay here. Do not allow even the doctor to know that you are in the
house. The nurse you will have to confide in, I suppose. Mr. Haufmann”—
he turned to the latter—“you will occupy your old room. Do not, I beg of
you, go outside after dusk upon any consideration. If either of you shall
hear it again—the evil whispering—come out by the front door, and keep in
the shadow. Carry no light. Above all, do not come out upon the balcony!”
“Then you,” I said, “will be unable to stay?”
“I shall be so unable,” was the reply; “for I go to Brighton to secure the
interview with Miss Greta which the poor Ottley so much required!”
“You don’t suggest that she knows——”
“She knows no more than we do, Mr. Searles! But I think she holds a
clue and does not know that she holds a clue! For an hour I shall slumber—
I who, like the tortoise, know that to sleep is to live—I shall slumber beside
the sick man’s bed. Then, we shall see!”

IV

It was a quarter to seven when Moris Klaw entered the sick room. Ottley
lay in a trance-like condition, and the eccentric investigator, of whose
proceedings the nurse strongly disapproved, settled himself in a split-cane
armchair by the bedside, and waving his hand in dismissal to Haufmann and
myself, placed a large silk handkerchief over his sparsely covered skull and
composed himself for slumber.
We left him and tiptoed from the room.
“If you hadn’t told me what he’s done in the past,” whispered Haufmann,
“I should say our old friend was mad a lot!”

The great empty house was eerily silent, and during the time that we sat
smoking and awaiting the end of Moris Klaw’s singular telepathic
experiment, neither of us talked very much. At eight o’clock the man whose
proceedings savoured so much of charlatanism, but whom I knew for one of
the foremost criminologists of the world, emerged, spraying his face with
verbena.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, coming in to us, “I have recovered some slight
impression”—he tapped his moist forehead—“of that agonizing thought
which preceded the unconsciousness of Ottley. I depart. Sometime to-night
will come Sir Bartram Vane from Half-Moon Street, the specialist, to confer
with the physician who is attending here. Mr. Searles, remain concealed.
Not even he must know of your being here; no one outside the house must
know. Remember my warnings. I depart.”
Behind the thick pebbles his eyes gleamed with some excitement
repressed. By singular means, he would seem to have come upon a clue.
“Good-night, Mr. Haufmann,” he said. “Good-night, Mr. Searles. To the
nurse I have said good-night and she only glared. She thinks I am the mad
old fool!”
He departed, curtly declining company, and carrying his huge plaid rug
and heavy grip. As his slouching footsteps died away along the avenue,
Haufmann and I looked grimly at each other.
“Seems we’re left!” said my friend. “You won’t desert me, Searles?”
“Most certainly I shall not! You are tied here by the presence of poor
Ottley, in any event, and you can rely upon me to keep you company.”
At about ten o’clock Sir Bartram Vane drove up, bringing with him the
local physician who was attending upon Ottley. I kept well out of sight, but
learnt, when the medical men had left, that the course of treatment had been
entirely changed.
Thus commenced our strange ordeal; how it terminated you presently
shall learn.
Moris Klaw, in pursuit of whatever plan he had formed, never appeared
on the scene, but evidence of his active interest reached us in the form of
telegraphic instructions. Once it was a wire telling Haufmann to detain the
American servants in London should they arrive and to go on living as we
were. Again it was a warning not to go out on the balcony after dusk; and,
again, that we should not desert our posts for one single evening. On the
fourth day the doctor pronounced a slight improvement in Ottley’s

condition, and Haufmann determined to run down to Brighton on the
following morning, returning in the afternoon.
That night we again heard the voice.
The house was very still, and Haufmann and I had retired to our rooms,
when I discerned, above the subdued rustling whisper of the leaves, that
other sound that no leaf ever made. In an instant I was crouching by the
open window. A lull followed. Then, again, I heard the soft voice calling. I
could not detect the words, but in obedience to the instructions of Klaw, I
picked up the pistol which I had brought for the purpose, and ran to the
door. The idea that the whispering menace was something that could be
successfully shot at robbed it of much of its eerie horror, and I relished the
prospect of action after the dreary secret sojourn in the upper rooms of the
house.
I groped my way down to the hall. As we had carefully oiled the bolts, I
experienced no difficulty in silently opening the door. Inch by inch I opened
it, listening intently.
Again I heard the queer call.
Now, by craning my neck, I could see the moon-bright front of the house;
and looking upward, I was horrified to see Shan Haufmann, a conspicuous
figure in his light pajama suit, crouching on the balcony! The moonlight
played vividly on the nickelled barrel of the pistol he carried as he rose
slowly to his feet.
Though I did not know what danger threatened, nor from whence it
would proceed, I knew well that Klaw’s was no idle warning. I could not
imagine what madness had prompted Haufmann to neglect it, and was
about to throw wide the door and call to him, when a series of strange
things happened in bewildering succession.
An odd strumming sound came from somewhere in the outer darkness.
Haufmann dropped to his knees (I learnt, afterward, that the loose slippers
he wore had tripped him). The glass of the window behind him was
shattered with a great deal of noise.
A shot! … a spurt of flame in the black darkness of the poplar avenue! …
a shriek from somewhere on the west front… and I ran out on to the drive.
With a tremendous crash a bulky form rolled down the sloping roof of
the coach house, to fall with a sickening thud to the ground!
Then, out into the moonlight, Moris Klaw came running, his yet smoking
pistol in his hand!

“Haufmann!” he cried, and again, “Haufmann!”
The big American peered down from the balcony, hauling in something
which seemed to be a line, but which I was unable to distinguish in the
darkness.
“Good boy!” he panted. “I was a fool to do it! But I saw him lying behind
the chimney and thought I could drop him!”
Moris Klaw ran, ungainly, across to the coach house and I followed him.
The figure of a tall, lithe man, wearing a blue serge suit, lay face downward
on the gravel. As we turned him over, Haufmann, breathing heavily, joined
us. The moonlight fell on a dark saturnine face.
“Gee!” came the cry. “It’s Corpus Chris!”

V

“Where did I get hold upon the clue?” asked Moris Klaw, when he,
Haufmann, and I sat, in the gray dawn, waiting for the police to come and
take away the body of Costa. “It was from the brain of Ottley! His poor
mind”—he waved long hands circularly in the air—“goes round and round
about the thing that happened to him on the balcony.”
“And what was that?” demanded Haufmann, eagerly. “Same as happened
to me?”
“It was something—something that his knowledge of strange things tells
him is venomous—which struck his wrist as he raised his revolver! What
did he do? I can tell you; because he is doing it over and over again in his
poor feverish mind. He clapped to the injured wrist the barrel of his
revolver and fired! Then, swooning, he toppled over and fell among the
bushes. The wound that so had puzzled all becomes explained. It was self-
inflicted—a precaution—a cauterizing; and it saved his life. For I saw Sir
Bartram Vane to-day and he had spoken with the other doctor on the
telephone. The new treatment succeeds.”
“I am still in the dark!” confessed Haufmann.
“Yes?” rumbled Moris Klaw. “So? Why do I go to Brighton? I go to ask
Miss Greta what Ottley would have asked her.”
“And that is?”
“What she feared that made her so very anxious to get you away from
your home. To me she admitted that she had received from the man Costa

impassioned appeals, such as, foolish girl, she had been afraid to show to
you—her father!”
“Good heavens! the scamp!”
“The canaille! But no matter, he is dead canaille! After you got the
brother hanged, this Corpus Chris (it was Fate that named him!) sent to
your daughter a mad letter, swearing that if she does not fly with him, he
will kill you if he has to follow you around the world! Yes, he was insane, I
fancy; I think so. But he was a man of very great culture. He held a
Cambridge degree! You did not know? I thought not. He tracked you to
Europe and right to this house. Its history he learned in some way and used
for his own ends. Probably, too, he had no opportunity of getting at you
otherwise, without leaving behind a clue or being seen and pursued.”
Moris Klaw picked up an Indian bow which lay upon the floor beside
him.
“A bow of the Sioux pattern,” he rumbled, impressively.
He stooped again, picking up a small arrow to which a length of thin
black twine was attached.
“One standing on the balcony in the moonlight,” he continued, “what a
certain mark if the wind be not too high! And you will remember that on
gently blowing nights the whispering came!”
He raised the point of the arrow. It was encrusted in some black, shining
substance. Moris Klaw lowered his voice.
“Curari!” he said, hoarsely, “the ancient arrow poison of the South
American tribes! This small arrow would make only a tiny wound, and it
could be drawn back again by means of the twine attached. Costa, of
course, mistook Ottley for you, Mr. Haufmann. Ah, a clever fellow! I spent
three evenings up the second tree in the avenue waiting for him. I need not
have shot him if you had followed my instructions and not come out on the
balcony. We could have captured him alive!”
“I’m not crying about it!” said Haufmann.
“Neither do I weep,” rumbled Moris Klaw, and bathed his face with
perfume. “But I loathe it, this curari—it smells of death. Ah! the canaille!”

SEVENTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE CHORD IN G

I

It has been suggested to me more than once that the extraordinary crime
which became known throughout the press as the Chelsea studio murder
was the Waterloo of my eccentric friend, Moris Klaw; to which I reply that,
on the contrary, it was his Austerlitz. This prince of criminologists, some of
whose triumphs it has been my privilege to chronicle, never more
dramatically established his theory of what he termed “Odic negatives” than
in his solution of the mystery of the death of Pyke Webley, the portrait
painter.
His singular power, which I can only term post-telepathy, of recovering
thought-forms from the atmosphere, earned him the derision of the
ignorant, as I have shown, but the grateful appreciation of the better
informed—not least among these, Detective-Inspector Grimsby, of New
Scotland Yard.
I cannot doubt that the recent experiments of Professor Gilbert Murray
were based upon that law of “psychic angles” laid down by the strange
genius of Wapping Old Stairs.
During lunch, I had been reading an account of the Chelsea tragedy in an
early edition of the Evening Standard, and on returning to my chambers I
found Inspector Grimsby waiting for me. A preamble was unnecessary.
Simple deduction told me why he had come.
He was in charge of the Chelsea mystery—and out of his depth.
By several years the youngest detective inspector in the Service, Grimsby
is a man earmarked by nature for constant promotion. He possesses a gift
more precious than genius—the art of using genius; allied to which he has
that knack indispensable to any man who would succeed—the knack of
finding the limelight. Although he may have done no more than stand in the

wings throughout the performance, Detective-Inspector Grimsby invariably
takes the last curtain.
This is as it should be, and I accord him my respectful admiration.
Therefore, on seeing him:
“The murder of Pyke Webley?” I said, interrogatively.
“Well, that’s wonderful!” he declared, trying to look surprised. “I shall
begin to think you are Moris Klaw’s only rival if you spring things like this
on me.”
“I see,” said I, tossing my paper on the table. “The case is not so simple
as it appears.”
“Simple!” cried Grimsby. He threw the stump of a vicious-looking
cheroot into my hearth. “Simple? It’s too simple. By which I mean that
there is nothing to work upon—nothing I can see.”
He stood, his back to the hearth, looking at me appealingly; and:
“Have you ’phoned to Wapping?” I asked.
Grimsby nodded.
“I could get no reply,” he answered gloomily.
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Well”—he hesitated—“I know your time is of value, Mr. Searles, but I
was wondering—I have a taxi outside—if you had time to run down to
Moris Klaw’s place with me for a chat?”
“Why not go alone?”
“Ah!” He selected a fresh cheroot and made it crackle between finger and
thumb. “His daughter is the snag. She thinks I waste his time. I doubt if
she’d let me see him.”
“Your own fault,” I said. “She’s a charming girl. You don’t handle her
properly.”
“Ah!” he repeated, and became silent, fumbling for matches. Finally,
taking pity upon him:
“Very well,” I agreed, “I have a couple of hours to spare, and if Klaw
takes up the case my time will not be wasted.”

II

“You see,” said Grimsby, plaintively, as the cab threaded dingy
highways, “there is absolutely no motive. Pyke Webley seems to have been

a decent, clean-living man, with absolutely no vices as far as I can gather.
Of course, I have tried to find a woman in the case, but the only women
I’ve found are heartbroken about his death. A most popular chap. Revenge
is out of the question; robbery is out of the question; and I’d take my oath
that jealousy is out of the question. So what am I to make of it?”
“He was strangled?”
“Yes.” Grimsby nodded. “By a very powerful man. His face is horrible to
see, and there are blue weals on his neck where the strangler’s fingers bit
into the flesh.”
“Who saw him last, alive?”
“The door-keeper of the Ham Bone Club,” came the answer, promptly.
“He dined there, stayed an hour talking to friends and then went out, saying
that he had work to do at his studio. The studio is separated from the house
by a small garden and can be entered direct from a side entrance. There are
only two servants—he was a bachelor—a cook general and a man who has
been with him for years. Neither of them heard him come into the house, so
that we presume he went straight into the studio. Early this morning a
charwoman, who comes daily, finding the studio door locked (I mean the
one that opens on the garden) reported this to Parker (that’s the man’s
name) and he came down with the key.”
“But,” I interrupted, “Parker must surely have known before this that his
master was not in the house?”
“No!” Grimsby shook his head emphatically. “Mr. Webley often worked
late and Parker had orders never to disturb him until his bell rang.”
“I see,” said I. “So they unlocked the studio——”
“Yes,” Grimsby went on, “and found him there—lying strangled on the
floor.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“Well, the police surgeon says several hours. Everything points to the fact
that it happened shortly after he entered the place.”
“Someone may have been concealed there,” I suggested.
“God knows!” Grimsby muttered. “I can’t find a thing to work upon. And
in a case like this the first twelve hours are important. But here we are,” he
added, nervously.
At the head of that blind alley which shelters the all-but-indescribable
establishment of Moris Klaw, we directed the taxi man to wait. This was a
foggy afternoon and only dimly could we discern the lights in front of the

shop. A chill in the atmosphere told of the nearness of old Father Thames,
and as we approached that stacked-up lumber which represented the visible
stock-in-trade of the proprietor, a singular piece of human flotsam was
revealed propped against the door-post, a fragment of cigarette adhering to
the corner of his mouth and threatening at any moment to ignite the stained
and walrus-like moustache which distinguished William, Moris Klaw’s
salesman.
“Good afternoon,” I said; “will you tell Mr. Moris Klaw that I have
called?”
“Certainly, sir,” wheezed the inebriate. “Great pleasure, sir, I’m sure, sir.”
William paused, turned, and looked back.
“Do you mind a-waitin’ outside?” he added. “There’s a boy with red ’air
’angin’ about somewhere as ’as got ’is eye on this ’ere golf club”—
indicating a dilapidated niblick. “If we all goes in ’e’ll nip orf with it.”
Accordingly we lingered, and:
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!” screeched the
parrot who mounted guard within.
Presently came Klaw’s unmistakable deep, rumbling voice from the
interior gloom:
“Ah! Good afternoon, Mr. Searles! Is it Detective-Inspector Grimsby you
have with you? Good afternoon, Mr. Grimsby.”
He advanced through the odorous shadows, a strange, a striking figure
and—
“Behold!” he said, “I have my hat and you have your cab. It is to Chelsea
you take me? Yes?”
From the lining of the flat-topped hat he took out his cylindrical scent
spray and played its contents upon his high, bald crown.
“Verbena,” he rumbled. “My guinea-pigs, they detest it, but I find it so
refreshing.” He replaced the spray in the hat, the hat on his crown. “I have
recently bought a fine pair of armadillos,” he explained, “and they have an
odour peculiar which, to me, is objectionable.”
He regarded William, who was glancing suspiciously up and down the
narrow alley.
“William,” he admonished, “cease to dwell upon the youth with red hair.
He becomes with you an obsession. Give the sheldrake some fresh seaweed,
and if the hedgehogs continue to refuse apples, they may have each a small
piece of raw steak.”

He approached the waiting taxi cab, and on the step he paused.
“Mr. Searles, I shall buy no more hedgehogs. They are not only delicate
in captivity but one was in my bed last night.”
We all entered the cab; and:
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” Moris Klaw continued, “tell me all about this poor
fellow who is murdered. I am expecting you. I see it is not simple. I say,
‘The old fool from Wapping is wanted here.’ ”

III

“You are squeamish, Mr. Searles,” said Moris Klaw, wagging a long
finger at me. “You squeam. You are not yet recovered from the blue face of
the murdered. Ah, well! it is horrible.”
The body had been removed and we had been to view it. Now we stood
in the studio where the crime had taken place, and although some time had
elapsed since we had left the mortuary, I confess that I was not entirely
myself. Dusk was come and we had turned up the studio lights. A faint mist
hung in the place, for the fog had grown denser.
I looked about me at half-completed pictures: groups; studies for
magazine jackets; portraits of children and of women—and the ghastly face
seemed to rise up before me, the distorted face of the man whose hand
would never touch again the brushes of his craft.
“It isn’t the first time I’ve seen a strangling case,” said Grimsby, “but it’s
the first time I’ve seen marks like that.”
“Ah! really!” Moris Klaw rumbled, turning to him. “Never before, eh,
like that? You interest me, my friend; you begin to notice. Your intellect it
expands like a sunflower in the sun. What is it that you see different in
those marks?”
Grimsby stared hard, painfully uncertain whether to regard the words as a
compliment or a joke, but finally:
“The pressure was greater,” he replied. “The murderer must have had
amazing strength.”
“Ah, yes!” Moris Klaw removed his hat and stared reflectively into the
crown thereof. “Amazing strength? And the surgeon, what does he think?”
“He thinks the same.”
“Ah! but no more, eh? Amazing strength only?”

Grimsby figuratively pricked up his ears.
“I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Klaw,” he said. “Did you notice something
else?”
Moris Klaw placed his hat upon a little table.
“I did take notice of some other thing, Mr. Grimsby,” he replied, “and for
a moment I had dreams that you synchronize with me. It is a complimentary
mistake which I make. Please forgive me. This ashtray”—he took up an
ashtray from the table beside his hat—“is of great interest. You are
agreeable, Mr. Searles”—turning to me—“that it is of great interest?”
I stared rather helplessly. It was a common brass ashtray containing
match sticks and cigarette ends. I could see nothing unusual about it, and so
presently I shook my head.
“Ah!”
Moris Klaw inserted two long yellow fingers gingerly and plucked out a
cigarette stump. He replaced the tray and held up the stump.
“Behold!” he said, “what I find!”
Grimsby now was frankly amazed and not a little angry. As for myself,
familiar though I was with Klaw’s peculiar methods, I could not divine at
what he was driving.
“My friends,” he continued, looking from one to the other of us, and
holding up the cigarette stump as a lecturer holds up a specimen, “the
cigarette, a vice which has killed many men. I have known a woman to
hang because of a hairpin, but men and women, too, many of them, because
of a cigarette.”
He opened a bulging pocket-case and tenderly deposited the stump
inside. As he was about to close the case:
“One moment, Mr. Klaw!” said Grimsby. “If that is evidence—though I
can’t for the life of me see how it can be…”
“But I see!” cried Moris Klaw—“I, the old foolish from Wapping, behold
in this the hangman’s rope!”
He closed the case.
“But——” Grimsby began again.
“But me no buts!” Moris Klaw implored. “In my hands it is the evidence,
in your hands it is the cigarette stump. But listen!” A bell rang. “It is Isis. I
had arranged with her to meet me here. Perhaps, Mr. Grimsby, you would
be so good as to open the door?”

Grimsby obeying with alacrity, the beautiful Isis presently entered,
exquisitely gowned. She gave me smiling greeting, this lovely daughter of a
singular father, and whilst Grimsby deferentially held the door wide open,
managed to introduce into the studio, without brushing it against the sides
of the door, a large brown paper bag.
“Ah!” Moris Klaw exclaimed, “it is my odically sterilized cushion. Place
it here, my child.” He indicated a spot upon the floor. “My other
engagements do not allow of my sleeping here for more than two hours,
but, in that time, I shall hope to recapture the etheric storm in the mind of
the slayer or the last great emotion in the brain of the slain. Something,
certainly, I shall get, for this was no common crime.”
From its paper wrappings Isis Klaw took a red silk cushion and placed it
upon the spot where the dead man had been found.
I turned aside, shuddering. That any human being, having seen what we
had seen that day, could lie down and, above all, could sleep upon that
haunted spot, was almost more than I could believe. Yet such was Moris
Klaw’s intention, and that he would carry it out I did not doubt.
“Isis, my child,” he said, “awake me in two hours.”
Removing his caped coat and revealing the shabby tweed suit which he
wore beneath it, he spread the garment on the carpet, stretched his gaunt
shape upon it, and rested his head on the red cushion.
“Gentlemen,” he said in his queer, rumbling tones, “leave me to my
slumber. When I awake, I perhaps shall know something more about the
man who smoked”—he tapped long fingers upon his breast pocket—“this
cigarette.”
We went out of the studio through the door leading to the garden. Isis
was last to leave and I heard her father’s voice:
“Isis, my child, be pleased to extinguish the lights.”
So, leaving the eccentric investigator to his dark and ghastly vigil, we
went up to the house; and, taking pity upon Grimsby, whose anxiety to talk
to Isis was almost pathetic, I sought out Parker, the dead artist’s
manservant, and endeavoured to obtain from him some useful information.
In this, however, I was wholly unsuccessful.
“He hadn’t an enemy in the world, sir,” the man declared emotionally.
“He was the best employer I’ve ever had or am ever likely to have. I don’t
deny that he had his little affairs, sir, but there was nothing that left a nasty

taste behind. Believe me, there was no woman in it, like the Scotland Yard
men tried to make out.”
And indeed, the more I considered the facts of the case, the more
inexplicable these became.
For instance, there were no signs of a struggle. If one had taken place the
murderer had removed all traces of it before leaving. Upon the fingerprint
evidence which Scotland Yard hoped to obtain, I based little hope of result.
But the astute perceptions of Moris Klaw had undoubtedly enabled him to
pick up a clue where no one else had found one; and strange though his
behaviour appeared to be, I had good reason to know that his subconscious
mind, termed by him “the astral negative,” rarely failed to obtain some
record under conditions such as those which, he maintained, prevail upon
the scene of a crime of violence.
When at the appointed time we returned to the studio, we found it to be
brightly lighted, and entering, discovered Moris Klaw engaged in squirting
verbena upon his high, bald forehead. He stooped and picked up the caped
coat.
“Ah, my friends,” he said, “there are many laws governing the functions
of mind which have yet to be classified. I think so; yes. Why is it that some
emotions register”—he waved his long hands in the air—“indelibly; others,
impermanently, and some, not at all? I ask myself the question, and no one
replies. We are, then, ignorant, and stupid. To-night”—he lowered his voice
—“I do murder with my bare hands! Yes! I am the assassin! My motive
——”
“Yes, yes!” cried Grimsby, eagerly.
“No, no!” Moris Klaw frowned at him. “My motive beats in my brain,
my second brain, my subconscious brain. Myself I do not see, nor my
victim; but I hear, I hear. I hear a sound!”
“A sound,” Isis whispered. “Do you mean a horrible sound—his death
cry?”
“No, no!” her father assured her. “I hear a beautiful sound.”

IV

Time passed and no arrest was made. Other matters engaged public
attention, and the Chelsea studio murder gradually dropped out of sight,

occupying less and less space in the press and presently disappearing
altogether.
Between Inspector Grimsby and Moris Klaw a definite breach occurred.
“He’s either bluffing or else hiding something,” the Inspector declared to
me. “Why did he keep that cigarette? What the devil was the sound he
heard, or thought he heard, or pretended he heard? All I know is that I’ve
made a fool of myself. There’s not a ghost of a clue.”
I was not without sympathy for Grimsby. He had grown so used to
finding his difficulties resolved by the genius of Wapping Old Stairs, that
beyond doubt in the Chelsea case he had promised more than he had been
able to perform, optimistically trusting Klaw to provide light in the
darkness; and the great man had proved to be fallible.
It was a dreadful blow to Detective-Inspector Grimsby, and, I must
confess, a surprise to me. Although I had no definite evidence, I
nevertheless had certain reasons to suppose that Moris Klaw was not
entirely inactive during this time. Twice I met him, accompanied by the
dazzling Isis, in the neighbourhood of Queen’s Hall, and on the second
occasion as he entered a car which was waiting for him:
“Mr. Searles,” he said, “tell him, that Detective Inspector, that all work
and no play makes of Jean a dull fellow. Recommend to him music. Tell
him he should sometimes steal an afternoon and at a concert relax himself.”
I reported the conversation to Grimsby in due course and had never seen
him more angry.
“He’s pulling my leg!” he said. “It’ll be a long time before I ask him to
help me again. Concerts! What time have I got for concerts?”
Such, then, was the state of affairs at the time that Len Hassett, a black-
and-white artist of my acquaintance whose work was beginning to attract
attention, leased the house and studio of ill-fame where poor Pyke Webley
had met his death.
Hassett was ultra-modern and very morbid, but although he professed to
have taken the place because its murderous atmosphere appealed to him, I
had more than a suspicion that the low rental, consequent upon its evil
reputation, had done much more to influence his decision. However, in due
course I received an invitation to the house-warming, and on the same day a
telephone message from Moris Klaw.
“Good morning, Mr. Searles,” came his rumbling greeting over the wires;
“it is very wet again. This appalling English climate becomes disastrous. I

have lost in one week two marmosets and a Peruvian squirrel. They see the
fog and rain, they sneeze, they cough, they die. I have to make to you a
request, Mr. Searles: it is that you secure for myself and Isis the invitation
to Mr. Len Hassett’s party at his new studio.”
“Certainly, Mr. Klaw,” I replied, trying to keep a note of surprise from
my voice; “Hassett and I are old friends. I have only to mention your name
and you will be heartily welcomed.”
That Isis would be welcome I did not doubt, but, mentally picturing the
eccentric figure of Moris Klaw at such a gathering, I could not deny that it
seemed out of place. However, I doubted not that some purpose deeper than
amusement underlay the request, and the matter was arranged accordingly.
Moris Klaw called for me in a Daimler, wherein, queenly, Isis reclined in
an ermine cloak. I think I had never before become so fully conscious of the
mystery enshrouding the life of this oddly assorted pair as I did during that
drive to Chelsea.
Who, I asked myself, was Moris Klaw, the inscrutable genius who so
gladly offered his services to the guardians of law and order?—who dealt in
beasts and birds and reptiles, old furniture and fusty books?—who lived in
one of the most unsavoury quarters of London?—whose daughter was an
unchallenged beauty, possessed of clothes and jewels which never were
purchased out of the profits of the Wapping business? My reflections,
however, availed me nothing.
Arrived at Chelsea, we met our host in the lounge hall of the house, and,
introductions being over and the beauty of Isis having annoyed every other
pretty woman in the place, I presently found myself escorting Morris
Klaw’s daughter through the garden to the studio, whither some of the party
had preceded us. We paused for a moment and looked in at the window.
A group of a dozen people or so gathered around the piano at the farther
end of the place; but, nearer to us, seated in a high armchair before the
blazing fire and caressing a black cat which rested upon his knee, was a
strange-looking, gaunt-faced man. Upon his harsh features the dancing
firelight painted odd shadows, so that at one moment it was a smiling,
benevolent face, and, in the next, the face of a devil.
It was a mere illusion, of course, but when I turned again to Isis and we
proceeded toward the door, I saw her biting her lip in sudden agitation, and:
“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she replied—“but what a queer-looking man that was sitting
before the fire.”
Presently we met him, however, as well as the black cat (which proved to
belong to Len Hassett). He was Serg Skobolov, a Russian pianist whose
reputation was growing by leaps and bounds. Upon Isis his curious small
eyes rested greedily; and that she was repelled, the girl was unable to
disguise. In due course, when the merriment was in full swing, there were
songs, and a certain amount of dancing took place; and then melting at the
right moment to the entreaties of Hassett, Skobolov agreed to play.
“You know,” said a lady journalist who was sitting on the floor near me,
“Skobolov has composed numerous works but not one of them is
published.”
“Ah!” came a hoarse whisper. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Moris
Klaw standing in the shadow behind us. “How strange! Does he refuse then
to publish his compositions?”
“Absolutely,” the lady declared earnestly. “He maintains that no one else
could play them.”
“Is that so?” wheezed Moris Klaw. “Perhaps he is right. Presently we
shall hear and judge for ourselves.”
He became silent, as the pianist, seating himself, began to speak:
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his broken English, “you know that
the friend of us all, our good Hassett, takes this studio because it is haunted.
Here, murder is done, yes, and so I shall play to you a prelude newly
composed in which—it is appropriate—I try to express in music the lust of
slaying.”
He paused amid an uncomfortable silence, and then:
“Some of you must know,” he resumed, “that all my compositions are
emotions, attempts to paint in chords things experienced. Some experiences
one cannot have and so can never paint—for atmosphere, atmosphere, is
everything! Now I shall paint for you the story of this studio.”
With that, he began to play; and although I had never heard him before, I
realized from the outset that he was a master of his instrument. Indeed, I
thought, a genius. His theme and its treatment alike were unusual,
grotesque. There was some quality in the man’s technique which I found
myself unable to define. He possessed uncanny power. When, at last, the
prelude ended, it was greeted by a silence more eloquent than any applause.

It was only momentary, of course. Then came a wild outburst of
enthusiasm. Yet it had been long enough, that moment of stillness, for me to
hear the squirting of Moris Klaw’s scent spray immediately behind me. And
when at last the clapping and shouting died down:
“That prelude,” came his voice, almost in my ear, “it has a bad smell.
Soon, Isis my child, we must go. It grows late. But perhaps Mr. Hassett will
permit me to telephone to my chauffeur, as I allow him to go away? It is all
right? Very well. How wonderful is that prelude.”

V

Skobolov’s attentions to Isis Klaw became very marked. Presently,
following some whispered words from her father, I noticed with surprise
that she had ceased to avoid the Russian pianist, indeed was consenting to
smile upon him. Hence, when presently Moris Klaw’s car arrived, I was
prepared for Skobolov’s acceptance of an offer of a lift as far as his hotel.
For my own part I confess quite frankly that I disliked the man. I had
disliked him on sight, and nearer acquaintance did nothing to dispel that
first impression. That Isis disliked him, also, I could not doubt. Therefore I
divined that she was playing a part, although its purpose defeated my
imagination.
Throughout the drive from Chelsea to the hotel Moris Klaw discussed
music, a subject with which I had not hitherto believed him to be
acquainted. Perhaps his intention was to exhibit Skobolov’s intense
egotism, for indeed the man was a monument to his own colossal vanity.
His genius I could not dispute, but his personality was detestable.
I had foreseen that he would try to detain the party at his hotel, or, rather,
that he would try to detain Isis. (I had no doubt whatever that he would
gladly have excused both Moris Klaw and myself.) But I had not been
prepared for Klaw’s acceptance of the offer. However, as we descended
from the car and I hesitated whether to accept Skobolov’s grudging
inclusion of myself in the party, or to walk home, I detected an
unmistakable expression in Moris Klaw’s queer eyes, twinkling behind the
pebbles of his pince-nez.
Suddenly the fact came home to me that I was a minor actor in some
mysterious comedy directed by the genius of Wapping Old Stairs.

The Russian occupied a luxurious suite, and Moris Klaw, with reluctance
which I could see to be feigned, agreed at Skobolov’s pressing invitation to
drink one glass of wine and then to depart for home.
Skobolov did his best to make himself agreeable, proffering cigars and
cigarettes, and opening a bottle of Bollinger. Moris Klaw and I declined to
smoke, but Isis accepted a cigarette and lay back in a deep lounge chair
blowing smoke rings and watching the vainglorious Russian musician
through half-lowered lashes.
There was a grand piano in the room, and Moris Klaw, who had not
touched his wine, prevailed upon Skobolov to play for us once more the
prelude which we had heard at Hassett’s studio.
The pianist shrugged, glanced at Isis, and then seated himself at the
instrument. Placing his cigarette in a little ashtray, he laid his fingers
caressingly on the keyboard, and once more my soul was harrowed by those
indescribable strains.
As the sound of the last chord died away:
“Good,” said Moris Klaw, “excellent, most excellent. And now,
please”—he stood up—“I am an old nuisance, an absent old foolish. Do
you object that I telephone to my chauffeur? I just remember that Isis leaves
her ermine cloak in the car. Is it not so, my child?”
“Good heavens, yes!” Isis exclaimed.
He crossed the room to the telephone, circling ungainly around the piano,
raised the instrument, and:
“Will you be pleased to ask Mr. Moris Klaw’s chauffeur to bring in from
the car the cloak,” he said, distinctly. “Yes, all right, very well.” He hung up
the receiver and turned to face us again, shrugging his shoulders. “So
greatly tempting,” he explained, “to some prowler thief.”
I now became aware that Isis had suddenly grown very pale. She had
stood up and was watching Skobolov intently. He seemed rather to be
enjoying the scrutiny of her fine dark eyes—when there came a peremptory
rap upon the door.
“Come in!” said the Russian sharply.
The door opened—and Detective-Inspector Grimsby stood on the
threshold!
Moris Klaw nodded in Skobolov’s direction, and, literally stupefied with
astonishment, I heard Grimsby say:

“Serg Skobolov, I arrest you on a charge of having murdered Mr. Pyke
Webley at his studio on the night of November the fourteenth. I must warn
you——” But he got no further.
Uttering a sound which I can only describe as the roar of a wild beast,
Skobolov leapt upon him, clasped his hands about the speaker’s throat, and
hurled him to the floor!
To Moris Klaw, Grimsby owed his life. The Russian was kneeling on the
detective’s chest and literally squeezing life out of him, when Klaw,
surprisingly agile, sprang forward. He stooped over the would-be murderer
and performed some simple operation which threw Skobolov upon his back.
In two seconds the madman was up again; and, even now, I sometimes
see in my dreams that devil face, transfigured by such evil as I could not
have supposed to reside in any human being. He opened and closed his
hands in a horrible, writhing, suggestive movement, looked at Grimsby who
was trying slowly, painfully to struggle to his feet, looked at Isis, looked at
Moris Klaw, looked at myself. Then, bursting into peals of laughter, he ran
to the French windows, threw one open, sprang on to the parapet outside,
and uttering one final frenzied shriek, leapt into the courtyard sixty feet
below!

VI

“Everyone will say,” Moris Klaw declared, “ ‘he was a failure, that old
fool from Wapping’—for how can a dead man confess, and what use for the
newspapers to tell the public why this poor Russian leaps from his
window?” He shrugged his shoulders, looking around my study. “You say
to me,” he continued, addressing Grimsby: ‘What is the sound you hear
when you sleep in the studio?’ and I do not tell you because you would not
understand. But now I shall tell you. I hear, my friend, a chord in G Minor!
“Ah! you wag your head. I knew you would wag your head! But beware
that your brains do not rattle. This is what I hear, and this is the thing in the
mind of the murderer at the moment that he does the murder—a chord in G
Minor, Mr. Grimsby! I, the old fool, have the music sense, and this chord it
intrigues me. Why? because it is not playable—yet it is a chord upon a
piano.”
“Not playable!” Grimsby exclaimed.

“Not playable, my friend, except by a man having enormous hands! And
also, my good Grimsby, the poor Webley could not have been strangled as
he was except by one having enormous hands.
“This is what I first perceive when I see his body, and what for one
absurd moment I dream that you have perceived also. I, myself, have large
hands, but although I try I cannot span within inches of the marks made
upon his throat by the monster who kills him. And so, when I hear this
chord, and I question and I try and I find that it cannot be played by any
normal hand, I say, ‘Yes! it is a musician with abnormal hands!’ And I look
for him and I listen for him. And to him I have one other clue—a hashish
cigarette.”
“What kind of cigarette?” Grimsby muttered.
“I said hashish, my friend—a cigarette containing the drug Indian hemp;
a kind of cigarette very rarely met in England. In that ashtray, among a
dozen others, I detect it immediately. Is it not strange”—he turned to me
—“how the murderer is drawn to the place of the murder? It is why, when I
hear of the house-warming, I plan to go. Perhaps it is accident—perhaps
something else.
“He was a mad genius, that Skobolov. He tries to know supreme emotion
that he may write supreme music. Perhaps he succeeds. Who can say? But
his compositions cannot live—for no other man can play them, on the piano
at any rate. Where did he meet the poor Webley? Who can say? Perhaps
they were acquainted, perhaps they met in the street. Webley was
Bohemian. He invites Skobolov into the lonely studio. Good! There could
be no evidence. It was his opportunity—to know the emotion of murder and
to get safe away!
“To-night I hear it again—the dream chord: I see his great hands. But he
smokes no cigarette in the studio, not until he has returned to his own
rooms. For this I waited, this last piece of evidence. Behold!”
From his pocket-case he took out two cigarette stumps.
“To-night, in the studio, at last I hear again my dream chord—the chord
in G, in G Minor; yet when I telephone to you, my good Grimsby, you think
I am the old fool. I say, ‘Hurry to Chelsea. I await.’ You obey, but you
reluct. I say, ‘When at the place we go I send a message, “the cloak is in the
car.” Enter.’ You enter and you permit the strangler to escape the law.”
He shrugged, stooped to where his brown bowler rested upon the floor
beside him, took out the scent spray and squirted verbena upon his

forehead.
“I have the hot brain,” he explained; “it is the activity. But yours, my
friend”—turning to Grimsby—“is as cool as a lemon.”

EIGHTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE HEADLESS MUMMIES

I

The mysteries which my eccentric friend, Moris Klaw, was most successful
in handling undoubtedly were those which had their origin in kinks of the
human brain or in the mysterious history of some relic of ancient times.
I have seen his theory of the Cycle of Crime proved triumphantly time
and time again; I have known him successfully to demonstrate how the
history of a valuable gem or curio automatically repeats itself, subject, it
would seem, to that obscure law of chance into which he had made
particular inquiry. Then his peculiar power—assiduously cultivated by a
course of obscure study—of recovering from the atmosphere, the ether, call
it what you will, the thought-forms—the ideas thrown out by the scheming
mind of the criminal he sought for—enabled him to succeed where any
ordinary investigator must inevitably have failed.
“They destroy,” he would say in his odd, rumbling voice, “the clumsy
tools of their crime; they hide away the knife, the bludgeon; they sop up the
blood, they throw it, the jemmy, the dead man, the suffocated poor infant,
into the ditch, the pool—and they leave intact the odic negative, the
photograph of their sin, the thought thing in the air!” He would tap his high
yellow brow significantly. “Here upon this sensitive plate I reproduce it, the
hanging evidence! The headless child is buried in the garden, but the
thought of the beheader is left to lie about. I pick it up. Poof! he swings—
that child-slayer! I triumph. He is a dead man. What an art is the art of the
odic photograph.”
But I propose to relate here an instance of Moris Klaw’s amazing
knowledge in matters of archæology—of the history of relics. In his
singular emporium at Wapping, where dwelt the white rats, the singing
canary, the cursing parrot, and the other stock-in-trade of this supposed
dealer in oddities, was furthermore a library probably unique. It contained

obscure works on criminology; it contained catalogues of every relic known
to European collectors with elaborate histories of the same. What else it
contained I am unable to say, for the dazzling Isis Klaw was a jealous
librarian.
You who have followed these records will have made the acquaintance of
Coram, the curator of the Menzies Museum; and it was through Coram that
I first came to hear of the inexplicable beheading of mummies, which,
commencing with that of Mr. Pettigrew’s valuable mummy of the priestess
Hor-ankhu, developed into a perfect epidemic. No more useless outrage
could well be imagined than the decapitation of an ancient Egyptian corpse;
and if I was surprised when I heard of the first case, my surprise became
stark amazement when yet other mummies began mysteriously to lose their
heads. But I will deal with the first instance, now, as it was brought under
my notice by Coram.
He rang me up early one morning.
“I say, Searles,” he said; “a very odd thing has happened. You’ve heard
me speak of Pettigrew the collector; he lives out Wandsworth way; he’s one
of our trustees. Well, some demented burglar broke into his house last night,
took nothing, but cut off the head of a valuable mummy!”
“Good Heavens!” I cried. “What an original idea!”
“Highly so,” agreed Coram. “The police are hopelessly mystified, and as
I know you are keen on this class of copy I thought you might like to run
down and have a chat with Pettigrew. Shall I tell him you are coming?”
“By all means,” I said, and made an arrangement forthwith.
Accordingly, about eleven o’clock, I presented myself at a gloomy
Georgian house standing well back from the high road and screened by an
unkempt shrubbery. Mr. Mark Pettigrew, a familiar figure at Sotheby
auctions, was a little shrivelled man, clean-shaven, and with the complexion
of a dried apricot. His big spectacles seemed to occupy a great proportion of
his face, but his eyes twinkled merrily and his humour was as dry as his
appearance.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Searles,” he said. “You’ve had some experience of
the outré, I believe, and where two constables, an imposing inspector, and a
plain-clothes gentleman who looked like a horse have merely upset my
domestic arrangements, you may be able to make some intelligent
suggestion.”

He conducted me to a large gloomy room in which relics, principally
Egyptian, were arranged and ticketed with museum-like precision. Before a
wooden sarcophagus containing the swathed figure of a mummy he
stopped, pointing. He looked as though he had come out of a sarcophagus
himself.
“Hor-ankhu,” he said, “a priestess of Sekhet; a very fine specimen, Mr.
Searles. I was present when it was found. See—here is her head!”
Stooping, he picked up the head of the mummy. Very cleanly and
scientifically it had been unwrapped and severed from the trunk. It smelt
strongly of bitumen, and the shrivelled features reminded me of nothing so
much as of Mr. Mark Pettigrew.
“Did you ever hear of a more senseless thing?” he asked. “Come over
and look at the window where he got in.”
We crossed the dark apartment, and the collector drew my attention to a
round hole which had been drilled in the glass of one of the French
windows opening on a kind of miniature prairie which once had been a
lawn.
“I am having shutters fitted,” he went on. “It is so easy to cut a hole in
the glass and open the catch of these windows.”
“Very easy,” I agreed. “Was any one disturbed?”
“No one,” he replied, excitedly; “that’s the insane part of the thing. The
burglar, with all the night before him and with cases containing portable and
really priceless objects about him, contented himself with decapitating the
priestess. What on earth did he want her head for? Whatever he wanted it
for, why the devil didn’t he take it?”
We stared at each other blankly.
“I fear,” said Pettigrew, “I have been guilty of injustice to my horsey
visitor, the centaur. You look as stupid as the worst of us!”
“I feel stupid,” I said.
“You are!” Pettigrew assured me with cheerful impertinence. “So am I,
so are the police; but the biggest fool of the lot is the fool who came here
last night and cut off the head of my mummy.”
That, then, is all which I have occasion to relate regarding the first of
these mysterious outrages. I was quite unable to propound any theory
covering the facts, to Pettigrew’s evident annoyance; he assured me that I
was very stupid, and insisted upon opening a magnum of champagne. I then
returned to my rooms, and since reflection upon the subject promised to be

unprofitable, had dismissed it from my mind, when some time during the
evening Inspector Grimsby rang me up from the Yard.
“Hullo, Mr. Searles,” he said; “I hear you called on Mr. Pettigrew this
morning?”
I replied in the affirmative.
“Did anything strike you?”
“No; were you on the case?”
“I wasn’t on the case then, but I’m on it now.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, there’s been another mummy beheaded in Sotheby’s auction
rooms!”

II

I knew quite well what was expected of me.
“Where are you speaking from?” I asked.
“The auction rooms.”
“I will meet you there in an hour,” I said, “and bring Moris Klaw if I can
find him.”
“Good,” replied Grimsby, with much satisfaction in his voice; “this case
ought to be right in his line.”
I chartered a taxi and proceeded without delay to the insalubrious
neighbourhood of Wapping Old Stairs. At the head of the blind alley which
harbours the Klaw emporium I directed the man to wait. The gloom was
very feebly dispelled by a wavering gaslight in the shed-like front of the
shop. River noises were about me. Somewhere a drunken man was singing.
An old lady who looked like a pantomime dame was critically examining a
mahogany chair with only half a back, which formed one of the exhibits
displayed before the establishment.
A dilapidated person whose nose chronically blushed for the excesses of
its owner hovered about the prospective purchaser. This was William,
whose exact position in the Klaw establishment I had never learned, but
who apparently acted during his intervals of sobriety as a salesman.
“Good evening,” I said. “Is Mr. Moris Klaw at home?”
“He is, sir,” husked the derelict; “but he’s very busy, sir, I believe, sir.”
“Tell him Mr. Searles has called.”

“Yes, sir,” said William; and, turning to the dame: “Was you thinking of
buyin’ that chair, mum, after you’ve quite done muckin’ it about?”
He retired into the cavernous depths of the shop, and I followed him as
far as the dimly seen counter.
“Moris Klaw, Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!”
Thus the invisible parrot hailed my entrance. Indescribable smells, zoo-
like, with the fusty odour of old books and the unclassifiable perfume of
half-rotten furniture, assailed my nostrils; and mingling with it was the
distinct scent of reptile life. Scufflings and scratchings sounded
continuously about me, punctuated with squeals. Then came the rumbling
voice of Moris Klaw.
“Ah, Mr. Searles—good evening, Mr. Searles! It is the Pettigrew
mummy, is it not?”
He advanced through the shadows, his massive figure arrayed for
travelling, in the caped coat, his toneless beard untidy as ever, his pince-nez
glittering, his high bald brow yellow as that of a Chinaman.
“There has been a second outrage,” I said, “at Sotheby’s.”
“So?” said Moris Klaw, with interest; “another mummy is executed!”
“Yes, Inspector Grimsby has asked us to join him there.”
Moris Klaw stooped and from beneath the counter took out his flat-
topped brown bowler. From its lining he extracted a cylindrical scent spray
and mingled with the less pleasing perfumes that of verbena.
“A cooling Roman custom, Mr. Searles,” he rumbled, “so refreshing
when one lives with rats. So it is Mr. Grimsby who is puzzled again? It is
Mr. Grimsby who needs the poor old fool to hold the lantern for him, so that
he, the clever Grimsby, can pick up the credit out of the darkness! And why
not, Mr. Searles, and why not? It is his business; it is my pleasure.”
He raised his voice. “Isis! Isis!”
Out into the light of the fluttering gas lamp, out from that nightmare
abode, stepped Isis Klaw—looking more grotesque than a French fashion
plate in an ironmonger’s catalogue. She wore a costume of lettuce-green
silk, absolutely plain and unrelieved by any ornament, which rendered it the
more remarkable. It was cut low at the neck, and at the point of the V,
suspended upon a thin gold chain, hung a big emerald. Her darkly beautiful
face was one to inspire a painter seeking a model for the Queen of Sheba,
but an ultra-modern note was struck by a hat of some black, gauzy material

which loudly proclaimed its Paris origin. She greeted me with her
wonderful smile.
“What, then,” I said. “Were you about to go out?”
“When I hear who it is,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “I know that we are about
to go out; and behold we are ready!”
He placed the quaint bowler on his head and passed through to the front
of the shop.
“William,” he admonished the ripe-nosed salesman, “there is here a smell
of fourpenny ale. It will be your ruin, William. You will close at half-past
nine, and be sure you do not let the cat in the cupboard with the white mice.
See that the goat does not get at the Dutch bulbs. They will kill him, that
goat—those bulbs; he has for them a passion.”
The three of us entered the waiting cab; and within half an hour we
arrived at the famous auction rooms. The doors were closed and barred, but
a constable who was on duty there evidently had orders to admit us.
The thing we had come to see lay upon the table with an electric lamp
burning directly over it. The effect was indescribably weird. All about in the
shadows fantastic “lots” seemed to leer at us. A famous private collection
was to be sold in the morning and a rank of mummies lined one wall,
whilst, from another, stony Pharaohs, gods and goddesses scorned us
through the gloom. We were a living group in a place of long-dead things.
And yellow on the table beneath the white light, with partially unwrapped
coils of discoloured linen hanging gruesomely from it, lay a headless
mummy!
I heard the spurt of Moris Klaw’s scent spray behind me, and a faint
breath of verbena stole to my nostrils.
“Pah!” came the rumbling voice; “this air is full of deadness!”
“Good evening, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby, appearing from somewhere
out of the gloom. “I am so glad you have come.” He bowed to Isis. “How
do you do, Miss Klaw?”
The bright green figure moved forward into the pool of light. I think I
had never seen a more singular picture than that of Isis Klaw bending over
the decapitated mummy. Indeed, the whole scene would have delighted
Rembrandt.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Klaw,” said a middle-aged gentleman,
stepping up to the curio dealer; “the Inspector has been telling me about
you.”

Moris Klaw bowed, and his daughter turned to him with a little nod of
the head.
“It is the same period,” she said, “as Mr. Pettigrew’s mummy. Possibly
this was a priest of the same temple. Certainly both are of the same
dynasty.”
“It is instructive,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “but so confusing.”
“It’s amazing, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby. “If I understand Miss Klaw
rightly, this is the mummy of someone who lived at the same period as the
priestess whose mummy is in Mr. Pettigrew’s possession?”
“I do not trouble to look,” rumbled Moris Klaw, who, in fact, was staring
all about the room. “If Isis has said so, it is so.”
“If I happened to be superstitious,” said Grimsby, “I should think this
was a sort of curse being fulfilled, or some fantastic thing of that sort.”
“You should call a curse fantastic, eh, my friend?” said Moris Klaw. “Yet
here in your own country you have seen a whole family that was cursed to
be wiped out mysteriously. Am I with you?”
Grimsby looked very perplexed.
“There’s nothing very mysterious about how the thing was done,” he
said. “Some madman got in here with a knife early in the evening. It’s
always pretty dark, even during the daytime. But the mystery is his object.”
“His object is a mystery, yes,” agreed Klaw. “I would sleep here in order
to procure a mental negative of what he hoped or what he feared, this
lunatic headsman, only that I know he is a man possessed.”
“Possessed!” I cried; and even Isis looked surprised.
“I said possessed,” continued Klaw, impressively. “He is some madman
with a one idea. His mad brain will have charged the ether”—he waved his
long arms right and left—“with mad thoughts. The room of Mr. Pettigrew
also will be filled with these grotesque thought-forms. Certainly he is
insane, this butcher of mummies. In this case I shall rely, not upon the odic
photography, not upon that great science the Cycle of Crime, but upon my
library.”
None of us, I am sure, entirely understood his meaning; and following a
brief silence, during which, in a curiously muffled way, the sounds of the
traffic in Wellington Street came to us as we stood there around that modern
bier with its 4000-year-old burden, Grimsby asked, with hesitancy:
“Don’t you want to make any investigations, Mr. Klaw?”
Then Moris Klaw startled us all.

“I have a thought!” he cried, loudly. “Name of a dog! I have a thought!”
Grabbing his brown bowler, which he had laid on the table beside the
headless mummy, “Come, Isis!” he cried, and grasped the girl by the arm.
“I have yet another thought, most disturbing! Mr. Searles, would you be so
good as also to come?”
Wondering greatly whence we were bound and upon what errand, I
hastened down the room after them, leaving Inspector Grimsby staring
blankly. I think he was rather disappointed with the result of Moris Klaw’s
inquiry—if inquiry this hasty visit may be termed. He was disappointed,
too, at having spent so short a time in the company of the charming Isis.
The middle-aged gentleman came running to let us out.
“Good-night, Inspector Grimsby!” called Moris Klaw.
“Good-night! good-night, Miss Klaw!”
“Good-night, Mr. Someone who has not been introduced!” said Klaw.
“My name is Welby,” smiled the other.
“Good-night, Mr. Welby!” said Moris Klaw.

III

During the whole of the journey back to Wapping, Moris Klaw regaled
me with anecdotes of travels in the Yucatan Peninsula. I had never met a
man before who had ventured fully to explore those deadly swamps; but
Moris Klaw chatted about the Izamal temples as unconcernedly as another
man might chat about the Paris boulevards. Isis took no part in the
conversation, from which I gathered that, although she seemed to
accompany her father everywhere, she had not accompanied him into the
jungles of Yucatan.
“In the heart of those forests, Mr. Searles,” he whispered, “are stranger
things than these headless mummies. Do you know that the secret of those
great temples buried in the swamps and the jungles and guarded only by
serpents and slimy, crawling things, is a door which science has yet to
unlock? What people built them, and what god was worshipped in them?
Suppose”—he bent to my ear—“I hold the key to that riddle; am I assured
to be immortal? Yes? No?”
His conversation, although it often seemed to be studiously eccentric,
was always that of a man of powerful and unusual mind, a man of vast and

unique experience. I was rather sorry when we arrived at our destination.
As the cab drew up at the head of the court, I saw that the shop of Moris
Klaw was in darkness; but again telling the man to wait, we walked down
past the warehouse, beyond whose bulk tided muddy Thames, and my
eccentric companion producing a key from one of the bulging pockets of
his caped coat inserted it into the lock of a door which looked less like a
door than a section of a dilapidated hoarding.
The door swung open.
“Ah!” he hissed. “It was not locked!”
Klaw struck a match and peered into the odorous darkness.
“William!” he rumbled. “William!”
But there was no reply. Isis suddenly laid her hand upon my arm, and it
occurred to me that for once her wonderful composure was shaken.
“Something has happened!” she whispered.
Her father lighted a gas-burner, and the yellow light flared up, reclaiming
from the gloom furniture, pictures, cages, glass cases, statuettes, heaps of
cheap jewellery and false teeth, books, and a hundred-and-one other items
of that weird stock-in-trade.
Then, under the littered counter we found William lying flat on his back
with his arms spread widely.
“Ah! cochon!” muttered Klaw; “beer-swilling pig!”
He stooped to raise the head of the prostrate man, and then to my surprise
dropped upon his knees beside him, stooped yet lower, and sniffed
suspiciously. Again Isis Klaw seized my arm, and her dark eyes were
opened very widely as she leaned forward watching her father. He stood up,
holding a glass in his hand which yet contained some drops of what was
apparently beer. At this, too, he sniffed. He walked over to the gaslight and
examined the fluid closely, whilst Isis and I watched him, together. Finally
Moris Klaw inserted a long white forefinger into the dirty glass and applied
the tip to his tongue.
“Opium!” he said. “Many drops of pure opium were put in this beer.”
He turned to me with a curious expression upon his parchment-coloured
face.
“Mr. Searles,” he said, “my second idea was a good idea. I shall now
surprise you.”
He led the way through that neat and businesslike office which opened
out of the unutterably dirty and untidy shop. Although within the shop and

in front of it only gaslight was used, in the office he switched on an electric
lamp. But we did not delay long in Moris Klaw’s sanctum, lined with its
hundreds of books, its obscure works of criminology, its records of strange
things: we proceeded through another door and up a thickly carpeted stair.
I had never before penetrated thus far into the habitable portion of Moris
Klaw’s establishment; the book-lined office hitherto had marked the limit of
my explorations. But now, as more electric lights were switched on, I saw
that we stood upon a wide landing panelled in massive black oak. Armoured
figures stood sentinel-like against the walls, and several magnificent
specimens of Chinese porcelain met my gaze. I might have thought myself
in some old English baronial hall. Next we entered a big, rectangular room,
which I wholly despair of describing. Apparently it was used as a study, a
library, a laboratory, and a warehouse for all sorts of things, from marble
Buddhas to innumerable pairs of boots. Also, there was in it a French stove;
and upon a Persian coffee table stood a frying pan containing a cooked
sausage solidified in its own fat. There was clear evidence, moreover, in the
form of a rolled-up hammock, that the place served as a bedroom.
Altogether there were four mummies in the apartment. One of these,
partly unwrapped, lay amongst the litter on the floor—headless!
“Mon Dieu!” cried Isis, clasping her hands; “it is uncanny, this!”
She was evidently excited, for her French accent suddenly asserted itself
to a marked degree. Moris Klaw, from somewhere amongst the rubbish at
his feet, picked up the severed head of the mummy and stared at it intently.
In the stillness I could hear the river noises very distinctly, and a sort of
subterranean lapping and creaking which suggested that at high tide the
cellars of the establishment became flooded. Moris Klaw dropped the head
from his hands. It fell with a dull thud to the floor.
From the lining of his hat he took out the inevitable scent spray and
moistened his brow with verbena.
“I need the cool brain, Mr. Searles,” he said. “I, the old cunning, the fox,
the wily, am threatened with defeat. This slaughter of mummies it surpasses
my experience. I am nonplussed; I am a stupid old fool. Let me think!”
Isis was looking about her in a startled way.
“It is horribly uncanny, Miss Klaw,” I said. “But the drugging of the man
downstairs points to very human agency. Perhaps if we could revive him
——”

“He will not revive,” interrupted Moris Klaw, “for twelve hours at least.
In his beer was enough opium to render unconscious the rhinoceros!”
“Is there anything missing?” I asked.
“Nothing,” rumbled Klaw. “He came for the mummy. Isis, will you
prepare for us those cooling drinks that help the fevered mind, and from
downstairs bring me the seventh volume of the ‘Books of the Temples.’ ”
Isis Klaw immediately walked forward to the door.
“And Isis, my child,” added her father, “remove the tall cage to the top
end of the shop. Presently that William’s snores will awake the Borneo
squirrel.”
As the girl departed, Klaw opened an inner door and ushered me into a
dainty white room, an amazing apartment indeed, a true Parisian boudoir.
The air was heavy with the scent of roses, for bowls of white and pink roses
were everywhere. Klaw lighted a silver table lamp with a unique silver
gauze shade apparently lined with pale rose-coloured silk. Evidently this
apartment belonged to Isis, and was as appropriate for her, exquisite
Parisian that she seemed to be, as the weird barn through which we had
come was an appropriate abode for her father.
When presently Isis returned I saw her for the first time in her proper
setting, a dainty green figure in a white frame. Moris Klaw opened the
bulky leather-bound volume which she had handed to him, and whilst I sat
sipping my wine and watching him, he busily turned over the pages
(apparently French MS.) in quest of the reference he sought.
“Ah!” he cried, in sudden triumph; “vaguely I had it in my memory, but
here it is, the clue. I will translate for you, Mr. Searles, what is written here:
‘The “Book of the Lamps,” which was revealed to the priest, Pankhaur, and
by him revealed only to the Queen’—it was the ancient Egyptian Queen,
Hatshepsu, Mr. Searles—‘was kept locked in the secret place beneath the
altar, and each high priest of the temple—all of whom were of the family of
Pankhaur—held the key and alone might consult the magic writing. In the
14th dynasty, Seteb was high priest, and was the last of the family of
Pankhaur. At his death the newly appointed priest, receiving the key of the
secret place, complained to Pharaoh that the “Book of the Lamps” was
missing.’ ”
He closed the volume and placed it on a little table beside him.
“Isis,” he rumbled, looking across at his daughter, “does the mystery
become clear to you? Am I not an old fool? Mr. Searles, there is only one

other copy of this work”—he laid a long white hand upon the book
—“known to European collectors. Do I know where that copy is? Yes? No?
I think so!”
There was triumph in his hoarse voice. Personally I was quite unable to
see in what way the history of the “Book of the Lamps” bore upon the case
of the headless mummies; but Moris Klaw evidently considered that it
afforded a clue. He stood up.
“Isis,” he said, “bring me my catalogue of the mummies of the Bubastite
priests.”
That imperious beauty departed in meek obedience.
“Mr. Searles,” said Moris Klaw, “this will be for Inspector Grimsby
another triumph; but without these records of a poor old fool, who shall say
if the one that beheads mummies had ever been detected? I neglected to
secure the odic negative because I thought I had to deal with a madman; but
I was more stupid than an owl. This decapitating of mummies is no
madman’s work, but is done with a purpose, my friend—with a wonderful
purpose.”

IV

The Menzies Museum (scene of my first meeting with Moris Klaw) was
not yet opened to the public when Coram (the curator), Moris Klaw,
Grimsby, and I stood in the Egyptian Room before a case containing
mummies. The room adjoining—the Greek Room—had been the scene of
the dreadful tragedies which first had acquainted me with the wonderful
methods of the eccentric investigator.
“Whoever broke into Sotheby’s last night, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby,
“knew the ins and outs of the place; knew it backward. It’s my idea that he
was known to the people there. After having cut off the head of the mummy
he probably walked out openly. Then, again, it must have been somebody
who knew the habits of Mr. Pettigrew’s household that got at his mummy.
Of course”—his eyes twinkled with a satisfaction which he could not
conceal—“I’m very sorry to hear that our man has proved too clever for
you! Think of a burglar breaking into Mr. Moris Klaw’s house!”
“Think of it, my friend,” rumbled the other; “if it makes you laugh go on
thinking of it, and you will grow fat!”

Grimsby openly winked at me. He was out of his depth himself, and was
not displeased to find the omniscient Moris Klaw apparently in a similar
position.
“I am not resentful,” continued Klaw, “and I will capture for you the
mummy man.”
“What?” cried Grimsby. “Are you on the track?”
“I will tell you something, my laughing friend. You will secretly watch
this Egyptian Room like the cat at the mouse-hole, and presently—I expect
it will be at night—he will come here, this hunter of mummies!”
Grimsby stared incredulously.
“I don’t doubt your word, Mr. Klaw,” he said; “but I don’t see how you
can possibly know that. Why should he go for the mummies here rather
than for those in one of the other museums or in private collections?”
“Why do you order a bottle of Bass,” rasped Klaw, “in a saloon, rather
than a bottle of water or a bottle of vinegar? It is because what you want is a
bottle of Bass. Am I a damn fool? There are others. I am not alone in my
foolishness!”
The group broke up: Grimsby, very puzzled, going off to make
arrangements to have the Egyptian Room watched night and day, and
Coram, Klaw, and I walking along in the direction of the Greek Room.
“I have no occasion to remind you, Mr. Klaw,” said Coram, “that the
Menzies Museum is a hard nut for any burglar to crack. We have a night
watchman, you will remember, who hourly patrols every apartment. For any
one to break into the Egyptian Room, force one of the cases and take out a
mummy, would be a task extremely difficult to perform undetected.”
“This mummy hunter,” replied Klaw, “can perform it with ease; but
because we shall all be waiting for him he cannot perform it undetected.”
“I shouldn’t think there is much likelihood of any attempt during the
day?” I said.
“There is no likelihood,” agreed Klaw; “but I like to see that Grimsby
busy! The man with the knife to decapitate mummies will come to-night.
Without fear he will come, for how is he to know that an old fool from
Wapping anticipates his arrival?”
We quitted the Museum together. The affair brought back to my mind the
gruesome business of the Greek Room murders, and for the second time in
my life I made arrangements to watch in the Menzies Museum at night.

On several occasions during the day I found myself thinking of this most
singular affair and wondering in what way the “Book of the Lamps,”
mentioned by Moris Klaw, could be associated with it. I was quite unable to
surmise, too, how Klaw had divined that the Menzies Museum would
become the scene of the next outrage.
We had arranged to dine with Coram in his apartments, which adjoined
the Museum buildings, and an oddly mixed party we were, comprising
Coram, his daughter, Moris Klaw, Isis Klaw, Grimsby, and myself.
A man had gone on duty in the Egyptian Room directly the doors were
closed to the public, and we had secretly arranged to watch the place from
nightfall onward. The construction of the room greatly facilitated our plan;
for there was a long glass skylight in the centre of its roof, and by having
the blinds drawn back we could look down into the room from a landing
window of a higher floor—a portion of the curator’s house.
Dinner over, Isis Klaw departed.
“You will not remain, Isis,” said her father. “It is so unnecessary. Good-
night, my child!”
Accordingly, the deferential and very admiring Grimsby descended with
Coram to see Isis off in a taxi. I marvelled to think of her returning to that
tumble-down, water-logged ruin in Wapping.
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” said Moris Klaw, when we four investigators had
gathered together again, “you will hide in the case with the mummies!”
“But I may find myself helpless! How do we know that any particular
case is going to be opened? Besides, I don’t know what to expect!”
“Blessed is he that expecteth little, my friend. It is quite possible that no
attempt will be made to-night. In that event you will have to be locked in
again to-morrow night!”
Grimsby accordingly set out. He held a key to the curator’s private door,
which opened upon the Greek Room, and also the key of a wall case. Moris
Klaw had especially warned him against making the slightest noise. In fact,
he had us all agog with curiosity and expectation. As he and Coram and I,
having opened, very carefully, the landing window, looked down through
the skylight into the Egyptian Room, Grimsby appeared beneath us. He was
carrying an electric pocket torch.
Opening the wall case nearest to the lower end of the room, he glanced
up rapidly, then stepped within, reclosing the glass door. As Klaw had

pointed out earlier in the evening, an ideal hiding place existed between the
side of the last sarcophagus and the angle of the wall.
“I hope he has refastened the catch,” said our eccentric companion; “but
not with noisiness.”
“Why do you fear his making a noise?” asked Coram, curiously.
“Outside, upon the landing,” replied Moris Klaw, “is a tall piece of a bas-
relief; it leans back against the wall. You know it?”
“Certainly.”
“To-night, you did not look behind it, in the triangular space so formed.”
“There’s no occasion. A man could not get in there.”
“He could not, you say? No? That exploits to me, Mr. Coram, that you
have no eye for capacity! But if you are wrong, what then?”
“Any one hiding there would have to remain in hiding until the morning.
He could not gain access to any of the rooms; all are locked, and he could
not go downstairs, because of the night attendant in the hallway.”
“No? Yes? You are two times wrong! First—someone is concealed
there!”
“Mr. Klaw!” began Coram, excitedly.
“Ssh!” Moris Klaw raised his hand. “No excitement. It is noisy and a tax
upon the nerves. Second—you are wrong, because presently that hidden
one will come into the Egyptian Room!”
“How? How in Heaven’s name is he going to get in?”
“We shall see.”
Utterly mystified, Coram and I stared at Moris Klaw, for we stood one on
either side of him; but he merely wagged his finger enjoining us to silence,
and silent perforce we became.
The view was a cramped one, and standing there looking out at the clear
summer night, I for one grew very weary of the business. But I was
sustained by the anticipation that the mystery of the headless mummies was
about to come to a climax. I felt very sorry for poor Grimsby, cramped in
the corner of the Egyptian Room, for I knew him to be even more
hopelessly in the dark respecting the purpose of these manœuvres than I
was myself. In vain I racked my brain in quest of the link which united the
ancient “Book of the Lamps” with the singular case which had brought us
there that night.
Coram began to fidget, and I knew intuitively that he was about to speak.
“Ssh!” whispered Moris Klaw.

A beam of light shone out beneath us, across the Egyptian Room!
I concluded that something had attracted the attention of Grimsby. I
leaned forward in tense expectancy, and Coram was keenly excited.
The beam of light moved; it shone upon the door of the very case in the
corner of which Grimsby was hiding, but upon the nearer end, fully upon
the face of a mummy.
A small figure was dimly discernible, now, the figure of the man who
carried the light. Cautiously he crossed the room. Evidently he held the key
of the wall case, for in an instant he had swung the door back and was
hauling the mummy on to the floor.
Then out upon the midnight visitor leapt Grimsby. The light was
extinguished—and Moris Klaw, drawing back from the window, seized
Coram by the arm, crying, “The key of the door! The key of the door!”
We were down and into the Egyptian Room in less than half a minute.
Coram switched on all the lights; and there with his back to the open door
of the wall case, handcuffed and wild-eyed, was—Mr. Mark Pettigrew!
Coram’s face was a study—for the famous archæologist whom we now
saw manacled before us was a trustee of the Menzies Museum!
“Mr. Pettigrew!” he said, hoarsely. “Mr. Pettigrew! there must be some
mistake——”
“There is no mistake, my good sir,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Look, he has
with him a sharp knife to cut off the head of the priest!”
It was true. An open knife lay upon the floor beside the fallen mummy!
Grimsby was breathing very heavily and looking in rather a startled way
at his captive, who seemed unable to realize what had happened. Coram
cleared his throat nervously. It was one of the strangest scenes in which I
had ever participated.
“Mr. Pettigrew,” he began, “it is incomprehensible to me——”
“I will make you to comprehend,” interrupted Moris Klaw. “You ask”—
he raised a long finger—“why should Mr. Pettigrew cut off the head of his
own mummy? I answer for the same reason that he cut off the head of the
one at Sotheby’s. You ask why did he cut off the head of the one at
Sotheby’s? I answer for the same reason that he cut off the head of the one
at my house, and for the same reason that he came to cut off the head of this
one! What is he looking for? He is looking for the ‘Book of the Lamps’!”
He paused, gazing around upon us. Probably, excepting the prisoner, I alone
amongst his listeners understood what he meant.

“I have related to Mr. Searles,” he continued, “some of the history of that
book. It contained the ritual of the ancient Egyptian ceremonial magic. It
was priceless; it gave its possessors a power above the power of kings! And
when the line of Pankhaur became extinct it vanished. Where did it go?
According to a very rare record—of which there are only two copies in
existence—one of them in my possession and one in Mr. Pettigrew’s!—it
was hidden in the skull of the mummy of a priest or priestess of the temple!”
Pettigrew was staring at him like a man fascinated.
“Mr. Pettigrew had only recently acquired that valuable manuscript work
in which the fact is recorded; and being an enthusiast, gentlemen”—he
spread wide his hands continentally “—all we poor collectors are
enthusiasts—he set to work upon the first available mummy of a priest of
that temple. It was his own. The skull did not contain the priceless papyrus!
But all these mummies are historic; there are only five in Europe.”
“Five?” blurted Pettigrew.
“Five,” replied Klaw; “you thought there were only four, eh? But as a
blind you called in the police and showed them how your mummy had been
mutilated. It was good. It was clever. No one suspected you of the outrages
after that—no one but the old fool who knew that you had secured the
second copy of that valuable work of guidance!
“So you did not hesitate to use the keys you had procured in your
capacity as trustee to gain access to this fourth mummy here.” He turned to
Grimsby and Coram. “Gentlemen,” he said, “there will be no prosecution.
The fever of research is a disease; never a crime.”
“I agree,” said Coram, “most certainly there must be no prosecution; no
scandal. Mr. Pettigrew, I am very, very sorry for this.”
Grimsby, with a rather wry face, removed the handcuffs. A singular
expression proclaimed itself upon Pettigrew’s shrivelled countenance.
“The thing I’m most sorry for,” he said, dryly, but with the true fever of
research burning in his eyes, “if you will excuse me saying it, Coram, for
I’m very deeply indebted to you—is that I can’t cut off the head of this
fourth mummy!”
Mr. Mark Pettigrew was a singularly purposeful and rudely truculent
man.
“It would be useless,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I found the fifth mummy in
Egypt two years ago! And behold”—he swept his hand picturesquely
through the air—“I beheaded him!”

“What!” screamed Pettigrew, and leapt upon Klaw with blazing eyes.
“Ah,” rumbled Klaw, massive and unruffled, “that is the question—
what? And I shall not tell you!”
From his pocket he took out the scent spray and squirted verbena into the
face of Mr. Pettigrew.

NINTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE HAUNTING OF GRANGE

I

A large lamp burned in the centre of the table; a red-shaded candle stood
close by each diner; and the soft light made a brave enough show upon the
snowy napery and spotless silver, but dispersed nothing of the gloom about
us. The table was a lighted oasis in the desert of the huge apartment. One
could barely pick out the suits of armour and trophies which hung from
distant panelled walls, and I started repeatedly when the butler appeared,
silent, at my elbow.
Of the party of five, four were men—three of them (for I venture to
include myself) neatly groomed and dressed with care in conventional
dinner fashion. The fourth was a heavy figure in a dress coat with broad
satin lapels such as I have seen, I think, in pictures of Victorian celebrities. I
have no doubt, judging from its shiny appearance, that it was the
workmanship of a Victorian tailor. The vest was cut high and also boasted
lapels; the trousers, though at present they were concealed beneath the
table, belonged to a different suit, possibly a mourning suit, and to a
different sartorial epoch.
The woman, young, dark, and exceedingly pretty, wore a gown of
shimmering amber, cut with Parisian daring. Her beautiful eyes were more
often lowered than raised, for Sir James Leyland, our host, was unable to
conceal his admiration; his face, tanned by his life in the Bush, was often
turned to her. Clement Leyland, the baronet’s cousin, bore a striking
resemblance to Sir James, but entirely lacked the latter’s breezy manner. I
set him down for a man who thought much and said little.
However, conversation could not well flag at a board boasting the
presence of such a genial colonial as Sir James and such a storehouse of
anecdotal oddities as Moris Klaw. Mr. Leyland and myself, then, for the

most part practised the difficult art of listening; for Isis Klaw, I learned,
could talk almost as entertainingly as her father.
“I am so glad,” said Moris Klaw, and his voice rumbled thunderously
about the room, “that I have this opportunity to visit Grange.”
“It certainly has great historic interest,” agreed Sir James. “I had never
anticipated inheriting the grand old place, much less the title. My uncle’s
early death, unmarried, very considerably altered my prospects; I became a
landed proprietor who might otherwise have become a ‘Murrumbidgee
whaler’!”
He laughed, light-heartedly, glancing at Isis Klaw, and from her to his
cousin.
“Clem had everything in apple-pie order for me,” he added, “including
the family goblin!”
“Ah! that family goblin!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “It is him I am after, that
goblin!”
The history of Grange, in fact, was directly responsible for Moris Klaw’s
presence that night. An odd little book, “Psychic Angles,” had recently
attracted considerable attention among students of the occult, and had
proved equally interesting to the general public. It dealt with the subject of
ghosts from quite a new standpoint, and incidentally revealed its
anonymous author as one conversant apparently with the history of every
haunted house in Europe. Few knew that the curio-dealer of Wapping was
the author, but as Grange was dealt with in “Psychic Angles,” amongst a
number of other haunted homes of England, a letter from Sir James
Leyland, forwarded by the publisher, had invited the author to investigate
the latest developments of the Leyland family ghost.
I had had the privilege to be associated with Moris Klaw in another case
of apparent haunting—that which I have dealt with in an earlier paper: the
haunting of The Grove. He had courteously invited me, then, to assist him
(his own expression) in the inquiry at Grange. I welcomed the opportunity,
for I was anxious to include in my annals at least one other case of the
apparent occult.
“We shall without delay,” continued the eccentric investigator,
“endeavour to meet him face to face—this disturber of the peace. Sir James,
it is with the phenomena you call ghosts the same as with valuable relics,
with jewels, with mummies—ah, those mummies!—with beautiful
women!”

“To liken a beautiful woman to a relic,” said Sir James, “would be—
well”—he glanced at Isis—“hardly complimentary!”
“It would be true!” Moris Klaw assured him, impressively. “Nature, that
mystic process of reproduction, wastes not its models. Sir James, all beauty
is duplicated. Look at my daughter, Isis.” Sir James readily obeyed. “You
see her, yes? And what do you see?”
Isis lowered her eyes, but, frankly, I was unable to perceive any evidence
of embarrassment in this singularly self-possessed girl.
“Perhaps,” resumed her father, “I could tell you what you see; but I will
only tell you what it is you may see. You may see a beauty of your Regency
or a favourite of your Charles; the daughter of a Viking, an ancient British
princess; the slave of a Cæsar, the dancer of a Pharaoh!”
“You believe in reincarnation?” suggested Clement Leyland, quietly.
“Yes, certainly, why not, of course!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “But I do not
speak of it now, not I; I speak of Nature’s reproduction; I tell you how
Nature wastes nothing which is beautiful. What has the soul to do with the
body? I tell you how the reproduction goes on and on until the mould, the
plate, the die, has perished! So is it with ghosts. You write me that your
goblin has learned some new tricks. I answer, your goblin can never learn
new tricks; I answer, this is not he, it is another goblin! Nature is
conservative with her goblins as with her beautiful women; she does not
disfigure the old model with alterations. What! Chop them about? Never!
she makes new ones.”
Clement Leyland smiled discreetly, but Sir James was evidently
interested.
“Of course I’ve read ‘Psychic Angles,’ Mr. Klaw,” he said;
“consequently, your novel theories do not altogether surprise me. I gather
your meaning to be this: a haunted house is haunted in exactly the same
way generation after generation? Any new development points to the
presence of a new force or intelligence?”
“It is exactly quite so,” Moris Klaw nodded, sympathetically. “You have
the receptive mind, Sir James; you should take up ghosts; they would like
you. There is a scientific future for the sympathetic ghost-hunter, for—I will
whisper it—these poor ghosts are sometimes so glad to be hunted! It is a
lonely life, that of a ghost!”
“The Grange ghost,” Sir James assured him, “is a most gregarious
animal. He doesn’t go in for lonely groanings in the chapel or anything of

that kind; he drops into the billiard room frequently, he’s often to be met
with right here in the dining room, and of late he’s been sleeping with me
regularly!”
“So I hear,” rumbled Moris Klaw; “so I hear. It is quaint, yes; proceed,
my friend.”
Isis Klaw sat with her big eyes fixed upon Sir James, as he continued:
“The traditional ghost of Grange was a gray monk who, on certain nights
—I forget the exact dates—came out from the chapel beyond the orchard
carrying a long staff, walked up to a buttress of the west wall, and
disappeared at the point where formerly there was a private entrance. In
fact, there used to be a secret stair opening at that point and communicating
with a room built by a remote Leyland of the eighth Henry’s time—a
notorious roué. The last Leyland to use the room was Sir Francis, an
intimate of Charles II. The next heir had the wing rebuilt, and the ancient
door walled up.”
“Yes, yes,” said Moris Klaw. “I know it all, but you tell it well. This is a
most interesting house, this Grange. I have recorded him, the gray monk,
and I learn with surprise how another spook comes poaching on his
preserves! Tell us now of these new developments, Sir James.”
Sir James cleared his throat and glanced about the table.
“Please smoke,” said Isis; “because I should like to smoke, too!”
“Yes, yes!” agreed Moris Klaw. “Remain, my child, we will all remain;
do not let us move an inch. This banqueting hall is loaded with psychic
impressions. Let us smoke and concentrate our minds upon the problem.”
Coffee and liqueurs were placed upon the table and cigarettes lighted. In
deference to the presence of Isis, I suppose, no cigars were smoked; but the
girl lighted an Egyptian cigarette proffered by Sir James with the
insouciance of an old devotee of my Lady Nicotine. The butler having made
his final departure, we were left—a lonely company in our lighted oasis—
amid the shadow desert of that huge and ghostly apartment.
“All sorts of singular things have happened,” began Sir James, “since my
return from Australia. Of course, I cannot say if these are recent
developments, because my uncle, for seven or eight years before his death,
resided entirely in London, and Grange was in charge of the housekeeper. It
is notorious, is it not, that housekeepers and such worthy ladies never by
any chance detect anything unseemly in family establishments with which
they are associated? Anyway, when I was dug up out of the Bush, and all

the formalities were through, good old Clement here set about putting
things to rights for me, and I arrived to find Grange a perfect picture from
floor to roof. New servants engaged, too, though the housekeeper and the
butler, who have been in the family for years, remained, of course, with
some other old servants. As I have said, everything was in apple-pie order.”
“Including the ghost!” interpolated his cousin, laughing.
“That’s the trouble,” said Sir James, banging his fist upon the table; “the
very first night I dined in this room there was a most uncanny
manifestation. Clement and I were sitting here at this very table; we had
dined—not unwisely, don’t think that—and were just smoking and chatting,
when——”
He ceased abruptly; in fact, the effect was similar to that which would
have resulted had a solid door suddenly been closed upon the speaker. But
the stark silence which ensued was instantly interrupted. My blood seemed
to freeze in my veins; a horrid, supernatural dread held me fast in my chair.
For, echoing hollowly around and about the huge, ancient apartment, rolled,
booming, a peal of demoniacal laughter! From whence it proceeded I was
wholly unable to imagine. It seemed to be all about, above us, and beneath
us. It was mad, devilish, a hell-sound impossible to describe. It rose, it fell,
it rose again—and ceased abruptly.
“My God!” I whispered. “What was it?”

II

In the silence that followed the ghostly disturbance we sat around the
table listening. Sir James was the first to speak.
“A demonstration, Mr. Klaw!” he said. “This sort of thing happens every
night!”
“Ah!” rumbled Moris Klaw, “every night, eh? That laughing? You have
investigated—yes—no?”
“I tried to investigate,” explained the baronet, “but quite frankly I didn’t
know where to begin.”
We were all recovering our composure somewhat, I think.
“You hear that laughter nowhere but in this room?” asked Klaw.
“I have always heard it when we have been seated at this table,” was the
reply; “at no other time, but it can be heard clearly beyond the room. The

servants have heard it. Excepting the housekeeper and the butler, they are
leaving almost immediately.”
“Ah! canaille!” grunted Moris Klaw; “fear-pigs! It is always so, these
servants. So you have not located the one that laughs, no?”
“No,” answered Sir James; “and he doesn’t stop at laughing—does he,
Clem?”
Clement Leyland shook his head. He looked even paler than usual, I
thought, and the uncanny incident seemed to have disturbed him greatly.
“What else?” rumbled Moris Klaw. “The gray monk is forgetting his
manners. He becomes rude, eh—that gray monk?”
“The house has practically become uninhabitable,” said the baronet,
bitterly. “None of the usual phenomena are missing. We have slamming
doors, phantom footsteps, and, if the servants are to be believed, half the
forces of hell loose here at night!”
“But your own experiences?” interrupted Klaw.
“My own experiences in brief amount to this: I rarely sit at this table at
night without hearing that beastly laughter, at least once. I never go into the
billiard room, which opens out under the gallery yonder, without feeling a
cold wind blowing upon my face or head, even in perfectly still weather, or
with all the windows closed. To the left of the billiard room, and opening
out of it, is a third centre of these disturbances. It’s the gun room, and guns
have been fired there in the night, with the door locked, on no fewer than
five occasions!”
Moris Klaw, from a tail pocket of his coat, produced a cylindrical scent
spray and squirted verbena upon his high yellow forehead.
“It grows exciting, this,” he said. “I require the cool brain.”
“Finally,” added Sir James, “the only other point worth mentioning is the
ghostly voice which regularly wakes me from my sleep at night.”
“A voice,” rumbled Klaw; “what voice, and what does it say, that voice?”
“I won’t repeat what it says!” replied the baronet, glancing at Isis; “but it
offers obscene suggestions or that is the impression I have of it—a low,
filthy mumbling; if you can follow me, the voice of something dead and
infinitely evil.”
Moris Klaw stood up.
“This intelligence,” he rumbled, “a living or a dead one, has thoughts
then, and thoughts, Sir James, are things. I shall sleep in one of the centres
of its activity to-night, perhaps here, perhaps in the billiard room or the gun

room. Isis, my child, bring for me my odically sterilized pillows. This is a
charming case and worthy of the subtle method.”
He placed his hands upon the shoulders of Sir James Leyland, who stood
facing him.
“Evil thoughts live, Sir James,” he said. “I cannot explain to you how
hard it is to slay them. Few good thoughts survive; but such an ancient
abode as this”—he waved his long hands characteristically about him—“is
peopled with thought-forms surviving from the dark ages. I have opened the
inner eye, my friend. Mercifully, perhaps, the inner eye is closed in most of
us; in some it is blind. But I have opened that eye and trained it. As I
sleep”—he lowered his voice oddly—“those thought things come to me. It
is an uncomfortable gift, yes; for here in Grange I shall find myself to-night
in evil company. Murders long forgotten will be accomplished again before
that inner eye of mine! I shall swim in blood! Assassins will come stealing
to me, murdered ones will scream in my ears, the secret knife will flash, the
honest ax do its deadly work; for in the moment of such deeds two
imperishable thought-forms are created: the thought-form of the slayer,
strong to survive, because a blood-lustful thought, a revengeful thought;
and the thought of the slain, likewise a long-surviving thought because a
thought of wildest despair, a final massing of the mental forces greater than
any generally possible in life, upon that last awful grievance.”
He paused, looking around him.
“From the phantom company,” he said, “I must pick out that one whose
thought is of laughter, of firing guns, and of evil whisperings. What a task!
Wondrous is the science of the mental negative!”
The meeting broke up, then, and Isis Klaw, having brought from a large
case, which formed part of her father’s luggage, two huge red cushions,
bade us good-night and retired to her own room. Moris Klaw, with a
cushion swinging in each hand, went shuffling ungainly from room to room
like some strange animal seeking a lair.
“Do I understand,” Clement Leyland whispered to me, “that your friend
proposes to sleep down here?”
“Yes,” I replied, smiling at his evident wonderment; “such is his method
of investigation, eccentric, but effective.”
“It is really effective, then? The experiences given in ‘Psychic Angles’
are not fabulous?”

“In no way. Moris Klaw is a very remarkable man. I have yet to meet the
mystery which is beyond him.”
Moris Klaw’s rumbling voice, which frequently reminded me of the
rolling of casks in a distant cellar, broke in upon our conversation:
“Here is the ideal spot; here upon this settee by the door of the gun room
I am in the centre of these psychic storms which nightly arise in Grange.”
“If you are determined to remain here, Mr. Klaw,” said Sir James, “I shall
not endeavour to dissuade you, of course; but I should prefer to see you turn
into more comfortable quarters.”
“No, no,” was the reply; “it is here I shall lay down my old head, it is
here I shall lie and wait for him, the one who laughs.”
Accordingly, since the hour grew late, we left this novel ghost-hunter
stretched out upon the settee in the billiard room; and as I knew his
objection to any disturbance, I suggested to Sir James that we should retire
out of earshot for a final smoke ere seeking our separate apartments.
We sat chatting for close upon an hour, I suppose. Then Clement Leyland
left us, saying that he had had a heavy day.
“Clement’s been working real hard,” the baronet confided to me. “In the
circumstances, as I think I told you, I have decided to abandon Grange, and
we are having the old Friars House, a mile from here, but on part of the
estate, restored. It hasn’t been inhabited for about three generations, and it’s
very much older than Grange; part of it dates back to King John. Perhaps I
can get servants to stop there, though, and it’s quite impossible to keep up
Grange without a staff. Clement has been superintending the work over
there all day; he’s one of the best.”
A few moments later we parted for the night. I left Sir James at the door
of his room, which had formerly opened off the balcony overlooking the
banqueting hall. That door was now walled up, however, and the entrance
was from the corridor beyond. The room allotted to me was upon the
opposite side of the same corridor and farther to the north.
I felt particularly unlike sleep. The extremely modern furniture of my
room could not rob the walls, with their small square panelling, of the air of
hoary antiquity which was theirs. The one window, deep set and
overlooking an extensive orchard, was such as might have formed the focus
for cavalierly glance, was such as might have framed the head of a romantic
maid of Stuart days. And with it all was that gloomy air that had a more
remote antiquity, that harked back to darker times than those of the Merry

Monarch: the air of ghostly evil, the cloud from which proceeded the
devilish laughter, the obscene whisperings.
Where the shadows of the trees lay beneath me on the turf, I could fancy
a gray cowled figure flitting across the lighted patches and lurking, evilly
watching, amid the pools of darkness. Sleep was impossible. Moris Klaw, to
whom such fears as mine were utterly unknown, might repose, nay, was
actually reposing, in the very vortex of this psychical storm; but I was
otherwise constituted. I had been with him in many cases of dark enough
evil-doing, but this purely ghostly menace was something that sapped my
courage.
Grange stood upon rather high ground, and in a northeasterly direction,
peeping out from the trees of a wooded slope, showed a gray tower almost
like a giant monkish figure under the moon. I watched it with a vague
interest. It was Friars House, to which the baronet projected retreat from the
haunted Grange. Lighting my pipe, I leaned from the window, idly
watching that ancient tower and wondering if more evil deeds had taken
place within it—long as it had stood there amid the trees—than those which
had left their ghostly mark upon Grange.
The night was very beautiful and very still. Not the slightest sound could
I detect within or without the house. How long I had lounged there in this
half-dreamy, but vaguely fearful, mood I cannot say, but I was aroused by a
tremendous outcry. Loud it broke in upon the silence of the night, broke in
on my mood with nerve-racking effect. My pipe dropped to the floor, and
taking one step across the room I stood there, rooted to the spot with
indefinable horror.
“Father!” it came in a piercing scream, and again: “Father! O God! save
him! save him!”

III

The voice was that of Isis Klaw!
Whenever I accompanied her father upon any of his inquiries I came
armed, and now, with a magazine pistol held in my hand, I leapt out into the
corridor and turned toward the stair. A door slammed open in front of me
and Sir James Leyland also came running out, pulling on his dressing gown
as he ran. One quick glance he gave me; his face was very pale; and

together we went racing down the stairs into the hall patched with ghostly
moonlight.
“You heard it?” he breathed, hoarsely. “It was Miss Klaw! What in God’s
name has happened? Where is she?”
But even as he asked the question, and as we pressed on into the billiard
room, it was answered. For Isis Klaw, with a dressing gown thrown over
her night apparel, was kneeling beside the settee upon which her father lay.
“What has happened? What has happened?” groaned Sir James. Then, as
we approached together: “Mr. Klaw! Mr. Klaw!” he cried.
“All right, my friend!” came the rumbling voice, and to my inestimable
relief Moris Klaw sat up and looked around upon us, adjusting his pince-
nez to the bridge of his massive nose: “I live! It has saved me, the Science
of the Mind!”
Isis Klaw bowed her head upon the red cushion, and I saw that she was
trembling violently. It was the first time I had known her to lose her regal
composure, and, utterly mystified, I wondered what awful danger had
threatened Moris Klaw.
“Thank Heaven for that!” said the baronet, earnestly.
Approaching footsteps sounded now, and a group of frightened servants,
headed by the butler, appeared at the door of the billiard room. Through
them came pressing Mr. Clement Leyland. His face was ghastly, showing a
startling white against the dull red of the dressing gown he wore.
“James!” he said, huskily. “James! that awful screaming! What was it?
What has occurred?”
I knew that he slept in the west wing and that he must have been unable
to distinguish the words which Isis had cried. Thus heard, the shrill scream
must have sounded even more terrifying.
Moris Klaw raised his hand protestingly.
“No fuss, dear friends,” he implored, in rumbling accents, “no
wonderings and botherings. They so disturb the nerves. Let us be calm, let
us be peaceful.” He laid his hand upon the head of the girl who knelt beside
him. “Isis, my child, what a delicate instrument is the psychic perception!
You knew it, the danger to your poor old father, to the poor old fool who
lies here waiting to be slaughtered! Almost you knew it before I knew it
myself!”
“For God’s sake, Mr. Klaw,” said Clement Leyland, shakily, “what has
happened? Who, or what, came to you here? What occasioned Miss Klaw’s

terror?”
“My friend,” replied Klaw, “you ask me conundrum-riddles. Some
dreadful thing haunts this Grange, some deadly thing. The man has not
lived who has not tasted fear, and I, the old foolish, have lived indeed to-
night! I fail, my friend. There is some evil intelligence ruling this Grange,
which I cannot capture upon my negative”—he tapped his brow
characteristically—“to attempt it would be to die. It is too powerful for me.
Grange is unclean, Sir James. You will leave Grange without delay; it is I,
the old experienced who knows, that warns you. Fly from Grange. Take up
your residence to-morrow at Friars House!”
No further explanation would he vouchsafe.
“I am defeated, my friends!” he declared, shrugging, resignedly.
Accordingly, Isis, her beautiful face deathly pale and her great eyes
feverishly bright, returned to her room. She covered her face with her hands
as she passed to the door. Moris Klaw accepted the use of an apartment next
to mine, and we all sought our couches again in states of varying
perturbation.
That there was some profound mystery underlying these happenings of
the night was evident to me. Moris Klaw and Isis Klaw were keeping
something back. They shared some dark secret and guarded it jealously; but
with what motive they acted in this fashion was a problem that defied my
efforts at solution.
The morning came and brought a haggard company to the breakfast
table. Few, if any, beneath the roof of Grange, had known sleep that night,
although, so far as I could gather, there had been no manifestations of any
kind.
Moris Klaw talked incessantly about the fauna of the Sahara Desert, and
so monopolized the conversation with his queer anecdotes of snakes and
scorpions that no other topic found entrance.
After breakfast the whole party, in Sir James’s car, drove over to Friars
House; and despite the up-to-date furniture and upholstery, I found it a very
gloomy residence. Stripped of its ghostly atmosphere, Grange had been
quite a charming seat for any man; but this dungeonesque place, with its
lichened tower that had dominated the valley when John signed Magna
Charta, with its massive walls and arrow-slit windows, its eccentrically
designed apartments and crypt-like smell, was altogether too archaic to be
comfortable.

Moris Klaw, standing in the room which had been fitted up as a library,
removed his flat-topped brown bowler and fumbled for his scent spray.
“This place,” he said, “smells abominably of dead abbots!”
He squirted verbena upon himself and upon Isis. He replaced the scent
spray in the lining of the hat, and was about to replace the hat on his head,
when he paused, staring straight up at the ceiling reflectively.
“My notes!” he said, abruptly; “I have left those notes in my valise. I
must have them. Curse me, for an old foolish! Sir James, you will show Isis
this charming old tower in my absence? Do I intrude? But I would borrow
the car and return to Grange for my notes!”
“Not a bit!” replied the baronet, readily. “Clement can go with you!”
“No, no! Certainly no! I could not think of it! My old friend, Mr. Searles,
may come if he so likes; if not, I go alone.”
Naturally, I agreed to accompany him; and, leaving the others at the
ancient gateway, we set off in Sir James’s car back to Grange. Down into
the valley we swept and up the slope to Grange, Moris Klaw sitting
muttering in his beard, but offering no remark and patently desirous to
avoid conversation.
“Come, my friend,” he said, as the car drew up before the house, “and I
will show you what my mental negative recorded to me last night, just
before the great danger came.”
He led the way into the billiard room, curtly directing the butler to leave
us. When we were alone—
“You will note something,” he rumbled, swinging his arm vaguely
around in the direction of the banqueting hall. “What you will note is this:
the laughter—where is it heard? It is heard here, in the gun room on my
right, in the banquet room before me. Great is the Science of the Mind! I
will now test my negative.”
I followed him with wondering gaze as he stepped into the deep old-
fashioned fireplace which formed one of the quaintest features of the room.
He bent his tall figure to avoid striking his head upon the stonework, and
placed the historic brown bowler upon one of the settles.
“Perhaps I cannot find it,” came his rumbling voice; “my negative was
fogged by assassinations, murderous sieges, candle-light duels, and other
thought-forms of the troubled past; but I may triumph—I may triumph!”
He was standing on a settle with his head far up the chimney, and
presently a faint grating sound proceeded from that sooty darkness.

“I have it!” he rumbled, triumphantly. “And in my pocket reposes the
electric lamp. I ascend; you, my good friend, will follow.”
True enough he scrambled upward and, to my unspeakable amazement,
disappeared in the chimney. Filled with great wonder I followed and saw
him standing in a recess high above my head, a recess which he must have
opened in some way unknown to me. He extended a long arm and grasped
my hand in his.
“Up!” he cried, exerted his surprising strength, and jerked me up beside
him with as little effort as though I had been a child.
He pressed the button of a torch which he held and I saw that we stood
upon an exceedingly steep and narrow wooden stair.
“It is in the thickness of the wall between the panellings,” he whispered,
solemnly; “a Jacobite hiding place. Sir James knows nothing of it, for has
he not spent his life in the Bush?”
He mounted the stair.
“On the right,” his voice came back to me, “the gun room, the billiard
room! On the left, the banquet room. From here comes the laughter—from
here comes the danger.”
Still he ascended and I followed. The narrow stair terminated in a dusty
box-like apartment no more than six feet high by six feet square. Moris
Klaw, ducking his head grotesquely, stood there shining the light about him.
From the floor he took up a square wooden case and waved to me to
descend again.
“No exit,” he said; “no exit. Sir James’s bedroom is upon the farther side,
but, as I had anticipated, there is no exit.”
We returned the way we had come; clearly there was no other. Beneath
his caped coat Moris Klaw jealously concealed the case which he had
discovered in the secret chamber. I was filled with intense curiosity; but
Moris Klaw, having gone to his room, asking me to await him outside in the
drive, returned, ultimately, without the case, but carrying a huge notebook,
and intimated that he was prepared to reënter the waiting car.
Behind the pebbles of his pince-nez his strange eyes gleamed
triumphantly.

“We triumph,” he said. “The haunting of Grange succumbs to the Science
of the Mind!”

IV

We all had lunch at Friars House, but were by no means a jovial party. Sir
James seemed worried and preoccupied, and Clement Leyland even more
reticent than usual. Moris Klaw talked, certainly, but his conversation
turned entirely upon the subject of the Borgias, concerning which notorious
family he was possessed of a stock of most unsavoury anecdote. So realistic
were his gruesome stories, delivered in that rumbling whisper, wholly
impossible to describe or imitate, that every mouthful of food which I
swallowed threatened to choke me.
Afterward we wandered idly about the beautiful old grounds, which bore
ineffaceable marks of monkish cultivation. Sir James, who was walking
ahead with Moris Klaw and Isis, suddenly turned and waited for me. I had
been examining a sundial with much interest, but I now walked on and
joined our host.
“Mr. Searles,” he said, “may I press you to remain here over the week-
end?”
“That’s very good of you,” I replied. “I think I could manage it, and I
should enjoy the stay immensely.”
I concluded that Moris Klaw also was remaining, and consequently was
surprised when a short time later he drew me aside into a rose-covered
arbour and announced that he was leaving by the four-o’clock train.
“But I shall be back in the morning, Mr. Searles,” he assured me,
wagging his finger mysteriously; “I shall be back in the morning!”
“And Miss Klaw?”
“She, too, goes by the four-o’clock train and will not be returning—for
the present.”
“I understand that Sir James is taking up his residence here at Friars
House from now onward?”
“It is so, my friend; he deserts Grange. The servants come over here to-
day. Is he not well advised? Mr. Clement has all along recommended that
this shall be his residence. He was against it, the idea of inhabiting Grange,

from the first. He is wise, that Mr. Clement. He has lived in these parts so
long. He knows that Grange is haunted, is uninhabitable.”
Later, then, Moris Klaw and Isis took their departure; and just as the car
was about to drive off my eccentric friend removed his brown bowler and
sprayed his bald brow with verbena. He bent to me:
“Day and night,” he whispered, huskily, “do not lose sight of him, Sir
James! Above all, allow him not to explore!”
With that the car drove off, and I stood looking after it, wondering,
utterly mystified. On the steps behind me stood Clement Leyland and his
cousin. The latter’s gaze followed the course of the car along the
picturesque winding road until it became lost from view. I thought I heard
him sigh.
Ensued an uneventful day and night. Life was pleasant enough at Friars
House, if a trifle dull; and Sir James seemed unsettled, whilst his
disquietude was reflected in his cousin. The latter, now that his active
labours in preparing this new residence for the baronet were checked,
seemed a man at a loss what to do with himself. His was one of those
quietly ardent temperaments, I divined, and idleness palled upon him.
Apparently he had no profession, and although I presumed that he had some
residence of his own in the neighbourhood, he, apparently, was prepared
indefinitely to prolong his stay at Friars House. I think his companionship
was welcome to Sir James, for the latter was yet strange to the new duties
of a landed gentleman.
The next morning brought Moris Klaw, and I learned with ever-growing
surprise that he had made arrangements to spend the following week
beneath the hospitable roof of Friars House.
I have nothing to record of interest up to the time I left; but often during
the ensuing six days the problem of the haunting of Grange, and the
mystery of Moris Klaw’s protracted visit to Friars House came between me
and my work. Then on the Saturday morning arrived a telegram:

“Can you join us for week-end—car will meet 2:30. Wire reply.
Best wishes.—Leyland.”

I determined to accept the invitation; for respecting the nature of Moris
Klaw’s business at Friars House—and that he had some other motive than
ordinary in sojourning there I was persuaded—my curiosity knew no

bounds. Accordingly, I packed my grip, and at about five o’clock on a
delightful afternoon found myself taking tea in a cloister-like apartment of
the former Friary.
“Grange,” said Sir James, in answer to a question of mine, “is shut up.”
“It is shut, yes,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “What a pity! What a pity!”
In the course of the day occurred incidents which I have since perceived
to have been significant. I will pass over them, however, and hasten to what
I may term the catastrophe of this very singular case.
Four of us sat down to dinner in an apartment which clearly had been the
ancient refectory of the monks. Clement Leyland, who had arrived barely in
time to dress, looked haggard and worried. I determined that he had some
private troubles of his own, and beneath his quiet geniality I thought I could
detect a sort of brooding gloom. His pale, clean-shaven face, so like yet so
unlike that of his cousin, was a mask that ill repaid study; yet I knew that
the real Clement Leyland was a stranger to me, perhaps to all of us.
I was most anxious to learn if Moris Klaw had divulged the secret of the
hidden chamber at Grange to Sir James; and I was unspeakably curious
concerning the box of which I had had but a glimpse—the box that he had
found there. But he baffled my curiosity at every point.
Have you experienced that sense of impending calamity which
sometimes heralds tragic things? It was with me that night, throughout
dinner; and afterward, when we entered the library and sat over our cigars,
it grew portentously. I felt that I stood upon the brink of a precipice. And
literally I was not in great error. Moris Klaw, to the evident discomfort of
Sir James, brought the conversation around to the subject of the haunting. I
observed him to glance at his watch, with a rather odd expression upon his
vellum-hued face.
“Is it not singular,” he said, “how poor spectres are confined, like linnets,
to their cages? They seem, these spooks, never to roam. That laughing
demon of Grange—look at him. He remains in that empty, desolate house;
he——”
There was a dreadful interruption.
Commencing with a sort of guttural rattle, out upon the cloisteresque
stillness burst a peal of wicked laughter.
It rang throughout the room; it poured fear into my every fibre. It died
away—and was gone.

Sir James, clutching the leather-covered chair-arms, looked like a man of
stone. I was frankly terrorized. Moris Klaw stood behind me, by a
bookcase, him I could not see. But Clement Leyland’s face I can never
forget. It was positively deathlike. His eyes seemed starting from their
sockets, and his teeth chattered horribly.
“God in Heaven!” he whispered, brokenly. “What is it? O God! What is
it! Take it away—take it away!”
Then Moris Klaw spoke, slowly:
“It is for you to take it away, Mr. Leyland!”
Clement Leyland rose from his seat; he swayed like a drunken man, and
there was madness in the glaring eyes that he turned in Klaw’s direction.
“You—you——” he gasped.
“I—I——” rumbled Moris Klaw, sternly, and took a step forward; “I
have entered the Jacobite hiding place at Grange, and there I found a box!
Ah! you glare! glare on, my friend! I returned that box to where I found it;
but first I examined its contents! What! that demon laughter frightens you!
Then descend, Mr. Leyland, descend and bring him out—the one who
laughs!”
Rigidly, Sir James sat in his chair; I, too, seemed to be palsied. But at
sight of the next happening we both stood up. Moris Klaw stamped heavily
upon the oaken floor in a deep recess; then applied his weight to a section
of the seemingly solid stone wall.
It turned, as on a pivot, revealing a dark cavity.
He stood there, a bizarre figure, pointing down into the blackness.
“Descend, my friend!” he cried. “The one who laughs is upon the seventh
step!”
“The seventh step!”
In a whisper the words came from Clement Leyland. A draft of damp,
cavernous air blew into the library out of the opening.
“Descend, my friend!”
Remorselessly, Moris Klaw repeated the words. In the centre of the
room, Clement Leyland, a pitiable sight, stood staring—and hesitating.
Suddenly his cousin spoke.
“Don’t go, Clement!” he whispered.
The other turned to him, dazedly.
“Don’t go—down that place. But—O God! I understand at last, or
partly.… Quit! I give you half an hour!”

Sir James sank back into his chair and buried his face in his hands; Moris
Klaw never moved from where he stood by the cavity. But Clement
Leyland, with bowed head, walked from the room.
In the silence that followed his going—
“Await me, gentlemen,” rumbled Klaw; “I descend for the laughter!”
He stepped into the opening.
“One,” he counted, “two—three—four—five—” his voice came up to us
from the depths—“six!”
We heard him ascending. Walking into the library he placed upon the
table beside Sir James a very large and up-to-date gramophone!
“The laughter!” he explained, simply. “That night, my friends, when first
I slept at Grange, I secured, among a host of other dreadful negatives, the
negative of one who lurked in a secret hiding place. I saw him come
creeping from the chimney corner, bearing a great mace which I recognized
for one that had hung in the hall! Almost, the Science of the Mind betrayed
me; for I mistook him for a thought-form! But the mind of Isis is en rapport
with the mind of her poor old father. In her dreams she saw my peril, and
she it was who, screaming, saved me!—saved me from the murderer with
the mace!”
Sir James made no sign. Moris Klaw continued:
“I gathered, then, that the one who sometimes lurked in the Jacobite
hiding place and who, somehow, made the demon laughter, and the other
phenomena, sought one end. It was to cause you to leave Grange and to live
in Friars House! Beyond so far, my science could not show me. I assisted,
therefore, the project of the lurker; and came myself, too, in order to watch,
my friend, to guard and to spy!
“His gramophone I found, examined, and replaced. It had a clockwork
attachment, very ingenious, which both started and stopped it; there was
little or no scraping. To-night, from his room, unknown to him, I removed
the instrument from its case, which lay hidden at the bottom of his trunk.
Yes! I stole his key! I am the old fox! Why did he bring it here? I cannot
reply. Perhaps he meant again to use it; his future projects are dark to me,
but their object is all too light.”
Sir James groaned.
“Old Clem!” he whispered, “and how I trusted him!”
“He did not quite believe in my science,” resumed Moris Klaw, “but he
did not know that, hidden, I slept almost beside him as he sat, planning, in

this very room! From his own bad mind I secured my second negative; and
it showed me the death trap of some bad old son of Mother Church! At
Grange there was but the Jacobite hiding place, but here was the devilry of
feudal times! I returned to London. Why? To learn if my suspicions were
well founded. Yes! You may or may not be aware; but if you die childless,
the wicked Clement inherits Grange!”
“I knew that,” whispered Sir James.
“Ah! you knew? So. I returned to here, for, even at that time, I suspected
that your accidental death was the object of removal! Then I secured it, my
second negative. Biding my time, I explored that death-smelling place. Its
wicked machinery had been freshly oiled! Ah! he knew its secrets well, the
old house that he hoped to inherit!
“One night, all innocent, as you sat here, with other guests, he would
have blundered upon that doorway! And you, the host, would have led the
search party! But I saw that he feared to move whilst I remained, and so I
played the ghost upon him with his own spook!”
Sir James Leyland looked up. His bronzed face was transformed with
emotion.
“Mr. Klaw,” he said, huskily, “why did you lay so much emphasis upon
the words, ‘the seventh step’?”
Moris Klaw shrugged, replying simply:
“Because there is no seventh step—only the mouth of a well!”

TENTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE VEIL OF ISIS

I

I have made no attempt, in these chronicles, to arrange the cases of my
remarkable friend, Moris Klaw, in sections. Yet, as has recently been
pointed out to me, they seem naturally to fall into two orders. There were
those in which he appeared in the rôle of criminal investigator, and in which
he was usually associated with Inspector Grimsby. There was another class
of inquiry in which the criminal element was lacking: mysteries which
never came under the notice of New Scotland Yard.
Since Moris Klaw’s methods were, if not supernatural, at any rate
supernormal, I have been asked if he ever, to my knowledge, inquired into a
case which proved insusceptible of a natural explanation—which fell
strictly within the province of the occult.
To that I answer that I am aware of several; but I have refrained from
including them because readers of these papers would be unlikely to
appreciate the nature of Klaw’s investigations outside the sphere of ordinary
natural laws. Those who are curious upon the point cannot do better than
consult the remarkable work by Moris Klaw entitled, “Psychic Angles.”
But there was one case with which I found myself concerned that I am
disposed to include, for it fell between the provinces of the natural and
supernatural in such a way that it might, with equal legitimacy, be included
under either head. On the whole, I am disposed to bracket it with the case of
the headless mummies.
I will take leave to introduce you, then, to the company which met at
Otter Brearley’s house one night in August.
“This is most truly amazing,” Moris Klaw was saying; “and I am
indebted to my good friend Searles”—he inclined his sparsely covered head
in my direction—“for the opportunity to be one of you. It is a séance? Yes

and no. But there is a mummy in it—and those mummies are so
instructive!”
He extracted the scent spray from his pocket and refreshed his yellow
brow with verbena.
“How to be regretted that my daughter is in Paris,” he continued, his
rumbling voice echoing queerly about the room. “She loves them like a
mother—those mummies! Ah, Mr. Brearley, this will cement your great
reputation!”
Otter Brearley shook his head.
“I am not yet prepared to make it public property,” he declared, slowly.
“No one, outside the present circle, knows of my discovery. I do not wish it
to go farther—at present.”
He glanced around the table, his prominent blue eyes passing from
myself to Moris Klaw and from Klaw to the clean-cut dark face of Doctor
Fairbank. The latter, scarce heeding his host’s last words, sat watching how
the shaded light played, tenderly, amid the soft billows of Ailsa Brearley’s
wonderful hair.
“Shall you make it the subject of a paper?” he asked suddenly.
“My dear Doctor Fairbank!” rumbled Moris Klaw, solemnly, “if you had
been paying attention to our good friend you would have heard him say that
he was not prepared, at present, to make public his wonderful discovery.”
“Sorry!” said Fairbank, turning to Brearley. “But if it is not to be made
public I don’t altogether follow the idea. What do you intend, Brearley?”
“I intend to experiment,” answered Brearley.
“In what way?” I asked.
“In every way possible!”
Doctor Fairbank sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful.
“Rather a comprehensive scheme?”
Brearley toyed with the bundle of notes under his hand.
“I have already,” he said, “exhaustively examined seven of the
possibilities; the eighth, and—I believe, the last—remains to be
considered.”
“Listen now to me, Mr. Brearley,” said Moris Klaw, wagging a long
finger. “I am here, the old curious, and find myself in delightful company.
But until this evening I know nothing of your work except that I have read
all your books. For me you will be so good as to outline all the points—
yes?”

Otter Brearley mutely sought permission of the company, and turned the
leaves of his manuscript. All men have an innate love of “talking shop,” but
few can make such talk of general interest. Brearley was an exception in
this respect. He loved to talk of Egypt, of the Pharaohs, of the temples, of
the priesthood and its mysteries; but others loved to hear him. That made all
the difference.
“The discovery,” he now began, “upon which I have blundered—for pure
accident, alone, led me to it—assumes its great importance by reason of the
absolute mystery surrounding certain phases of Egyptian worship. In the old
days, Fairbank, you will recall that it was my supreme ambition to learn the
secrets of Isis-worship as practised in early Egyptian times. Save for
impostors, and legitimate imaginative writers, no one has yet lifted the veil
of Isis. That mystical ceremony by which a priest was consecrated to the
goddess, or made an arch adept, was thought to be hopelessly lost, or, by
others, to be a myth devised by the priesthood to awe the ignorant masses.
In fact, we know little of the entire religion but its outward form. Of that
occult lore so widely attributed to its votaries we know nothing—absolutely
nothing! By we, I mean students in general. I, individually, have made a
step, if not a stride, into that holy of holies!”
“Mind you don’t lose yourself!” said Fairbank, lightly.
But, professionally, he was displeased with Brearley’s drawn face and
with the feverish brightness of his eyes. So much was plain for all to see. In
the eyes of Ailsa Brearley, so like, yet so unlike, her brother’s, he read
understanding of his displeasure, I think, together with a pathetic appeal.
Brearley waved his long white hand carelessly.
“Rest assured of that, Doctor!” he replied. “The labyrinth in which I find
myself is intricate, I readily admit; but all my steps have been well
considered. To return, Mr. Klaw”—addressing the latter—“I have secured
the mummy of one of those arch adepts! That he was one is proved by the
papyrus, presumably in his own writing, which lay upon his breast! I
unwrapped the mummy in Egypt, where it now reposes; but the writing I
brought back with me and have recently deciphered. A glance had showed
me that it was not the usual excerpts from the ‘Book of the Dead.’ Six
months’ labour has proved it to be a detailed account of his initiation into
the inner mysteries!”
“Is such a papyrus unique?” I asked.
“Unique!” cried Moris Klaw. “Name of a little blue man! It is priceless!”

“But why,” I pursued, “should this priest, alone among the many who
must have been so initiated, have left an account of the ceremony?”
“It was forbidden to divulge any part, any word, of it, Searles!” said
Brearley. “Departure from this law was visited with fearful punishments in
this world and dire penalties in the next. Khamus, for so this priest was
named, well knew this. But some reason which, I fear, can never be known,
prompted him to write the papyrus. It is probable, if not certain, that no eye
but his, and mine, has read what is written there.”
A silence of a few seconds followed his words.
“Yes,” rumbled Klaw, presently; “it is undoubtedly a discovery of
extraordinary importance, this. You agree, my friend?”
I nodded.
“That’s evident,” I replied. “But I cannot altogether get the hang of the
ceremony itself, Brearley. That is the point upon which I am particularly
hazy.”
“To read you the entire account in detail,” Brearley resumed, “would
occupy too long, and would almost certainly confuse you. But the singular
thing is this: Khamus distinctly asserts that the goddess appeared to him.
His writing is eminently sane and reserved, and his account of the
ceremony, up to that point, highly interesting. Now, I have tested the
papyrus itself—though no possibility of fraud is really admissible, and I
have been able to confirm many of the statements made therein. There is
only one point, it seems to me, remaining to be settled.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Whether, as a result of the ceremony described, Khamus did see Isis, or
whether he merely imagined he did!”
No one spoke for a moment. Then—
“My friend,” said Moris Klaw, “I have a daughter whom I have named
Isis. Why did I name her Isis? Mr. Brearley, you must know that that name
has a mystic and beautiful significance. But I will say something—I am
glad that my daughter is not here! Mr. Brearley—beware! Beware, I say:
you play with burning fires; my friend—beware!”
His words impressed us all immensely; for there was something
underlying them more portentous than appeared upon the surface.
Fairbank stared at Brearley, hard.
“Do I understand,” he began, quietly, “that you admit the first
possibility?”

“Certainly!” replied Brearley, with conviction.
“You are prepared to admit the existence, as an entity, of Isis?”
“I am prepared to admit the existence of anything until it can be proved
not to exist!”
“Then, admitting the existence of Isis, what should you assume it, or her,
to be?”
“That is not a matter for presumption; it is a matter for inquiry!”
The doctor glanced quickly toward Ailsa Brearley, and her beautiful face
was troubled.
“And this inquiry—how should you propose to conduct it?”
“In surroundings as nearly as possible identical with those described in
the papyrus,” replied Brearley, with growing excitement. “I should follow
the ceremony, word by word, as Khamus did!”
His eyes gleamed with pent-up enthusiasm. We four listeners, again
stricken silent, watched him; and again it was the doctor who broke the
silence.
“Is the ceremony spoken?”
“In the first half there is a long prayer, which is chanted.”
“But Egyptian, as a spoken language, is lost, surely?”
“The exact pronunciation, or accent, is lost, of course; but there are many
who can speak it. I can, for instance.”
“And I,” rumbled Moris Klaw, gloomily. “But these special
surroundings? Eh, my friend?”
“I have spent a year in searching for the necessary things, as specified in
the writing. At last my collection is complete. Some of the things I have had
made, in the proper materials mentioned. These materials, in some cases,
have been exceedingly difficult to procure. But now I have a complete
shrine of Isis fitted up! Khamus’s initiation took place in a small chamber of
which he gives a concise and detailed account. It is because my duplicate of
this chamber is ready that I have asked you to meet me here to-night.”
“How long have you been at work upon this inquiry?” said Fairbank.
He put the question as he might have put one relating to a patient’s
symptoms; and this Brearley detected in his tone, with sudden resentment.
“Fairbank,” he said, huskily, “I believe you think me insane!”
With his pale, drawn face and long, fair hair, he certainly looked anything
but normal, as he sat with bright, staring eyes fixed upon the other across
the table.

“My dear chap,” replied the doctor, soothingly, “what a strange idea! My
question was prompted by a professional spirit, I will admit, for I thought
you had been sticking to this business too closely. You are the last man in
the world I should expect to go mad, Brearley, but I should not care to
answer for your nerves if you don’t give this Isis affair a rest.”
Brearley smiled, and waved his hand characteristically. “Excuse me,
Fairbank,” he said, “but to the average person my ideas do seem fantastic, I
know. That is what makes me so touchy on the point, I suppose.”
“You are hoping for too much from what is at most only a wild
conjecture, Brearley. Your translation of the manuscript, alone, is a
sufficiently notable achievement. If I were in your place, I should leave the
occult business to the psychical societies. ‘Let the cobbler,’ you know.”
“It has gone too far for that,” returned Brearley, “and I must see it
through, now.”
“You are putting too much into it,” said the doctor, severely. “I want you
to promise me that if nothing results from your final experiment, you will
drop the whole inquiry.”
Brearley frowned thoughtfully.
“Do you really think I am overdoing it?” he asked.
“Sure,” was the answer. “Drop the whole thing for a month or two.”
“That is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because the ceremony must take place upon the first night of Panoi, the
tenth month of the Sacred Sothic year. This we take to correspond to the
April of the Julian year.”
“Yes,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “it is to-night!”
“Why!” I cried, “of course it is! Do you mean, Brearley, that you are
going to conduct your experiment now?”
“Exactly,” was the calm reply; “and I have asked you all—Mr. Moris
Klaw in particular—in order that it may take place in the presence of
competent witnesses!”
Moris Klaw shook his massive head and pulled at his scanty, toneless
beard in a very significant manner. All of us were vaguely startled, I think,
and through my mind the idea flashed that the first of April was a date
pathetically appropriate for such an undertaking. Frankly, I was beginning
to entertain serious doubts regarding Brearley’s sanity.

“I have given the servants a holiday,” said the latter. “They are at a
theatre in town; so there is no possibility of the experiment being
interrupted.”
Something of his enthusiasm, unnatural though it seemed, strangely
enough began to communicate itself to me.
“Come upstairs,” he continued, “and I will explain what we all have to
do.”
Moris Klaw squirted verbena upon his brow.

II

“Doctor Fairbank!”
Fairbank, startled by the touch on his arm, stopped. It was Ailsa Brearley
who had dropped behind her brother and now stood confronting us. In the
dense shadows of the corridor one could barely distinguish her figure, but a
stray beam of light touched one side of her pure oval face and burnished her
fair hair.
She wanted help, guidance. I had read it in her eyes before. I was sorry
that her sweet lips should have that pathetic little droop.
“Doctor Fairbank! I have wanted to ask you all night—do you think he
——”
She could not speak the words, and stood biting her lips, with eyes
averted.
“Miss Brearley,” he replied, “I do, certainly, fear that your brother is
liable to a nervous breakdown at any moment. He has applied his mind too
closely to this inquiry, and has studiously surrounded himself with a morbid
atmosphere.”
Ailsa Brearley was now watching him, anxiously.
“Should we allow him to go on with it?”
“I fear any attempt to prevent him would prove most detrimental, in his
present condition.”
“But——” There was clearly something else which she wanted to say.
“But, apart from that”—she suddenly turned to Moris Klaw, instinctively it
almost seemed—“Mr. Klaw—is this—ceremony right?”
He peered at her through his pince-nez.
“In what way, my dear Miss Brearley—how right?”

“Well—what I mean is—it amounts to idolatry, does it not?”
I started. It was a point of view which had not, hitherto, occurred to me.
“You probably understand the nature of the thing better than we do, Miss
Brearley,” said Fairbank. “Do you mean that it involves worship of Isis?”
“He has always avoided a direct answer when I have asked him that,” she
said. “But it is only reasonable to suppose that it does. His translation of the
writing I have never seen. But he has been dieting in a most extraordinary
manner for nearly a year! Since the workmen completed it, no one but
himself has been inside the chamber which he has had constructed at the
end of his study; and he spends hours and hours there every day—and every
night!”
Her anxiety became more evident with each word.
“You saw that he ate nothing at dinner,” she continued, “and taxed him
with faddism. But it is something more than that. Why has he sent the
servants away to-night? Oh, Doctor Fairbank! I have a dreadful foreboding!
I am so afraid!”
The light in her eyes, suddenly upturned to him in the vague half-light,
the tone in her voice, the appeal in her attitude—were unmistakable.
Fairbank had been abroad for three years, and I could see that between
these two was an undeclared love, and almost I felt that I intruded. Moris
Klaw looked away for a moment, too. Then—
“My dear young lady,” he rumbled, paternally, “do not be afraid. I, the
old know-all, so fortunately am here! Perhaps there is danger—yes, I admit
it; there may be danger. But it is such danger as dwells here”—he tapped his
yellow brow—“it is a danger of the mind. For thoughts are things, Miss
Brearley—that is where it lies, the peril—and thought things can kill!”
“Ailsa! Fairbank! Mr. Klaw!” came Brearley’s voice. “We have none too
much time!”
“Proceed, my friends,” rumbled Moris Klaw; “I am with you.” And,
oddly enough, I was comforted by his presence; so, it was evident, were the
girl and the doctor; for Moris Klaw, beneath that shabby, ramshackle
exterior, Moris Klaw, the Wapping curio dealer, was a man of power—an
intellectual ark of refuge.
In the Egyptologist’s study all appeared much the same as when last I had
set foot there. The cases filled with vases, scarabs, tablets, weapons, and the
hundred-and-one relics of the great dead age with which the student had

surrounded himself; the sarcophagi; the frames of papyri—all seemed
familiar.
Brearley sat at the huge writing table, littered, as of yore, and in
picturesque confusion.
“We must begin almost immediately!” he said, as we entered.
A danger spot burned lividly upon either pale cheek. His eyes gleamed
brilliantly. The prolonged excitement of his strange experiment was burning
the man up. His nerve centres must be taxed abnormally, I knew.
Brearley glanced at his watch.
“I must be very brief,” he explained, hurriedly, “as it is vitally important
that I commence in time. Beyond the bookcase, there, you will see that a
part of the room has been walled off.”
We looked in the direction indicated. Although it was not noticeable at
first glance I now saw that the apartment was, indeed, smaller than
formerly. The usual books covered the new wall, giving it much the same
aspect as the old; but, where hitherto there had been nothing but shelves, a
small, narrow door of black wood now broke the imposing expanse of faded
volumes.
“In there,” Brearley resumed, “is the Secret Place described by Khamus!”
He placed his long, thin hand upon a yellow roll that lay partly opened on
the table.
“No one but myself may enter there—until after to-night, at any rate!”
with a glance at Moris Klaw. “To the most minute particular”—patting the
papyrus—“it is equipped as Khamus describes. For many months I have
prepared myself, by fasting and meditation, as he prepared! There was, as
no doubt you know, a widespread belief in ancient times that for any but the
chosen to look upon the goddess was death. As I admit the possibility of Isis
existing, I must also admit the possibility of this belief being true—the
more so as it is confirmed by Khamus! Therefore none may enter with me.”
“One moment, Mr. Brearley,” interrupted Klaw; “in what form does
Khamus relate that the goddess appeared?”
A cloud crossed Brearley’s face.
“It is the one point upon which he is not clear,” was the reply. “I do not
know, in the least, what to expect!”
“Go on!” I said, quickly. Although I seriously doubted my poor friend’s
sanity, I began to find the affair weirdly, uncannily fascinating.
Brearley continued:

“The ritual opens with a chant, which I may broadly translate as ‘The
Hymn of Dedication.’ Its exact purport is not very clear to me. This hymn is
the only part of the ceremony in which I am assisted. It is to be ‘sung by a
virgin beyond the door.’ That is, directly I have entered yonder it must be
sung out here. Ailsa has composed a sort of chant to the words, which, I
think, is the proper kind of setting. Have you not, Ailsa?”
She bowed her graceful head, glancing, under her lashes, toward
Fairbank.
“She has learned the words—for, of course, it must be sung in Egyptian
——”
“But have no idea of their meaning,” said his sister, softly.
“That is unnecessary,” he went on, quickly. “After this, I want you all just
to remain here in this room. I am afraid you will have to sit in the dark! Any
sounds which you detect, please note. I will not tell you what to expect,
then imagination cannot deceive you. I will be back in a moment.”
With another hasty glance at his watch, he went out in high excitement.
“Please,” began Ailsa Brearley, the moment he was gone, “do not think
that because I assist him I approve of this attempt! I think it is horrible! But
what am I to do? He is wrapped up in it! I dare not try to check him!”
“We understand that,” said Fairbank; “all of us. Do as he desires. When
he has made the attempt, and failed—as, of course, he must do—the folly of
the whole thing will become apparent to him. Do not let it worry you, Miss
Brearley. Your brother is not the first man to succumb, temporarily, to the
glamour of the Unknown.”
She shook her head sadly.
“It is an unpleasant farce,” she said. “But there is something more in it
than that.”
Her blue eyes were full of trouble.
“What do you mean, Miss Brearley?” asked Moris Klaw.
“I hardly know, myself!” was the reply; “but for the past two months an
indefinable horror of some kind has been growing upon me.”
With a deep sigh, she turned to a tall case and took from it a kind of
slender harp. The instrument, of which the frame, at any rate, was evidently
ancient Egyptian work, rested upon a claw-shaped pedestal.
“Do you play this? Yes? No?” inquired Moris Klaw, with interest.
“Yes,” she said, wearily. “It comes from the tomb of a priestess of Isis
and was played by her in the temple. It is scaled differently from the

modern harp, but any one with a slight knowledge of the ordinary harp, or
even of the piano, can perform upon it with ease. It is sweet toned, but—
creepy!”
She smiled slightly at her own expression, and I was glad to see it.
Brearley returned.
He wore a single loose garment of white linen, and thin sandals were
upon his feet. Save for his long, fair hair, he looked a true pagan priest, his
eyes bright with the fire of research that consumed him, his features gaunt,
ascetic.
Some ghost of his old humorous expression played, momentarily, about
his lips as he observed the astonishment depicted upon our faces. But it was
gone almost in the moment of its coming.
“You wonder at me, no doubt,” he said; “and at times I have wondered at
myself! Do not think me fanatic. I scarcely hope for any result. But
remembering that the writing is authentic and that there prevails, to this day,
a widespread belief in the occult wisdom of the Egyptians, why should not
this problem in psychics receive the same attention from me that one in
physics would receive from you, Fairbank?”
There was reason in his argument and in his manner of advancing it.
Fairbank glanced from Brearley to the girl sitting with her white hands
listlessly caressing the harp strings. The silence of the great empty house
grew oppressive. Suppose the ancients indeed possessed the strange lore
attributed to them? Suppose in those Dark Continents, the Past and the
Future, somewhere in the vast unknown, there existed a power, a being, a
spirit, named by the Egyptians, Isis?
Those were my thoughts, when Moris Klaw said suddenly:
“Mr. Brearley, it is not yet too late to turn back! This sensitive plate”—he
tapped his forehead—“warns me that some evil thought thing hovers about
us! You are about to give form to that thought being. Be wise, Mr. Brearley
—abandon your experiment!”
His tone surprised everyone. Otter Brearley looked at him with an odd
expression and then glanced at the watch upon the writing table.
“Mr. Klaw,” he said, quietly, “I had hoped for a different attitude in you;
but if you really disapprove of what I am about to attempt, I can only ask
you to withdraw; it is too late for further arguments.”
“I remain, my friend! I spoke not for myself—my life has been passed in
this coping with evil things; I spoke for others.”

None of us entirely understood his words, but Brearley went on,
impatiently:
“Listen, please. I rely upon your coöperation. From now onward I require
absolute silence. Whatever happens make no noise.”
“I shall not be noisy, I, my friend!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am the old
silent; I watch and wait—until I am wanted.”
He shrugged his shoulders and nodded, significantly.
“Good!” said Brearley, and his voice quivered with excitement; “then the
experiment, the final experiment, has begun!”

III

He suddenly extinguished the light.
Passing to a window, he looked up to the moon, and, a moment later,
lowered the blind. Dimly visible in his white garment, he crossed the room.
He might be heard unfastening the door of the inner chamber, and a faint,
church-like smell crept to our nostrils. The door closed.
Immediately the harp sounded.
Its tone was peculiar—uncomfortable. The strain which Ailsa played was
a mere repetition of three notes. Then she began to sing.
Our eyes becoming more accustomed to the gloom, we could vaguely
discern her now; the soft outlines of her figure; the white, ghost-like fingers
straying over the strings of the instrument. The music of the chant was very
monotonous, and weird to a marked degree. The sound of that ancient
tongue, dead for many ages, chanted softly by Ailsa Brearley’s beautiful
voice, was almost incredibly eerie. I found myself gripped hard by a
powerful sense of the uncanny.
No other sound was audible. Throughout the rambling old house intense
silence prevailed. A slight breeze stirred the cedars outside. Every now and
again it came—like a series of broken sighs.
How long the chant lasted I cannot pretend to state. It seemed
interminable. I became aware of a curious sense of physical loss. I found
myself drawn to high tension, as though the continuance of the chant
demanded a vast effort on my part. Though I told myself that imagination
was tricking me, the music seemed to be draining my nerve force!

Ailsa’s voice grew louder and clearer, until the queer words, of unknown
purport, rang out passionately, imperatively.
She ceased.
In the ensuing silence I could hear distinctly Moris Klaw’s heavy
breathing. A compelling atmosphere of mystery had grown up about us.
Repel it how we might, it was there—commanding acknowledgment.
Fairbank, who sat nearest, was the first to see Ailsa Brearley rise,
unsteadily, and move in the direction of the study door.
Something in her manner alarmed us all, and the doctor quietly left his
seat and followed her. As she quitted the room, he came out behind her; and
in the better light on the landing, as he told us later, saw that she was
deathly pale.
“Miss Brearley!” he said.
She turned.
“Ssh!” she whispered, anxiously, “it is nothing—Doctor Fairbank. The
excitement has made me rather faint, that is all. I shall go to my room and
lie down. Believe me, I am quite well!”
“But there is no servant in the house,” he whispered, “if you should
become worse——”
“If I need anything I shall not hesitate to ring,” she answered. “It is so
still, you will hear the bell. Please go back! He has hoped for so much from
this.”
Fairbank was nonplussed. But the appeal was so obviously sincere, and
the situation so difficult, that he saw no alternative. Ailsa Brearley passed
along the corridor. Fairbank slipped back into the study, where Moris Klaw
and I anxiously awaited him.
From the inner room came Brearley’s voice, muffled.
The long vigil began.
I found myself claimed by the all-pervading spirit of mystery. For some
little time I listened in expectation of hearing Ailsa Brearley returning. But
soon the strange business of the night claimed my mind, to the exclusion of
every other idea. I found myself listening only for Brearley’s muffled voice.
Although the half-audible words were meaningless, their sound assumed, as
time wore on, a curious significance. They seemed potent with a strange
power proceeding not from them, but to them.
Then I heard a new sound.

Fairbank heard it—for I saw him start, and Moris Klaw muttered
something.
It did not come from the trees outside, nor from the inner room. It was
somewhere in the house.
A faint rattling it was, bell-like but toneless.
Brearley’s voice had ceased.
Again the sound rose—nearer.
I turned my head toward Fairbank, and seemed to perceive him more
clearly. I had less difficulty in distinguishing the objects about.
Again it came—the shivering, bell-like sound.
Even the strings of the harp were visible now.
“Curse me!” came Moris Klaw’s hoarse whisper; “it seems to grow light!
That is a delusion of the mind, my friends—repel it—repel it!”
Fairbank drew a quick, sibilant breath. A half-suppressed exclamation
from Klaw followed; for the high-pitched rattle came from close at hand!
The sense of the supernormal had grown unbearable. Fairbank’s science and
my own semi-scepticism were but weapons of sand against it.
The door opened silently, admitting a flood of the soft moon-like
radiance. And Ailsa Brearley entered!
Her slim figure was bathed in light; her fair hair, unbound, swept like a
gleaming torrent about her shoulders. She looked magnificently, unnaturally
beautiful. A diaphanous veil was draped over her face. From her radiant
figure I turned away my head in sudden, stark fear!

Fairbank, clutching the arms of his chair, seemed to strive to look away,
too.
Her widely opened eyes, visible even through the veil, were awful in
their supernormal, significant beauty. Was it Ailsa Brearley? I clenched my
fists convulsively; I felt my reason tottering. As the luminous figure, so
terrible in its perfect loveliness, moved slowly toward the inner door, with
set gaze that was not for any about her, Doctor Fairbank wrenched himself
from his chair and leapt forward.
“Ailsa!”
His voice came in a hoarse shriek. But it was drowned by a rumbling roar
from Moris Klaw.
“Look away! Look away!” he shouted. “The good God! Do not look at
her! Look away!”
The warning came too late. Fairbank had all but reached her side, when
she turned her eyes upon him—looking fully in his face.
With no sound or cry he went down as though felled with a mighty blow!
She passed to the door of the inner room. It swung open noiselessly. A
stifling cloud of some pungent perfume swept into the study; and the door
reclosed.
“Fairbank!” I whispered, huskily. “My God! he’s dead!”
Moris Klaw sprang forward to where Fairbank, clearly visible in the soft
light, lay huddled upon the floor.
“Lift him!” he hissed. “We must get him out—before she returns—you
understand?—before she returns!”
Bending together, we raised the doctor’s inanimate body and half
dragged, half carried him from the room. On the landing we laid him down
and stood panting. A voice, clear and sweet, was speaking. I recognized
neither the language nor the voice. But each liquid syllable thrilled me like
an icy shock. I met Moris Klaw’s gaze, set upon me through the pince-nez.
“Do not listen, my friend!” he said.
Raising Fairbank, we dragged him into the first room we came to—and
Klaw locked the door.
“Here we remain,” he rumbled, “until something has gone back where it
came from!”
Fairbank lay motionless at our feet.
Presently came the rattling.

“It is the sistrum,” whispered Moris Klaw, “the sacred instrument of the
Isis temples.”
The sound passed—and faded.
“Searles! Fairbank!”—it was Brearley’s voice, sobbingly intense—“do
not touch her! Do not look at her!”
The study door crashed open and I heard his sandals pattering on the
landing.
“Fairbank! Mr. Klaw! Good God! Answer me! Tell me you are safe!”
Moris Klaw unlocked the door.
Brearley, his face white as death and bathed in perspiration, stood
outside. As Klaw appeared, he leapt forward, wild-eyed.
“Quick! Did any one——”
“Fairbank!” I said, huskily.
Brearley pushed into the room and turned on the light. Fairbank, very
pale, lay propped against an armchair. Moris Klaw immediately dropped on
his knee beside him and felt his heart.
“Ah, the good God! He is alive!” he whispered. “Get some water—no
brandy, my friend—water. Then look to your sister!”
Brearley plunged his trembling hands into his hair and tugged at it
distractedly.
“How was I to know!” he moaned, “how was I to know! There is water in
the bottle, Mr. Klaw. Searles will come with me. I must look for Ailsa!”
A bizarre figure, in his linen robe, he ran off. Moris Klaw waved me to
follow him.
The door of his sister’s room was closed.
He knocked, but there was no reply. He turned the knob and went in,
whilst I waited in the corridor.
“Ailsa!” I heard him call, and again, “Ailsa!” then, following an interval,
“Are you all right, dear?” he whispered.
“Oh, thank Heaven it is finished!” came a murmur in Ailsa Brearley’s
soft voice. “It is finished, is it not?”
“Quite finished,” he answered.
“Just look at my hair!” she went on, with returning animation. “My head
was so bad—I think that was why I took it down. Then I must have dropped
off to sleep.”
“All right, dear,” said Brearley. “I want you to come downstairs; be as
quick as you can.”

He rejoined me in the corridor.
“She was lying with her hair strewn all over the pillow!” he whispered,
“and she had been burning something—ashes in the hearth——”
Ailsa came out. She seemed suddenly to observe her brother’s haggard
face.
“Is there anything the matter?” she said, quickly. “Oh! has something
dreadful happened?”
“No, dear,” he answered, reassuringly. “Only Doctor Fairbank was
overcome——”
She turned very pale.
“He is not ill?”
“No. He became faint. You can come and see for yourself.”
Very quickly we all hurried downstairs. Moris Klaw, on his knees beside
the doctor, was trying to force something between his clenched teeth. Ailsa,
with a little cry, ran forward and knelt upon the other side of him.
“Ralph!” she whispered; “Ralph!”—and smoothed the hair back from his
forehead.
He sighed deeply, and with an effort swallowed the draught which Klaw
held to his lips. A moment later he opened his eyes, glaring wildly into
Ailsa’s face.
“Ralph!” she said, brokenly.
Then, realizing how tenderly she had spoken—using his Christian name
—she hung her graceful head in hot confusion. But he had heard her. And
the wild light died from his eyes. He took both her hands in his own and
held them fast; then, rather unsteadily, he stood up.
As his features came more fully into the light, we all saw that a small
bruise discoloured his forehead, squarely between the brows.
Then Brearley, who had been back into the study, came running, crying:
“The papyrus! And my translation! Gone!”
I thought of the ashes in Ailsa Brearley’s room.

IV

“My friends,” rumbled Moris Klaw, impressively, “we are fortunate. We
have passed through scorching fires unscathed!”
He applied himself with vigour to the operating of the scent spray.

“God forgive me!” said Brearley. “What did I do?”
“I will tell you, my friend,” replied Klaw; “you clothed a thought in the
beautiful form which you knew as your sister! Ah! You stare! Ritual, my
friends, is the soul of what the ignorant call magic. With the sacred incense,
kyphi (yes, I detected it!), you invoked secret powers. Those powers, Mr.
Brearley, were but thoughts. All such forces are thoughts.
“Thoughts are things—and you gathered together in this house, by that
ancient formula, a thought thing created by generations of worshippers who
have worshipped the moon!
“The light that we saw was only the moonlight, the sounds that we heard
were thought-sounds. But so powerful was this mighty thought-force, this
centuries-old power which you loosed upon us, that it drove out Miss
Ailsa’s own thoughts from her mind, bringing what she mistook for sleep;
and it implanted itself there!
“She was transformed by that mighty power which for a time dwelled
within her. She was as powerful, as awful, as a goddess! None might look
upon her and be sane. Hypnotism has similarities with the ancient science
of thought—yes! Suggestion is the secret of all so-called occult
phenomena!”
With his eyes gleaming oddly, he stepped forward, resting his long white
hands upon Fairbank’s shoulders.
“Doctor,” he rumbled, “you have a bruise on your forehead.”
“Have I?” said Fairbank, in surprise. “I hadn’t noticed it.”
“Because it is not a physical bruise; it is a mental bruise, physically
reflected! Nearly were you slain, my friend—oh, so nearly! But another
force—as great as the force of ancient thought—weakened the blow. Doctor
Fairbank, it is fortunate that Miss Ailsa loves you!”
His frank words startled us all.
“Look well at the shape of this little bruise, my friends,” continued Moris
Klaw. “Mr. Brearley—it is a shape that will be familiar to you. See! it is
thus.” He drew an imaginary outline with his long forefinger—

“And that is the sign of Isis!”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Alterations to the text:
Abandon the use of drop-caps.
Punctuation: fix a few quotation mark pairings/nestings and missing
periods.
[First Episode]
Change “I waited for no further explanatians, but, hastily” to
explanations.
“her voice, her entire person, as certainly charming—to” to was.
[Third Episode]
“tell him all we know about the ax of ‘Black Goeffrey.’ ” to Geoffrey.
“In the blidness of his anger, Heidelberger failed” to blindness.
[Fourth Episode]
“We were all star ng at Moris Klaw, spellbound with” to staring.
[Fifth Episode]
“He was accompanied by Sir John Carron, Mr. Gautami Chini” to Chinje.
“he removed his coat and waitscoat and threw them upon the table” to
waistcoat.
[Sixth Episode]
“Having re-fastened the door, we laid him on a sofa” to refastened.
“the pistol he carred as he rose slowly to his feet” to carried.
(“Curari!” he said, horasely, “the ancient arrow poison) to hoarsely.
[Tenth Episode]
“that one in physics would receive f om you, Fairbank?” to from.
“Whatver happens make no noise.” to Whatever.
“As Klaw appeared, he leapt forward, wild eyed” to wild-eyed.

[End of text]

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