Title: Skull-face
Author: Howard, Robert E. (Robert Ervin)
Language: English
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                              SKULL-FACE

                          BY ROBERT E HOWARD

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
             Weird Tales October, November, December 1929.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]



                       _1. The Face in the Mist_

    "We are no other than a moving row
    Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go."

    --Omar Khayyam.


The horror first took concrete form amid that most unconcrete of all
things--a hashish dream. I was off on a timeless, spaceless journey
through the strange lands that belong to this state of being, a million
miles away from earth and all things earthly; yet I became cognizant
that something was reaching across the unknown voids--something that
tore ruthlessly at the separating curtains of my illusions and
intruded itself into my visions.

I did not exactly return to ordinary waking life, yet I was conscious
of a seeing and a recognizing that was unpleasant and seemed out of
keeping with the dream I was at that time enjoying. To one who has
never known the delights of hashish, my explanation must seem chaotic
and impossible. Still, I was aware of a rending of mists and then the
Face intruded itself into my sight. I thought at first it was merely
a skull; then I saw that it was a hideous yellow instead of white,
and was endowed with some horrid form of life. Eyes glimmered deep in
the sockets and the jaws moved as if in speech. The body, except for
the high, thin shoulders, was vague and indistinct, but the hands,
which floated in the mists before and below the skull, were horribly
vivid and filled me with crawling fears. They were like the hands of
a mummy, long, lean and yellow, with knobby joints and cruel curving
talons.

Then, to complete the vague horror which was swiftly taking possession
of me, a voice spoke--imagine a man so long dead that his vocal organ
had grown rusty and unaccustomed to speech. This was the thought which
struck me and made my flesh crawl as I listened.

"A strong brute and one who might be useful somehow. See that he is
given all the hashish he requires."

Then the face began to recede, even as I sensed that I was the subject
of conversation, and the mists billowed and began to close again.
Yet for a single instant a scene stood out with startling clarity.
I gasped--or sought to. For over the high, strange shoulder of the
apparition another face stood out clearly for an instant, as if the
owner peered at me. Red lips, half parted, long dark eyelashes, shading
vivid eyes, a shimmery cloud of hair. Over the shoulder of Horror,
breath-taking beauty for an instant looked at me.



                        _2. The Hashish Slave_

    "Up from Earth's center through the Seventh Gate
    I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate."

    --Omar Khayyam.


My dream of the skull-face was borne over that usually uncrossable
gap that lies between hashish enchantment and humdrum reality. I sat
cross-legged on a mat in Yun Shatu's Temple of Dreams and gathered the
fading forces of my decaying brain to the task of remembering events
and faces.

This last dream was so entirely different from any I had ever had
before, that my waning interest was roused to the point of inquiring as
to its origin. When I first began to experiment with hashish, I sought
to find a physical or psychic basis for the wild flights of illusion
pertaining thereto, but of late I had been content to enjoy without
seeking cause and effect.

Whence this unaccountable sensation of familiarity in regard to that
vision? I took my throbbing head between my hands and laboriously
sought a clue. A living dead man and a girl of rare beauty who had
looked over his shoulder. Then I remembered.

Back in the fog of days and nights which veils a hashish addict's
memory, my money had given out. It seemed years or possibly centuries,
but my stagnant reason told me that it had probably been only a few
days. At any rate, I had presented myself at Yun Shatu's sordid dive
as usual and had been thrown out by the great negro Hassim when it was
learned I had no more money.

My universe crashing to pieces about me, and my nerves humming like
taut piano wires for the vital need that was mine, I crouched in the
gutter and gibbered bestially, till Hassim swaggered out and stilled my
yammerings with a blow that felled me, half stunned.

Then as I presently rose, staggeringly and with no thought save of the
river which flowed with cool murmur so near me--as I rose, a light hand
was laid like the touch of a rose on my arm. I turned with a frightened
start, and stood spell-bound before the vision of loveliness which met
my gaze. Dark eyes limpid with pity surveyed me and the little hand on
my ragged sleeve drew me toward the door of the Dream Temple. I shrank
back, but a low voice, soft and musical, urged me, and filled with a
trust that was strange, I shambled along with my beautiful guide.

At the door Hassim met us, cruel hands lifted and a dark scowl on his
ape-like brow, but as I cowered there, expecting a blow, he halted
before the girl's upraised hand and her word of command which had taken
on an imperious note.

I did not understand what she said, but I saw dimly, as in a fog, that
she gave the black man money, and she led me to a couch where she had
me recline and arranged the cushions as if I were king of Egypt instead
of a ragged, dirty renegade who lived only for hashish. Her slim hand
was cool on my brow for a moment, and then she was gone and Yussef Ali
came bearing the stuff for which my very soul shrieked--and soon I was
wandering again through those strange and exotic countries that only a
hashish slave knows.

Now as I sat on the mat and pondered the dream of the skull-face I
wondered more. Since the unknown girl had led me back into the dive,
I had come and gone as before, when I had plenty of money to pay
Yun Shatu. Someone certainly was paying him for me, and while my
sub-conscious mind had told me it was the girl, my rusty brain had
failed to grasp the fact entirely, or to wonder why. What need of
wondering? So someone paid and the vivid-hued dreams continued, what
cared I? But now I wondered. For the girl who had protected me from
Hassim and had brought the hashish for me was the same girl I had seen
in the skull-face dream.

Through the soddenness of my degradation the lure of her struck like
a knife piercing my heart and strangely revived the memories of the
days when I was a man like other men--not yet a sullen, cringing slave
of dreams. Far and dim they were, shimmery islands in the mist of
years--and what a dark sea lay between!

I looked at my ragged sleeve and the dirty, claw-like hand protruding
from it; I gazed through the hanging smoke which fogged the sordid
room, at the low bunks along the wall whereon lay the blankly staring
dreamers--slaves, like me, of hashish or of opium. I gazed at the
slippered Chinamen gliding softly to and fro bearing pipes or roasting
balls of concentrated purgatory over tiny flickering fires. I gazed at
Hassim standing, arms folded, beside the door like a great statue of
black basalt.

And I shuddered and hid my face in my hands because with the faint
dawning of returning manhood, I knew that this last and most cruel
dream was futile--I had crossed an ocean over which I could never
return, had cut myself off from the world of normal men and women.
Naught remained now but to drown this dream as I had drowned all my
others--swiftly and with hope that I should soon attain that Ultimate
Ocean which lies beyond all dreams.

So these fleeting moments of lucidity, of longing, that tear aside the
veils of all dope slaves--unexplainable, without hope of attainment.

So I went back to my empty dreams, to my fantasmagoria of illusions;
but sometimes, like a sword cleaving a mist, through the high lands
and the low lands and seas of my visions floated, like half-forgotten
music, the sheen of dark eyes and shimmery hair.

You ask how I, Stephen Costigan, American and a man of some
attainments and culture, came to lie in a filthy dive of London's
Limehouse? The answer is simple--no jaded debauchee, I, seeking
new sensations in the mysteries of the Orient. I answer--Argonne!
Heavens, what deeps and heights of horror lurk in that one word alone!
Shell-shocked--shell-torn. Endless days and nights without end and
roaring red hell over No Man's Land where I lay shot and bayoneted to
shreds of gory flesh. My body recovered, how I know not; my mind never
did.

And the leaping fires and shifting shadows in my tortured brain drove
me down and down, along the stairs of degradation, uncaring until at
last I found surcease in Yun Shatu's Temple of Dreams, where I slew
my red dreams in other dreams--the dreams of hashish whereby a man
may descend to the lower pits of the reddest hells or soar into those
unnamable heights where the stars are diamond pinpoints beneath his
feet.

Now the visions of the sot, the beast, were mine. I attained the
unattainable, stood face to face with the unknown and in cosmic
calmness knew the unguessable. And was content after a fashion, until
the sight of burnished hair and scarlet lips swept away my dream-built
universe and left me shuddering among its ruins.



                        _3. The Master of Doom_

    "And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
    He knows about it all--He knows! He knows!"

    --Omar Khayyam.


A hand shook me roughly as I emerged languidly from my latest debauch.

"The Master wishes you! Up, swine!"

Hassim it was who shook me and who spoke.

"To hell with the Master!" I answered, for I hated Hassim--and feared
him.

"Up with you or you get no more hashish," was the brutal response, and
I rose in trembling haste.

I followed the huge black man and he led the way to the rear of the
building, stepping in and out among the wretched dreamers on the floor.

"Muster all hands on deck!" droned a sailor in a bunk. "All hands!"

Hassim flung open the door at the rear and motioned me to enter. I had
never before passed through that door and had supposed it led into
Yun Shatu's private quarters. But it was furnished only with a cot, a
bronze idol of some sort before which incense burned, and a heavy table.

Hassim gave me a sinister glance and seized the table as if to spin it
about. It turned as if it stood on a revolving platform and a section
of the floor turned with it, revealing a hidden doorway in the floor.
Steps led downward in the darkness.

Hassim lighted a candle and with a brusk gesture invited me to descend.
I did so, with the sluggish obedience of the dope addict, and he
followed, closing the door above us by means of an iron lever fastened
to the under side of the floor. In the semi-darkness we went down the
rickety steps, some nine or ten I should say, and then came upon a
narrow corridor.

Here Hassim again took the lead, holding the candle high in front of
him. I could scarcely see the sides of this cave-like passageway but
knew that it was not wide. The flickering light showed it to be bare
of any sort of furnishings save for a number of strange-looking chests
which lined the walls--receptacles containing opium and other dope, I
thought.

A continuous scurrying and the occasional glint of small red eyes
haunted the shadows, betraying the presence of vast numbers of the
great rats which infest the Thames waterfront of that section.

Then more steps loomed out of the dark in front of us as the corridor
came to an abrupt end. Hassim led the way up and at the top knocked
four times against what seemed the under side of a floor. A hidden door
opened and a flood of soft, illusive light streamed through.

Hassim hustled me up roughly and I stood blinking in such a setting as
I had never seen in my wildest flights of vision. I stood in a jungle
of palm-trees through which wriggled a million vivid-hued dragons!
Then, as my startled eyes became accustomed to the light, I saw that
I had not been suddenly transferred to some other planet, as I had at
first thought. The palm-trees were there, and the dragons, but the
trees were artificial and stood in great pots and the dragons writhed
across heavy tapestries which hid the walls.

The room itself was a monstrous affair--inhumanly large, it seemed to
me. A thick smoke, yellowish and tropical in suggestion, seemed to
hang over all, veiling the ceiling and baffling upward glances. This
smoke, I saw, emanated from an altar in front of the wall to my left.
I started. Through the saffron billowing fog two eyes, hideously large
and vivid, glittered at me. The vague outlines of some bestial idol
took indistinct shape. I flung an uneasy glance about, marking the
Oriental divans and couches and the bizarre furnishings, and then my
eyes halted and rested on a lacquer screen just in front of me.

I could not pierce it and no sound came from beyond it, yet I felt eyes
searing into my consciousness through it, eyes that burned through my
very soul. A strange aura of evil flowed from that strange screen with
its weird carvings and unholy decorations.

Hassim salaamed profoundly before it and then, without speaking,
stepped back and folded his arms, statue-like.

A voice suddenly broke the heavy and oppressive silence.

"You who are a swine, would you like to be a man again?"

I started. The tone was inhuman, cold--more, there was a suggestion of
long disuse of the vocal organs--the voice I had heard in my dream!

"Yes," I replied, trance-like, "I would like to be a man again."

Silence ensued for a space; then the voice came again with a sinister
whispering undertone at the back of its sound like bats flying through
a cavern.

"I shall make you a man again because I am a friend to all broken men.
Not for a price shall I do it, nor for gratitude. And I give you a sign
to seal my promise and my vow. Thrust your hand through the screen."

At these strange and almost unintelligible words I stood perplexed, and
then, as the unseen voice repeated the last command, I stepped forward
and thrust my hand through a slit which opened silently in the screen.
I felt my wrist seized in an iron grip and something seven times colder
than ice touched the inside of my hand. Then my wrist was released, and
drawing forth my hand I saw a strange symbol traced in blue close to
the base of my thumb--a thing like a scorpion.

The voice spoke again in a sibilant language I did not understand, and
Hassim stepped forward deferentially. He reached about the screen and
then turned to me, holding a goblet of some amber-colored liquid which
he proffered me with an ironical bow. I took it hesitatingly.

"Drink and fear not," said the unseen voice. "It is only an Egyptian
wine with life-giving qualities."

So I raised the goblet and emptied it; the taste was not unpleasant,
and even as I handed the beaker to Hassim again, I seemed to feel new
life and vigor whip along my jaded veins.

"Remain at Yun Shatu's house," said the voice. "You will be given food
and a bed until you are strong enough to work for yourself. You will
use no hashish nor will you require any. Go!"

As in a daze, I followed Hassim back through the hidden door, down the
steps, along the dark corridor and up through the other door that let
us into the Temple of Dreams.

As we stepped from the rear chamber into the main room of the dreamers,
I turned to the negro wonderingly.

"Master? Master of what? Of Life?"

Hassim laughed, fiercely and sardonically.

"Master of Doom!"



                      _4. The Spider and the Fly_

    "There was the Door to which I found no Key;
    There was the Veil through which I might not see."

    --Omar Khayyam.


I sat on Yun Shatu's cushions and pondered with a clearness of mind new
and strange to me. As for that, all my sensations were new and strange.
I felt as if I had wakened from a monstrously long sleep, and though my
thoughts were sluggish, I felt as though the cobwebs which had clogged
them for so long had been partly brushed away.

I drew my hand across my brow, noting how it trembled. I was weak and
shaky and felt the stirrings of hunger--not for dope but for food. What
had been in the draft I had quenched in the chamber of mystery? And
why had the "Master" chosen me, out of all the other wretches of Yun
Shatu's, for regeneration?

And who was this Master? Somehow the word sounded vaguely familiar--I
sought laboriously to remember. Yes--I had heard it, lying half-waking
in the bunks or on the floor--whispered sibilantly by Yun Shatu or
by Hassim or by Yussef Ali, the Moor, muttered in their low-voiced
conversations and mingled always with words I could not understand. Was
not Yun Shatu, then, master of the Temple of Dreams? I had thought and
the other addicts thought that the withered Chinaman held undisputed
sway over this drab kingdom and that Hassim and Yussef Ali were his
servants. And the four China boys who roasted opium with Yun Shatu
and Yar Khan the Afghan and Santiago the Haitian and Ganra Singh, the
renegade Sikh--all in the pay of Yun Shatu, we supposed--bound to the
opium lord by bonds of gold or fear.

For Yun Shatu was a power in London's Chinatown and I had heard that
his tentacles reached across the seas into high places of mighty and
mysterious tongs. Was that Yun Shatu behind the lacquer screen? No; I
knew the Chinaman's voice and besides I had seen him puttering about in
the front of the Temple just as I went through the back door.

Another thought came to me. Often, lying half torpid, in the late hours
of night or in the early grayness of dawn, I had seen men and women
steal into the Temple, whose dress and bearing were strangely out of
place and incongruous. Tall, erect men, often in evening dress, with
their hats drawn low about their brows, and fine ladies, veiled, in
silks and furs. Never two of them came together, but always they came
separately and, hiding their features, hurried to the rear door, where
they entered and presently came forth again, hours later sometimes.
Knowing that the lust for dope finds resting-place in high positions
sometimes, I had never wondered overmuch, supposing that these were
wealthy men and women of society who had fallen victims to the craving,
and that somewhere in the back of the building there was a private
chamber for such. Yet now I wondered--sometimes these persons had
remained only a few moments--was it always opium for which they came,
or did they, too, traverse that strange corridor and converse with the
One behind the screen?

My mind dallied with the idea of a great specialist to whom came all
classes of people to find surcease from the dope habit. Yet it was
strange that such a one should select a dope-joint from which to
work--strange, too, that the owner of that house should apparently look
on him with so much reverence.

I gave it up as my head began to hurt with the unwonted effort of
thinking, and shouted for food. Yussef Ali brought it to me on a
tray, with a promptness which was surprizing. More, he salaamed as he
departed, leaving me to ruminate on the strange shift of my status in
the Temple of Dreams.

I ate, wondering what the One of the screen wanted with me. Not for an
instant did I suppose that his actions had been prompted by the reasons
he pretended; the life of the underworld had taught me that none of
its denizens leaned toward philanthropy. And underworld the chamber of
mystery had been, in spite of its elaborate and bizarre nature. And
where could it be located? How far had I walked along the corridor? I
shrugged my shoulders, wondering if it were not all a hashish-induced
dream; then my eye fell upon my hand--and the scorpion traced thereon.

"Muster all hands!" droned the sailor in the bunk. "All hands!"

       *       *       *       *       *

To tell in detail of the next few days would be boresome to any who
have not tasted the dire slavery of dope. I waited for the craving to
strike me again--waited with sure sardonic hopelessness. All day, all
night--another day--then the miracle was forced upon my doubting brain.
Contrary to all theories and supposed facts of science and common sense
the craving had left me as suddenly and completely as a bad dream! At
first I could not credit my senses but believed myself to be still in
the grip of a dope nightmare. But it was true. From the time I quaffed
the goblet in the room of mystery, I felt not the slightest desire
for the stuff which had been life itself to me. This, I felt vaguely,
was somehow unholy and certainly opposed to all rules of nature.
If the dread being behind the screen had discovered the secret of
breaking hashish's terrible power, what other monstrous secrets had he
discovered and what unthinkable dominance was his? The suggestion of
evil crawled serpent-like through my mind.

I remained at Yun Shatu's house, lounging in a bunk or on cushions
spread upon the floor, eating and drinking at will, but now that I was
becoming a normal man again, the atmosphere became most revolting to
me and the sight of the wretches writhing in their dreams reminded me
unpleasantly of what I myself had been, and it repelled, nauseated me.

So one day, when no one was watching me, I rose and went out on the
street and walked along the waterfront. The air, burdened though it was
with smoke and foul scents, filled my lungs with strange freshness and
aroused new vigor in what had once been a powerful frame. I took new
interest in the sounds of men living and working, and the sight of a
vessel being unloaded at one of the wharfs actually thrilled me. The
force of longshoremen was short, and presently I found myself heaving
and lifting and carrying, and though the sweat coursed down my brow and
my limbs trembled at the effort, I exulted in the thought that at last
I was able to labor for myself again, no matter how low or drab the
work might be.

As I returned to the door of Yun Shatu's that evening--hideously
weary but with the renewed feeling of manhood that comes of honest
toil--Hassim met me at the door.

"You been where?" he demanded roughly.

"I've been working on the docks," I answered shortly.

"You don't need to work on docks," he snarled. "The Master got work for
you."

He led the way, and again I traversed the dark stairs and the corridor
under the earth. This time my faculties were alert and I decided that
the passageway could not be over thirty or forty feet in length. Again
I stood before the lacquer screen and again I heard the inhuman voice
of living death.

"I can give you work," said the voice. "Are you willing to work for me?"

I quickly assented. After all, in spite of the fear which the voice
inspired, I was deeply indebted to the owner.

"Good. Take these."

As I started toward the screen a sharp command halted me and Hassim
stepped forward and reaching behind took what was offered. This was a
bundle of pictures and papers, apparently.

"Study these," said the One behind the screen, "and learn all you can
about the man portrayed there-by. Yun Shatu will give you money; buy
yourself such clothes as seamen wear and take a room at the front of
the Temple. At the end of two days, Hassim will bring you to me again.
Go!"

The last impression I had, as the hidden door closed above me, was that
the eyes of the idol, blinking through the everlasting smoke, leered
mockingly at me.

The front of the Temple of Dreams consisted of rooms for rent, masking
the true purpose of the building under the guise of a waterfront
boarding-house. The police had made several visits to Yun Shatu but had
never gotten any incriminating evidence against him.

So in one of these rooms I took up my abode and set to work studying
the material given me.

The pictures were all of one man, a large man, not unlike me in build
and general facial outline, except that he wore a heavy beard and was
inclined to blondness whereas I am dark. The name, as written on the
accompanying papers, was Major Fairlan Morley, special commissioner to
Natal and the Transvaal. This office and title were new to me and I
wondered at the connection between an African commissioner and an opium
house on the Thames waterfront.

The papers consisted of extensive data evidently copied from authentic
sources and all dealing with Major Morley, and a number of private
documents considerably illuminating on the major's private life.

An exhaustive description was given of the man's personal appearance
and habits, some of which seemed very trivial to me. I wondered what
the purpose could be, and how the One behind the screen had come in
possession of papers of such intimate nature.

I could find no clue in answer to this question but bent all my
energies to the task set out for me. I owed a deep debt of gratitude to
the unknown man who required this of me and I was determined to repay
him to the best of my ability. Nothing, at this time, suggested a snare
to me.



                       _5. The Man on the Couch_

   "What dam of lances sent thee forth to jest at dawn with Death?"

   --Kipling.


At the expiration of two days, Hassim beckoned me as I stood in the
opium room. I advanced with a springy, resilient tread, secure in the
confidence that I had culled the Morley papers of all their worth. I
was a new man; my mental swiftness and physical readiness surprized
me--sometimes it seemed unnatural.

Hassim eyed me through narrowed lids and motioned me to follow, as
usual. As we crossed the room, my gaze fell upon a man who lay on
a couch close to the wall, smoking opium. There was nothing at all
suspicious about his ragged, unkempt clothes, his dirty, bearded face
or the blank stare, but my eyes, sharpened to an abnormal point, seemed
to sense a certain incongruity in the clean-cut limbs which not even
the slouchy garments could efface.

Hassim spoke impatiently and I turned away. We entered the rear room,
and as he shut the door and turned to the table, it moved of itself and
a figure bulked up through the hidden doorway. The Sikh, Ganra Singh,
a lean sinister-eyed giant, emerged and proceeded to the door opening
into the opium room, where he halted until we should have descended and
closed the secret doorway.

Again I stood amid the billowing yellow smoke and listened to the
hidden voice.

"Do you think you know enough about Major Morley to impersonate him
successfully?"

Startled, I answered, "No doubt I could, unless I met someone who was
intimate with him."

"I will take care of that. Follow me closely. Tomorrow you sail on the
first boat for Calais. There you will meet an agent of mine who will
accost you the instant you step upon the wharfs, and give you further
instructions. You will sail second class and avoid all conversation
with strangers or anyone. Take the papers with you. The agent will aid
you in making up and your masquerade will start in Calais. That is all.
Go!"

I departed, my wonder growing. All this rigmarole evidently had a
meaning, but one which I could not fathom. Back in the opium room
Hassim bade me be seated on some cushions to await his return. To my
question he snarled that he was going forth as he had been ordered,
to buy me a ticket on the Channel boat. He departed and I sat down,
leaning my back against the wall. As I ruminated, it seemed suddenly
that eyes were fixed on me so intensely as to disturb my sub-mind. I
glanced up quickly but no one seemed to be looking at me. The smoke
drifted through the hot atmosphere as usual; Yussef Ali and the Chinese
glided back and forth tending to the wants of the sleepers.

Suddenly the door to the rear room opened and a strange and hideous
figure came haltingly out. Not all of those who found entrance to Yun
Shatu's back room were aristocrats and society members. This was one of
the exceptions, and one whom I remembered as having often entered and
emerged therefrom. A tall, gaunt figure, shapeless in ragged wrappings
and nondescript garments, face entirely hidden. Better that the face
be hidden, I thought, for without doubt the wrapping concealed a
grisly sight. The man was a leper, who had somehow managed to escape
the attention of the public guardians and who was occasionally seen
haunting the lower and more mysterious regions of East End--a mystery
even to the lowest denizens of Limehouse.

Suddenly my supersensitive mind was aware of a swift tension in the
air. The leper hobbled out the door, closed it behind him. My eyes
instinctively sought the couch whereon lay the man who had aroused my
suspicions earlier in the day. I could have sworn that cold steely eyes
gleamed menacingly before they flickered shut. I crossed to the couch
in one stride and bent over the prostrate man. Something about his face
seemed unnatural--a healthy bronze seemed to underlie the pallor of
complexion.

"Yun Shatu!" I shouted. "A spy is in the house!"

Things happened then with bewildering speed. The man on the couch with
one tigerish movement leaped erect and a revolver gleamed in his hand.
One sinewy arm flung me aside as I sought to grapple with him and a
sharp decisive voice sounded over the babble which broke forth:

"You there! Halt! Halt!"

The pistol in the stranger's hand was leveled at the leper, who was
making for the door in long strides!

All about was confusion; Yun Shatu was shrieking volubly in Chinese
and the four China boys and Yussef Ali were rushing in from all sides,
knives glittering in their hands.

All this I saw with unnatural clearness even as I marked the stranger's
face. As the flying leper gave no evidence of halting, I saw the eyes
harden to steely points of determination, sighting along the pistol
barrel--the features set with the grim purpose of the slayer. The leper
was almost to the outer door, but death would strike him down ere he
could reach it.

And then, just as the finger of the stranger tightened on the trigger,
I hurled myself forward and my right fist crashed against his chin. He
went down as though struck by a trip-hammer, the revolver exploding
harmlessly in the air.

In that instant, with the blinding flare of light that sometimes comes
to one, I knew that the leper was none other than the Man Behind the
Screen!

I bent over the fallen man, who though not entirely senseless had been
rendered temporarily helpless by that terrific blow. He was struggling
dazedly to rise but I shoved him roughly down again and seizing the
false beard he wore, tore it away. A lean bronzed face was revealed,
the strong lines of which not even the artificial dirt and grease-paint
could alter.

Yussef Ali leaned above him now, dagger in hand, eyes slits of murder.
The brown sinewy hand went up--I caught the wrist.

"Not so fast, you black devil! What are you about to do?"

"This is John Gordon," he hissed, "the Master's greatest foe! He must
die, curse you!"

John Gordon! The name was familiar somehow, and yet I did not seem to
connect it with the London police nor account for the man's presence
in Yun Shatu's dope-joint. However, on one point I was determined.

"You don't kill him, at any rate. Up with you!" This last to Gordon,
who with my aid staggered up, still very dizzy.

"That punch would have dropped a bull," I said in wonderment; "I didn't
know I had it in me."

The false leper had vanished. Yun Shatu stood gazing at me as immobile
as an idol, hands in his wide sleeves, and Yussef Ali stood back,
muttering murderously and thumbing his dagger edge, as I led Gordon
out of the opium room and through the innocent-appearing bar which lay
between that room and the street.

Out in the street I said to him: "I have no idea as to who you are or
what you are doing here, but you see what an unhealthful place it is
for you. Hereafter be advised by me and stay away."

His only answer was a searching glance, and then he turned and walked
swiftly though somewhat unsteadily up the street.



                          _6. The Dream Girl_

    "I have reached these lands but newly
    From an ultimate dim Thule."

    --Poe.


Outside my room sounded a light footstep. The door-knob turned
cautiously and slowly; the door opened. I sprang erect with a gasp.
Red lips, half parted, dark eyes like limpid seas of wonder, a mass of
shimmering hair--framed in my drab doorway stood the girl of my dreams!

She entered, and half turning with a sinuous motion, closed the door. I
sprang forward, my hands outstretched, then halted as she put a finger
to her lips.

"You must not talk loudly," she almost whispered; "_He_ did not say I
could not come; yet----"

Her voice was soft and musical, with just a touch of foreign accent
which I found delightful. As for the girl herself, every intonation,
every movement proclaimed the Orient. She was a fragrant breath from
the East. From her night-black hair, piled high above her alabaster
forehead, to her little feet, encased in high-heeled pointed slippers,
she portrayed the highest ideal of Asiatic loveliness--an effect which
was heightened rather than lessened by the English blouse and skirt
which she wore.

"You are beautiful!" I said dazedly. "Who are you?"

"I am Zuleika," she answered with a shy smile. "I--I am glad you like
me. I am glad you no longer dream hashish dreams."

Strange that so small a thing should set my heart to leaping wildly!

"I owe it all to you, Zuleika," I said huskily. "Had not I dreamed of
you every hour since you first lifted me from the gutter, I had lacked
the power of even hoping to be freed from my curse."

She blushed prettily and intertwined her white fingers as if in
nervousness.

"You leave England tomorrow?" she said suddenly.

"Yes. Hassim has not returned with my ticket----" I hesitated suddenly,
remembering the command of silence.

"Yes, I know, I know!" she whispered swiftly, her eyes widening. "And
John Gordon has been here! He saw you!"

"Yes!"

She came close to me with a quick lithe movement.

"You are to impersonate some man! Listen, while you are doing this, you
must not ever let Gordon see you! He would know you, no matter what
your disguise! He is a terrible man!"

"I don't understand," I said, completely bewildered. "How did the
Master break me of my hashish-craving? Who is this Gordon and why did
he come here? Why does the Master go disguised as a leper--and who is
he? Above all, why am I to impersonate a man I never saw or heard of?"

"I can not--I dare not tell you!" she whispered, her face paling.
"I----"

Somewhere in the house sounded the faint tones of a Chinese gong. The
girl started like a frightened gazelle.

"I must go! _He_ summons me!"

She opened the door, darted through, halted a moment to electrify me
with her passionate exclamation: "Oh, be careful, be very careful,
sahib!"

Then she was gone.



                       _7. The Man of the Skull_

    "What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"

    --Blake.


A while after my beautiful and mysterious visitor had left, I sat in
meditation. I believed that I had at last stumbled on to an explanation
of a part of the enigma, at any rate. This was the conclusion I had
reached: Yun Shatu, the opium lord, was simply the agent or servant
of some organization or individual whose work was on a far larger
scale than merely supplying dope addicts in the Temple of Dreams. This
man or these men needed co-workers among all classes of people; in
other words, I was being let in with a group of opium smugglers on a
gigantic scale. Gordon no doubt had been investigating the case, and
his presence alone showed that it was no ordinary one, for I knew that
he held a high position with the English government, though just what,
I did not know.

Opium or not, I determined to carry out my obligation to the Master.
My moral sense had been blunted by the dark ways I had traveled,
and the thought of despicable crime did not enter my head. I was
indeed hardened. More, the mere debt of gratitude was increased a
thousand-fold by the thought of the girl. To the Master I owed it
that I was able to stand up on my feet and look into her clear eyes
as a man should. So if he wished my services as a smuggler of dope,
he should have them. No doubt I was to impersonate some man so high
in governmental esteem that the usual actions of the customs officers
would be deemed unnecessary; was I to bring some rare dream-producer
into England?

These thoughts were in my mind as I went downstairs, but ever back of
them hovered other and more alluring suppositions--what was the reason
for the girl, here in this vile dive--a rose in a garbage-heap--and who
was she?

As I entered the outer bar, Hassim came in, his brows set in a dark
scowl of anger, and, I believed, fear. He carried a newspaper in his
hand, folded.

"I told you to wait in opium room," he snarled.

"You were gone so long that I went up to my room. Have you the ticket?"

He merely grunted and pushed on past me into the opium room, and
standing at the door I saw him cross the floor and disappear into the
rear room. I stood there, my bewilderment increasing. For as Hassim had
brushed past me, I had noted an item on the face of the paper, against
which his black thumb was tightly pressed as if to mark that special
column of news.

And with the unnatural celerity of action and judgment which seemed to
be mine those days, I had in that fleeting instant read:

             African Special Commissioner Found Murdered!

    The body of Major Fairlan Morley was yesterday discovered in a
    rotting ship's hold at Bordeaux....

No more I saw of the details, but that alone was enough to make me
think! The affair seemed to be taking on an ugly aspect. Yet----

Another day passed. To my inquiries, Hassim snarled that the plans had
been changed and I was not to go to France. Then, late in the evening,
he came to bid me once more to the room of mystery.

I stood before the lacquer screen, the yellow smoke acrid in my
nostrils, the woven dragons writhing along the tapestries, the
palm-trees rearing thick and oppressive.

"A change has come in our plans," said the hidden voice. "You will not
sail as was decided before. But I have other work that you may do.
Mayhap this will be more to your type of usefulness, for I admit you
have somewhat disappointed me in regard to subtlety. You interfered the
other day in such manner as will no doubt cause me great inconvenience
in the future."

I said nothing, but a feeling of resentment began to stir in me.

"Even after the assurance of one of my most trusted servants," the
toneless voice continued, with no mark of any emotion save a slightly
rising note, "you insisted on releasing my most deadly enemy. Be more
circumspect in the future."

"I saved your life!" I said angrily.

"And for that reason alone I overlook your mistake--this time!"

A slow fury suddenly surged up in me.

"This time! Make the best of it this time, for I assure you there will
be no next time. I owe you a greater debt than I can ever hope to pay,
but that does not make me your slave. I have saved your life--the debt
is as near paid as a man can pay it. Go your way and I go mine!"

A low, hideous laugh answered me, like a reptilian hiss.

"You fool! You will pay with your whole life's toil! You say you are
not my slave? I say you are--just as black Hassim there beside you is
my slave--just as the girl Zuleika is my slave, who has bewitched you
with her beauty."

These words sent a wave of hot blood to my brain and I was conscious of
a flood of fury which completely engulfed my reason for a second. Just
as all my moods and senses seemed sharpened and exaggerated those days,
so now this burst of rage transcended every moment of anger I had ever
had before.

"Hell's fiends!" I shrieked. "You devil--who are you and what is your
hold on me? I'll see you or die!"

Hassim sprang at me, but I hurled him backward and with one stride
reached the screen and flung it aside with an incredible effort of
strength. Then I shrank back, hands outflung, shrieking. A tall, gaunt
figure stood before me, a figure arrayed grotesquely in a silk brocaded
gown which fell to the floor.

From the sleeves of this gown protruded hands which filled me with
crawling horror--long, predatory hands, with thin bony fingers and
curved talons--withered skin of a parchment brownish-yellow, like the
hands of a man long dead.

The hands--but, oh God, the face! A skull to which no vestige of
flesh seemed to remain but on which taut brownish-yellow skin grew
fast, etching out every detail of that terrible death's-head. The
forehead was high and in a way magnificent, but the head was curiously
narrow through the temples, and from under penthouse brows great eyes
glimmered like pools of yellow fire. The nose was high-bridged and very
thin; the mouth was a mere colorless gash between thin, cruel lips.
A long, bony neck supported this frightful vision and completed the
effect of a reptilian demon from some mediæval hell.

I was face to face with the skull-faced man of my dreams!



                           _8. Black Wisdom_

    "By thought a crawling ruin,
      By life a leaping mire,
    By a broken heart in the breast of the world
      And the end of the world's desire."

    --Chesterton.


The terrible spectacle drove for the instant all thoughts of rebellion
from my mind. My very blood froze in my veins and I stood motionless.
I heard Hassim laugh grimly behind me. The eyes in the cadaverous face
blazed fiendishly at me and I blanched from the concentrated Satanic
fury in them.

Then the horror laughed sibilantly.

"I do you a great honor, Mr. Costigan; among a very few, even of my own
servants, you may say that you saw my face and lived. I think you will
be more useful to me living than dead."

I was silent, completely unnerved. It was difficult to believe that
this man lived, for his appearance certainly belied the thought. He
seemed horribly like a mummy. Yet his lips moved when he spoke and his
eyes flamed with hideous life.

"You will do as I say," he said abruptly, and his voice had taken on a
note of command. "You doubtless know, or know of, Sir Haldred Frenton?"

"Yes."

Every man of culture in Europe and America was familiar with the travel
books of Sir Haldred Frenton, author and soldier of fortune.

"You will go to Sir Haldred's estate tonight----"

"Yes?"

"_And kill him!_"

I staggered, literally. This order was incredible--unspeakable! I had
sunk low, low enough to smuggle opium, but to deliberately murder a
man I had never seen, a man noted for his kindly deeds! That was too
monstrous even to contemplate.

"You do not refuse?"

The tone was as loathly and as mocking as the hiss of a serpent.

"Refuse?" I screamed, finding my voice at last. "Refuse? You incarnate
devil! Of course I refuse! You----"

Something in the cold assurance of his manner halted me--froze me into
apprehensive silence.

"You fool!" he said calmly. "I broke the hashish chains--do you know
how? Four minutes from now you will know and curse the day you were
born! Have you not thought it strange, the swiftness of brain, the
resilience of body--the brain that should be rusty and slow, the body
that should be weak and sluggish from years of abuse? That blow that
felled John Gordon--have you not wondered at its might? The ease with
which you mastered Major Morley's records--have you not wondered at
that? You fool, you are bound to me by chains of steel and blood and
fire! I have kept you alive and sane--I alone. Each day the life-saving
elixir has been given you in your wine. You could not live and keep
your reason without it. And I and only I know its secret!"

He glanced at a queer timepiece which stood on a table at his elbow.

"This time I had Yun Shatu leave the elixir out--I anticipated
rebellion. The time is near--ha, it strikes!"

Something else he said, but I did not hear. I did not see, nor did
I feel in the human sense of the word. I was writhing at his feet,
screaming and gibbering in the flames of such hells as men have never
dreamed of.

Aye, I knew now! He had simply given me a dope so much stronger that
it drowned the hashish. My unnatural ability was explainable now--I
had simply been acting under the stimulus of something which combined
all the hells in its make-up, which stimulated, something like heroin,
but whose effect was unnoticed by the victim. What it was, I had no
idea, nor did I believe anyone knew save that hellish being who stood
watching me with grim amusement. But it had held my brain together,
instilling into my system a need for it, and now my frightful craving
tore my soul asunder.

Never, in my moments of worst shell-shock or my moments of
hashish-craving, have I ever experienced anything like that. I burned
with the heat of a thousand hells and froze with an iciness that was
colder than any ice, a hundred times. I swept down to the deepest pits
of torture and up to the highest crags of torment--a million yelling
devils hemmed me in, shrieking and stabbing. Bone by bone, vein by
vein, cell by cell I felt my body disintegrate and fly in bloody atoms
all over the universe--and each separate cell was an entire system
of quivering, screaming nerves. And they gathered from far voids and
reunited with a greater torment.

Through the fiery bloody mists I heard my own voice screaming, a
monotonous yammering. Then with distended eyes I saw a golden goblet,
held by a claw-like hand, swim into view--a goblet filled with an amber
liquid.

With a bestial screech I seized it with both hands, being dimly aware
that the metal stem gave beneath my fingers, and brought the brim to
my lips. I drank in frenzied haste, the liquid slopping down onto my
breast.



                        _9. Kathulos of Egypt_

    "Night shall be thrice night over you,
    And Heaven an iron cope."

    --Chesterton.


The Skull-faced One stood watching me critically as I sat panting on
a couch, completely exhausted. He held in his hand the goblet and
surveyed the golden stem, which was crushed out of all shape. This my
maniac fingers had done in the instant of drinking.

"Superhuman strength, even for a man in your condition," he said with a
sort of creaky pedantry. "I doubt if even Hassim here could equal it.
Are you ready for your instructions now?"

I nodded, wordless. Already the hellish strength of the elixir was
flowing through my veins, renewing my burnt-out force. I wondered
how long a man could live as I lived being constantly burned out and
artificially rebuilt.

"You will be given a disguise and will go alone to the Frenton estate.
No one suspects any design against Sir Haldred and your entrance into
the estate and the house itself should be a matter of comparative
ease. You will not don the disguise--which will be of unique
nature--until you are ready to enter the estate. You will then proceed
to Sir Haldred's room and kill him, breaking his neck with your bare
hands--this is essential----"

The voice droned on, giving its ghastly orders in a frightfully casual
and matter-of-fact way. The cold sweat beaded my brow.

"You will then leave the estate, taking care to leave the imprint of
your hand somewhere plainly visible, and the automobile, which will
be waiting for you at some safe place near by, will bring you back
here, you having first removed the disguise. I have, in case of later
complications, any amount of men who will swear that you spent the
entire night in the Temple of Dreams and never left it. But there must
be no detection! Go warily and perform your task surely, for you know
the alternative."

I did not return to the opium house but was taken through winding
corridors, hung with heavy tapestries, to a small room containing only
an Oriental couch. Hassim gave me to understand that I was to remain
there until after nightfall and then left me. The door was closed but
I made no effort to discover if it was locked. The Skull-faced Master
held me with stronger shackles than locks and bolts.

Seated upon the couch in the bizarre setting of a chamber which might
have been a room in an Indian zenana, I faced fact squarely and fought
out my battle. There was still in me some trace of manhood left--more
than the fiend had reckoned, and added to this were black despair and
desperation. I chose and determined on my only course.

Suddenly the door opened softly. Some intuition told me whom to expect,
nor was I disappointed. Zuleika stood, a glorious vision before me--a
vision which mocked me, made blacker my despair and yet thrilled me
with wild yearning and reasonless joy.

She bore a tray of food which she set beside me, and then she seated
herself on the couch, her large eyes fixed upon my face. A flower in a
serpent den she was, and the beauty of her took hold of my heart.

"Steephen!" she whispered and I thrilled as she spoke my name for the
first time.

Her luminous eyes suddenly shone with tears and she laid her little
hand on my arm. I seized it in both my rough hands.

"They have set you a task which you fear and hate!" she faltered.

"Aye," I almost laughed, "but I'll fool them yet! Zuleika, tell
me--what is the meaning of all this?"

She glanced fearfully around her.

"I do not know all"--she hesitated--"your plight is all my fault but
I--I hoped--Steephen, I have watched you every time you came to Yun
Shatu's for months. You did not see me but I saw you, and I saw in you,
not the broken sot your rags proclaimed, but a wounded soul, a soul
bruised terribly on the ramparts of life. And from my heart I pitied
you. Then when Hassim abused you that day"--again tears started to her
eyes--"I could not bear it and I knew how you suffered for want of
hashish. So I paid Yun Shatu, and going to the Master I--I--oh, you
will hate me for this!" she sobbed.

"No--no--never----"

"I told him that you were a man who might be of use to him and begged
him to have Yun Shatu supply you with what you needed. He had already
noticed you, for his is the eye of the slaver and all the world is his
slave market! So he bade Yun Shatu do as I asked; and now--better if
you had remained as you were, my friend."

"No! No!" I exclaimed. "I have known a few days of regeneration, even
if it was false! I have stood before you as a man, and that is worth
all else!"

And all that I felt for her must have looked forth from my eyes, for
she dropped hers and flushed. Ask me not how love comes to a man; but
I knew that I loved Zuleika--had loved this mysterious Oriental girl
since first I saw her--and somehow I felt that she, in a measure,
returned my affection. This realization made blacker and more barren
the road I had chosen; yet--for pure love must ever strengthen a
man--it nerved me to what I must do.

"Zuleika," I said, speaking hurriedly, "time flies and there are things
I must learn; tell me--who are you and why do you remain in this den of
Hades?"

"I am Zuleika--that is all I know. I am Circassian by blood and birth;
when I was very little I was captured in a Turkish raid and raised in a
Stamboul harem; while I was yet too young to marry, my master gave me
as a present to--to _Him_."

"And who is he--this skull-faced man?"

"He is Kathulos of Egypt--that is all I know. My master."

"An Egyptian? Then what is he doing in London--why all this mystery?"

She intertwined her fingers nervously.

"Steephen, please speak lower; always there is someone listening
everywhere. I do not know who the Master is or why he is here or why
he does these things. I swear by Allah! If I knew I would tell you.
Sometimes distinguished-looking men come here to the room where the
Master receives them--not the room where you saw him--and he makes me
dance before them and afterward flirt with them a little. And always
I must repeat exactly what they say to me. That is what I must always
do--in Turkey, in the Barbary States, in Egypt, in France and in
England. The Master taught me French and English and educated me in
many ways himself. He is the greatest sorcerer in all the world and
knows all ancient magic and everything."

"Zuleika," I said, "my race is soon run, but let me get you out of
this--come with me and I swear I'll get you away from this fiend!"

She shuddered and hid her face.

"No, no, I can not!"

"Zuleika," I asked gently, "what hold has he over you, child--dope
also?"

"No, no!" she whimpered. "I do not know--I do not know--but I can
not--I never can escape him!"

I sat, baffled for a few moments; then I asked, "Zuleika, where are we
right now?"

"This building is a deserted storehouse back of the Temple of Silence."

"I thought so. What is in the chests in the tunnel?"

"I do not know."

Then suddenly she began weeping softly. "You too, a slave, like me--you
who are so strong and kind--oh Steephen, I can not bear it!"

I smiled. "Lean closer, Zuleika, and I will tell you how I am going to
fool this Kathulos."

She glanced apprehensively at the door.

"You must speak low. I will lie in your arms and while you pretend to
caress me, whisper your words to me."

She glided into my embrace, and there on the dragon-worked couch in
that house of horror I first knew the glory of Zuleika's slender form
nestling in my arms--of Zuleika's soft cheek pressing my breast. The
fragrance of her was in my nostrils, her hair in my eyes, and my senses
reeled; then with my lips hidden by her silky hair I whispered, swiftly:

"I am going first to warn Sir Haldred Frenton--then to find John
Gordon and tell him of this den. I will lead the police here and you
must watch closely and be ready to hide from _Him_--until we can break
through and kill or capture him. Then you will be free."

"But you!" she gasped, paling. "You must have the elixir, and only
he----"

"I have a way of outdoing him, child," I answered.

She went pitifully white and her woman's intuition sprang at the right
conclusion.

"You are going to kill yourself!"

And much as it hurt me to see her emotion, I yet felt a torturing
thrill that she should feel so on my account. Her arms tightened about
my neck.

"Don't, Steephen!" she begged. "It is better to live, even----"

"No, not at that price. Better to go out clean while I have the manhood
left."

She stared at me wildly for an instant; then, pressing her red lips
suddenly to mine, she sprang up and fled from the room. Strange,
strange are the ways of love. Two stranded ships on the shores of life,
we had drifted inevitably together, and though no word of love had
passed between us, we knew each other's heart--through grime and rags,
and through the accoutrements of the slave, we knew each other's heart
and from the first loved as naturally and as purely as it was intended
from the beginning of Time.

The beginning of life now and the end for me, for as soon as I had
completed my task, ere I felt again the torments of my curse, love and
life and beauty and torture should be blotted out together in the stark
finality of a pistol ball scattering my rotting brain. Better a clean
death than----

The door opened again and Yussef Ali entered.

"The hour arrives for departure," he said briefly. "Rise and follow."

I had no idea, of course, as to the time. No window opened from the
room I occupied--I had seen no outer window whatever. The rooms were
lighted by tapers in censers swinging from the ceiling. As I rose the
slim young Moor slanted a sinister glance in my direction.

"This lies between you and me," he said sibilantly. "Servants of the
same Master we--but this concerns ourselves alone. Keep your distance
from Zuleika--the Master has promised her to me in the days of the
empire."

My eyes narrowed to slits as I looked into the frowning, handsome face
of the Oriental, and such hate surged up in me as I have seldom known.
My fingers involuntarily opened and closed, and the Moor, marking the
action, stepped back, hand in his girdle.

"Not now--there is work for us both--later perhaps;" then in a sudden
cold gust of hatred, "Swine! ape-man! when the Master is finished with
you I shall quench my dagger in your heart!"

I laughed grimly.

"Make it soon, desert-snake, or I'll crush your spine between my hands."



                         _10. The Dark House_

    "Against all man-made shackles and a man-made Hell--
    Alone--at last--unaided--I rebel!"

    --Mundy.


I followed Yussef Ali along the winding hallways, down the
steps--Kathulos was not in the idol-room--and along the tunnel, then
through the rooms of the Temple of Dreams and out into the street,
where the street lamps gleamed drearily through the fogs and a sight
drizzle. Across the street stood an automobile, curtains closely drawn.

"That is yours," said Hassim, who had joined us. "Saunter across
natural-like. Don't act suspicious. The place may be watched. The
driver knows what to do."

Then he and Yussef Ali drifted back into the bar and I took a single
step toward the curb.

"Steephen!"

A voice that made my heart leap spoke my name! A white hand beckoned
from the shadows of a doorway. I stepped quickly there.

"Zuleika!"

"Shhh!"

She clutched my arm, slipped something into my hand; I made out vaguely
a small flask of gold.

"Hide this, quick!" came her urgent whisper. "Don't come back but go
away and hide. This is full of elixir--I will try to get you some more
before that is all gone. You must find a way of communicating with me."

"Yes, but how did you get this?" I asked amazedly.

"I stole it from the Master! Now please, I must go before he misses me."

And she sprang back into the doorway and vanished. I stood undecided. I
was sure that she had risked nothing less than her life in doing this
and I was torn by the fear of what Kathulos might do to her, were the
theft discovered. But to return to the house of mystery would certainly
invite suspicion, and I might carry out my plan and strike back before
the Skull-faced One learned of his slave's duplicity.

So I crossed the street to the waiting automobile. The driver was a
negro whom I had never seen before, a lanky man of medium height. I
stared hard at him, wondering how much he had seen. He gave no evidence
of having seen anything, and I decided that even if he had noticed me
step back into the shadows he could not have seen what passed there nor
have been able to recognize the girl.

He merely nodded as I climbed in the back seat, and a moment later we
were speeding away down the deserted and fog-haunted streets. A bundle
beside me I concluded to be the disguise mentioned by the Egyptian.

To recapture the sensations I experienced as I rode through the rainy,
misty night would be impossible. I felt as if I were already dead and
the bare and dreary streets about me were the roads of death over which
my ghost had been doomed to roam forever. A torturing joy was in my
heart, and bleak despair--the despair of a doomed man. Not that death
itself was so repellent--a dope victim dies too many deaths to shrink
from the last--but it was hard to go out just as love had entered my
barren life. And I was still young.

A sardonic smile crossed my lips--they were young, too, the men who
died beside me in No Man's Land. I drew back my sleeve and clenched my
fists, tensing my muscles. There was no surplus weight on my frame,
and much of the firm flesh had wasted away, but the cords of the great
biceps still stood out like knots of iron, seeming to indicate massive
strength. But I knew my might was false, that in reality I was a broken
husk of a man, animated only by the artificial fire of the elixir,
without which a frail girl might topple me over.

The automobile came to a halt among some trees. We were on the
outskirts of an exclusive suburb and the hour was past midnight.
Through the trees I saw a large house looming darkly against the
distant flares of night-time London.

"This is where I wait," said the negro. "No one can see the automobile
from the road or from the house."

Holding a match so that its light could not be detected outside the
car, I examined the "disguise" and was hard put to restrain an insane
laugh. The disguise was the complete hide of a gorilla! Gathering the
bundle under my arm I trudged toward the wall which surrounded the
Frenton estate. A few steps and the trees where the negro hid with the
car merged into one dark mass. I did not believe he could see me, but
for safety's sake I made, not for the high iron gate at the front but
for the wall at the side where there was no gate.

No light showed in the house. Sir Haldred was a bachelor and I was sure
that the servants were all in bed long ago. I negotiated the wall with
ease and stole across the dark lawn to a side door, still carrying
the grisly "disguise" under my arm. The door was locked, as I had
anticipated, and I did not wish to arouse anyone until I was safely
in the house, where the sound of voices would not carry to one who
might have followed me. I took hold of the knob with both hands, and,
exerting slowly the inhuman strength that was mine, began to twist. The
shaft turned in my hands and the lock within shattered suddenly, with a
noise that was like the crash of a cannon in the stillness. An instant
more and I was inside and had closed the door behind me.

       *       *       *       *       *

I took a single stride in the darkness in the direction I believed the
stair to be, then halted as a beam of light flashed into my face. At
the side of the beam I caught the glimmer of a pistol muzzle. Beyond a
lean shadowy face floated.

"Stand where you are and put up your hands!"

I lifted my hands, allowing the bundle to slip to the floor. I had
heard that voice only once but I recognized it--knew instantly that the
man who held that light was John Gordon.

"How many are with you?"

His voice was sharp, commanding.

"I am alone," I answered. "Take me into a room where a light can not be
seen from the outside and I'll tell you some things you want to know."

He was silent; then, bidding me take up the bundle I had dropped, he
stepped to one side and motioned me to precede him into the next room.
There he directed me to a stairway and at the top landing opened a door
and switched on lights.

I found myself in a room whose curtains were closely drawn. During this
journey Gordon's alertness had not relaxed, and now he stood, still
covering me with his revolver. Clad in conventional garments, he stood
revealed a tall, leanly but powerfully built man, taller than I but not
so heavy--with steel-gray eyes and clean-cut features. Something about
the man attracted me, even as I noted a bruise on his jawbone where my
fist had struck in our last meeting.

"I can not believe," he said crispily, "that this apparent clumsiness
and lack of subtlety is real. Doubtless you have your own reasons for
wishing me to be in a secluded room at this time, but Sir Haldred is
efficiently protected even now. Stand still."

Muzzle pressed against my chest, he ran his hand over my garments for
concealed weapons, seeming slightly surprized when he found none.

"Still," he murmured as if to himself, "a man who can burst an iron
lock with his bare hands has scant need of weapons."

"You are wasting valuable time," I said impatiently. "I was sent here
tonight to kill Sir Haldred Frenton----"

"By whom?" the question was shot at me.

"By the man who sometimes goes disguised as a leper."

He nodded, a gleam in his scintillant eyes.

"My suspicions were correct, then."

"Doubtless. Listen to me closely--do you desire the death or arrest of
that man?"

Gordon laughed grimly.

"To one who wears the mark of the scorpion on his hand, my answer would
be superfluous."

"Then follow my directions and your wish shall be granted."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"So that was the meaning of this open entry and non-resistance," he
said slowly. "Does the dope which dilates your eyeballs so warp your
mind that you think to lead me into ambush?"

I pressed my hands against my temples. Time was racing and every moment
was precious--how could I convince this man of my honesty?

"Listen; my name is Stephen Costigan of America. I was a frequenter of
Yun Shatu's dive and a hashish addict--as you have guessed, but just
now a slave of stronger dope. By virtue of this slavery, the man you
know as a false leper, whom Yun Shatu and his friends call 'Master,'
gained dominance over me and sent me here to murder Sir Haldred--why,
God only knows. But I have gained a space of respite by coming into
possession of some of this dope which I must have in order to live, and
I fear and hate this Master. Listen to me and I swear, by all things
holy and unholy, that before the sun rises the false leper shall be in
your power!"

I could tell that Gordon was impressed in spite of himself.

"Speak fast!" he rapped.

Still I could sense his disbelief and a wave of futility swept over me.

"If you will not act with me," I said, "let me go and somehow I'll find
a way to get to the Master and kill him. My time is short--my hours
are numbered and my vengeance is yet to be realized."

"Let me hear your plan, and talk fast," Gordon answered.

"It is simple enough. I will return to the Master's lair and tell him I
have accomplished that which he sent me to do. You must follow closely
with your men and while I engage the Master in conversation, surround
the house. Then, at the signal, break in and kill or seize him."

Gordon frowned. "Where is this house?"

"The warehouse back of Yun Shatu's has been converted into a veritable
Oriental palace."

"The warehouse!" he exclaimed. "How can that be? I had thought of that
first, but I have carefully examined it from without. The windows are
closely barred and spiders have built webs across them. The doors are
nailed fast on the outside and the seals that mark the warehouse as
deserted have never been broken or disturbed in any way."

"They tunneled up from beneath," I answered. "The Temple of Dreams is
directly connected with the warehouse."

"I have traversed the alley between the two buildings," said Gordon,
"and the doors of the warehouse opening into that alley are, as I have
said, nailed shut from without just as the owners left them. There is
apparently no rear exit of any kind from the Temple of Dreams."

"A tunnel connects the buildings, with one door in the rear room of Yun
Shatu's and the other in the idol-room of the warehouse."

"I have been in Yun Shatu's back room and found no such door."

"The table rests upon it. You noted the heavy table in the center of
the room? Had you turned it around the secret door would have opened
in the floor. Now this is my plan: I will go in through the Temple
of Dreams and meet the Master in the idol-room. You will have men
secretly stationed in front of the warehouse and others upon the other
street, in front of the Temple of Dreams. Yun Shatu's building, as
you know, faces the waterfront, while the warehouse, fronting the
opposite direction, faces a narrow street running parallel with the
river. At the signal let the men in this street break open the front of
the warehouse and rush in, while simultaneously those in front of Yun
Shatu's make an invasion through the Temple of Dreams. Let these make
for the rear room, shooting without mercy any who may seek to deter
them, and there open the secret door as I have said. There being, to
the best of my knowledge, no other exit from the Master's lair, he and
his servants will necessarily seek to make their escape through the
tunnel. Thus we will have them on both sides."

Gordon ruminated while I studied his face with breathless interest.

"This may be only a snare," he mattered, "or an attempt to draw me away
from Sir Haldred, but----"

I held my breath.

"I am a gambler by nature," he said slowly. "I am going to follow what
you Americans call a hunch--but God help you if you are lying to me!"

I sprang erect.

"Thank God! Now aid me with this suit, for I must be wearing it when I
return to the automobile waiting for me."

His eyes narrowed as I shook out the horrible masquerade and prepared
to don it.

"This shows, as always, the touch of the master hand. You were
doubtless instructed to leave marks of your hands, encased in those
hideous gauntlets?"

"Yes--though I have no idea why."

"I think I have--the Master is famed for leaving no real clues to mark
his crimes--a great ape escaped from a neighboring zoo earlier in the
evening and it seems too obvious for mere chance, in the light of this
disguise. The ape would have gotten the blame of Sir Haldred's death."

The thing was easily gotten into and the illusion of reality it created
was so perfect as to draw a shudder from me as I viewed myself in a
mirror.

"It is now two o'clock," said Gordon. "Allowing for the time it will
take you to get back to Limehouse and the time it will take me to get
my men stationed, I promise you that at half-past four the house will
be closely surrounded. Give me a start--wait here until I have left
this house, so I will arrive at least as soon as you."

"Good!" I impulsively grasped his hand. "There will doubtless be a girl
there who is in no way implicated with the Master's evil doings, but
only a victim of circumstances such as I have been. Deal gently with
her."

"It shall be done. What signal shall I look for?"

"I have no way of signaling you and I doubt if any sound in the house
could be heard on the street. Let your men make their raid on the
stroke of five."

I turned to go.

"A man is waiting for you with a car, I take it? Is he likely to
suspect anything?"

"I have a way of finding out, and if he does," I replied grimly, "I
will return alone to the Temple of Dreams."



                        _11. Four Thirty-Four_

    "Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."

    --Poe.


The door closed softly behind me, the great dark house looming up
more starkly than ever. Stooping, I crossed the wet lawn at a run,
a grotesque and unholy figure, I doubt not, since any man had at a
glance sworn me to be not a man but a giant ape. So craftily had the
Master devised!

I clambered the wall, dropped to the earth beyond and made my way
through the darkness and the drizzle to the group of trees which masked
the automobile.

The negro driver leaned out of the front seat. I was breathing hard and
sought in various ways to simulate the actions of a man who has just
murdered in cold blood and fled the scene of his crime.

"You heard nothing, no sound, no scream?" I hissed, gripping his arm.

"No noise except a slight crash when you first went in," he answered.
"You did a good job--nobody passing along the road could have suspected
anything."

"Have you remained in the car all the time?" I asked. And when he
replied that he had, I seized his ankle and ran my hand over the soles
of his shoe; it was perfectly dry, as was the cuff of his trouser leg.
Satisfied, I climbed into the back seat. Had he taken a step on the
earth, shoe and garment would have showed it by the telltale dampness.

I ordered him to refrain from starting the engine until I had removed
the apeskin, and then we sped through the night and I fell victim to
doubts and uncertainties. Why should Gordon put any trust in the word
of a stranger and a former ally of the Master's? Would he not put my
tale down as the ravings of a dope-crazed addict, or a lie to ensnare
or befool him? Still, if he had not believed me, why had he let me go?

I could but trust. At any rate, what Gordon did or did not do would
scarcely affect my fortunes ultimately, even though Zuleika had
furnished me with that which would merely extend the number of my days.
My thoughts centered on her, and more than my hope of vengeance on
Kathulos was the hope that Gordon might be able to save her from the
clutches of the fiend. At any rate, I thought grimly, if Gordon failed
me, I still had my hands and if I might lay them upon the bony frame of
the Skull-faced One----

Abruptly I found myself thinking of Yussef Ali and his strange words,
the import of which just occurred to me, "_The Master has promised her
to me in the days of the empire!_"

The days of the empire--what could that mean?

The automobile at last drew up in front of the building which hid
the Temple of Silence--now dark and still. The ride had seemed
interminable, and as I dismounted I glanced at the timepiece on the
dashboard of the car. My heart leaped--it was four thirty-four, and
unless my eyes tricked me I saw a movement in the shadows across the
street, out of the flare of the street lamp. At this time of night it
could mean only one of two things--some menial of the Master watching
for my return or else Gordon had kept his word. The negro drove away
and I opened the door, crossed the deserted bar and entered the opium
room. The bunks and the floor were littered with the dreamers, for such
places as these know nothing of day or night as normal people know, but
all lay deep in sottish slumber.

The lamps glimmered through the smoke and a silence hung mist-like over
all.



                       _12. The Stroke of Five_

    "He saw gigantic tracks of death,
    And many a shape of doom."

    --Chesterton.


Two of the China boys squatted among the smudge fires, staring at me
unwinkingly as I threaded my way among the recumbent bodies and made
my way to the rear door. For the first time I traversed the corridor
alone and found time to wonder again as to the contents of the strange
chests which lined the walls.

Four raps on the under side of the floor, and a moment later I stood
in the idol-room. I gasped in amazement--the fact that across a
table from me sat Kathulos in all his horror was not the cause of my
exclamation. Except for the table, the chair on which the Skull-face
sat and the altar--now bare of incense--the room was perfectly bare!
Drab, unlovely walls of the unused warehouse met my gaze instead of the
costly tapestries I had become accustomed to. The palms, the idol, the
lacquered screen--all were gone.

"Ah, Mr. Costigan, you wonder, no doubt."

The dead voice of the Master broke in on my thoughts. His serpent eyes
glittered balefully. The long yellow fingers twined sinuously upon the
table.

"You thought me to be a trusting fool, no doubt!" he rapped suddenly.
"Did you think I would not have you followed? You fool, Yussef Ali was
at your heels every moment!"

An instant I stood speechless, frozen by the crash of these words
against my brain; then as their import sank home, I launched myself
forward with a roar. At the same instant, before my clutching fingers
could close on the mocking horror on the other side of the table, men
rushed from every side. I whirled, and with the clarity of hate, from
the swirl of savage faces I singled out Yussef Ali, and crashed my
right fist against his temple with every ounce of my strength. Even
as he dropped, Hassim struck me to my knees and a Chinaman flung a
man-net over my shoulders. I heaved erect, bursting the stout cords as
if they were strings, and then a blackjack in the hands of Ganra Singh
stretched me stunned and bleeding on the floor.

Lean sinewy hands seized and bound me with cords that cut cruelly into
my flesh. Emerging from the mists of semi-unconsciousness, I found
myself lying on the altar with the masked Kathulos towering over me
like a gaunt ivory tower. About in a semicircle stood Ganra Singh, Yar
Khan, Yun Shatu and several others whom I knew as frequenters of the
Temple of Dreams. Beyond them--and the sight cut me to the heart--I saw
Zuleika crouching in a doorway, her face white and her hands pressed
against her cheeks, in an attitude of abject terror.

"I did not fully trust you," said Kathulos sibilantly, "so I sent
Yussef Ali to follow you. He reached the group of trees before you and
following you into the estate heard your very interesting conversation
with John Gordon--for he scaled the house-wall like a cat and clung to
the window-ledge! Your driver delayed purposely so as to give Yussef
Ali plenty of time to get back--I have decided to change my abode
anyway. My furnishings are already on their way to another house, and
as soon as we have disposed of the traitor--you!--we shall depart also,
leaving a little surprize for your friend Gordon when he arrives at
five-thirty."

My heart gave a sudden leap of hope. Yussef Ali had misunderstood, and
Kathulos lingered here in false security while the London detective
force had already silently surrounded the house. Over my shoulder I saw
Zuleika vanish from the door.

I eyed Kathulos, absolutely unaware of what he was saying. It was not
long until five--if he dallied longer--then I froze as the Egyptian
spoke a word and Li Kung, a gaunt, cadaverous Chinaman, stepped from
the silent semicircle and drew from his sleeve a long thin dagger. My
eyes sought the timepiece that still rested on the table and my heart
sank. It was still ten minutes until five. My death did not matter so
much, since it simply hastened the inevitable, but in my mind's eye I
could see Kathulos and his murderers escaping while the police awaited
the stroke of five.

The Skull-face halted in some harangue, and stood in a listening
attitude. I believe his uncanny intuition warned him of danger. He
spoke a quick staccato command to Li Kung and the Chinaman sprang
forward, dagger lifted above my breast.

The air was suddenly supercharged with dynamic tension. The keen
dagger-point hovered high above me--loud and clear sounded the skirl of
a police whistle and on the heels of the sound there came a terrific
crash from the front of the warehouse!

Kathulos leaped into frenzied activity. Hissing orders like a cat
spitting, he sprang for the hidden door and the rest followed him.
Things happened with the speed of a nightmare. Li Kung had followed the
rest, but Kathulos flung a command over his shoulder and the Chinaman
turned back and came rushing toward the altar where I lay, dagger high,
desperation in his countenance.

[Illustration: "Kathulos leaped into frenzied activity, hissing orders
like a cat."]

A scream broke through the clamor and as I twisted desperately about to
avoid the descending dagger, I caught a glimpse of Kathulos dragging
Zuleika away. Then with a frenzied wrench I toppled from the altar
just as Li Kung's dagger, grazing my breast, sank inches deep into the
dark-stained surface and quivered there.

I had fallen on the side next to the wall and what was taking place
in the room I could not see, but it seemed as if far away I could
hear men screaming faintly and hideously. Then Li Kung wrenched
his blade free and sprang, tigerishly, around the end of the altar.
Simultaneously a revolver cracked from the doorway--the Chinaman spun
clear around, the dagger flying from his hand--he slumped to the floor.

Gordon came running from the doorway where a few moments earlier
Zuleika had stood, his pistol still smoking in his hand. At his heels
were three rangy, clean-cut men in plain clothes. He cut my bonds and
dragged me upright.

"Quick! Where have they gone?"

The room was empty of life save for myself, Gordon and his men, though
two dead men lay on the floor.

I found the secret door and after a few seconds' search located the
lever which opened it. Revolvers drawn, the men grouped about me and
peered nervously into the dark stairway. Not a sound came up from the
total darkness.

"This is uncanny!" muttered Gordon. "I suppose the Master and his
servants went this way when they left the building--as they are
certainly not here now!--and Leary and his men should have stopped them
either in the tunnel itself or in the rear room of Yun Shatu's. At any
rate, in either event they should have communicated with us by this
time."

"Look out, sir!" one of the men exclaimed suddenly, and Gordon, with an
ejaculation, struck out with his pistol barrel and crushed the life
from a huge snake which had crawled silently up the steps from the
blackness beneath.

"Let us see into this matter," said he, straightening.

But before he could step onto the first stair, I halted him; for, flesh
crawling, I began dimly to understand something of what had happened--I
began to understand the silence in the tunnel, the absence of the
detectives, the screams I had heard some minutes previously while I
lay on the altar. Examining the lever which opened the door, I found
another smaller lever--I began to believe I knew what those mysterious
chests in the tunnel contained.

"Gordon," I said hoarsely, "have you an electric torch?"

One of the men produced a large one.

"Direct the light into the tunnel, but as you value your life, do not
put a foot upon the steps."

The beam of light struck through the shadows, lighting the tunnel,
etching out boldly a scene that will haunt my brain all the rest of my
life. On the floor of the tunnel, between the chests which now gaped
open, lay two men who were members of London's finest secret service.
Limbs twisted and faces horribly distorted they lay, and above and
about them writhed, in long glittering scaly shimmerings, scores of
hideous reptiles.

The clock struck five.



                    _13. The Blind Beggar Who Rode_

    "He seemed a beggar such as lags
      Looking for crusts and ale."

    --Chesterton.


The cold gray dawn was stealing over the river as we stood in the
deserted bar of the Temple of Dreams. Gordon was questioning the
two men who had remained on guard outside the building while their
unfortunate companions went in to explore the tunnel.

"As soon as we heard the whistle, sir, Leary and Murken rushed the bar
and broke into the opium room, while we waited here at the bar door
according to orders. Right away several ragged dopers came tumbling out
and we grabbed them. But no one else came out and we heard nothing
from Leary and Murken; so we just waited until you came, sir."

"You saw nothing of a giant negro, or of the Chinaman Yun Shatu?"

"No, sir. After a while the patrolmen arrived and we threw a cordon
around the house, but no one was seen."

Gordon shrugged his shoulders; a few cursory questions had satisfied
him that the captives were harmless addicts and he had them released.

"You are sure no one else came out?"

"Yes, sir--no, wait a moment. A wretched old blind beggar did come out,
all rags and dirt and with a ragged girl leading him. We stopped him
but didn't hold him--a wretch like that couldn't be harmful."

"No?" Gordon jerked out. "Which way did he go?"

"The girl led him down the street to the next block and then an
automobile stopped and they got in and drove off, sir."

Gordon glared at him.

"The stupidity of the London detective has rightfully become an
international jest," he said acidly. "No doubt it never occurred to you
as being strange that a Limehouse beggar should ride about in his own
automobile."

Then impatiently waving aside the man, who sought to speak further, he
turned to me and I saw the lines of weariness beneath his eyes.

"Mr. Costigan, if you will come to my apartment we may be able to clear
up some few things."



                        _14. The Black Empire_

    "Oh the new spears dipped in life-blood as the woman shrieked in vain!
    Oh the days before the English! When will those days come again?"

    --Mundy.


Gordon struck a match and absently allowed it to flicker and go out in
his hand. His Turkish cigarette hung unlighted between his fingers.

"This is the most logical conclusion to be reached," he was saying.
"The weak link in our chain was lack of men. But curse it, one can not
round up an army at two o'clock in the morning, even with the aid of
Scotland Yard. I went on to Limehouse, leaving orders for a number of
patrolmen to follow me as quickly as they could be gotten together, and
to throw a cordon about the house.

"They arrived too late to prevent the Master's servants slipping out
of side doors and windows, no doubt, as they could easily do with only
Finnegan and Hansen on guard at the front of the building. However,
they arrived in time to prevent the Master himself from slipping out in
that way--no doubt he lingered to effect his disguise and was caught in
that manner. He owes his escape to his craft and boldness and to the
carelessness of Finnegan and Hansen. The girl who accompanied him----"

"She was Zuleika, without doubt."

I answered listlessly, wondering anew what shackles bound her to the
Egyptian sorcerer.

"You owe your life to her," Gordon rapped, lighting another match. "We
were standing in the shadows in front of the warehouse, waiting for the
hour to strike, and of course ignorant as to what was going on in the
house, when a girl appeared at one of the barred windows and begged us
for God's sake to do something, that a man was being murdered. So we
broke in at once. However, she was not to be seen when we entered."

"She returned to the room, no doubt," I muttered, "and was forced to
accompany the Master. God grant he knows nothing of her trickery."

"I do not know," said Gordon, dropping the charred match stem, "whether
she guessed at our true identity or whether she just made the appeal in
desperation.

"However, the main point is this: evidence points to the fact that, on
hearing the whistle, Leary and Murken invaded Yun Shatu's from the
front at the same instant my three men and I made our attack on the
warehouse front. As it took us some seconds to batter down the door, it
is logical to suppose that they found the secret door and entered the
tunnel before we effected an entrance into the warehouse.

"The Master, knowing our plans beforehand, and being aware that an
invasion would be made through the tunnel and having long ago made
preparations for such an exigency----"

An involuntary shudder shook me.

"----the Master worked the lever that opened the chest--the screams you
heard as you lay upon the altar were the death shrieks of Leary and
Murken. Then, leaving the Chinaman behind to finish you, the Master
and the rest descended into the tunnel--incredible as it seems--and
threading their way unharmed among the serpents, entered Yun Shatu's
house and escaped therefrom as I have said."

"That seems impossible. Why should not the snakes turn on them?"

Gordon finally ignited his cigarette and puffed a few seconds before
replying.

"The reptiles might still have been giving their full and hideous
attention to the dying men, or else--I have on previous occasions been
confronted with indisputable proof of the Master's dominance over
beasts and reptiles of even the lowest or most dangerous orders. How he
and his slaves passed unhurt among those scaly fiends must remain, at
present, one of the many unsolved mysteries pertaining to that strange
man."

I stirred restlessly in my chair. This brought up a point for the
purpose of clearing up which I had come to Gordon's neat but bizarre
apartments.

"You have not yet told me," I said abruptly, "who this man is and what
is his mission."

"As to who he is, I can only say that he is known as you name him--the
Master. I have never seen him unmasked, nor do I know his real name nor
his nationality."

"I can enlighten you to an extent there," I broke in. "I have seen him
unmasked and have heard the name his slaves call him."

Gordon's eyes blazed and he leaned forward.

"His name," I continued, "is Kathulos and he claims to be an Egyptian."

"Kathulos!" Gordon repeated. "You say he claims to be an Egyptian--have
you any reason for doubting his claim of that nationality?"

"He may be of Egypt," I answered slowly, "but he is different, somehow,
from any human I ever saw or hope to see. Great age might account for
some of his peculiarities, but there are certain lineal differences
that my anthropological studies tell me have been present since
birth--features which would be abnormal to any other man but which are
perfectly normal in Kathulos. That sounds paradoxical, I admit, but to
appreciate fully the horrid inhumanness of the man, you would have to
see him yourself."

       *       *       *       *       *

Gordon sat all attention while I swiftly sketched the appearance of the
Egyptian as I remembered him--and that appearance was indelibly etched
on my brain forever.

As I finished he nodded.

"As I have said, I never saw Kathulos except when disguised as a
beggar, a leper or some such thing--when he was fairly swathed in rags.
Still, I too have been impressed with a strange _difference_ about
him--something that is not present in other men."

Gordon tapped his knee with his fingers--a habit of his when deeply
engrossed by a problem of some sort.

"You have asked as to the mission of this man," he began slowly. "I
will tell you all I know.

"My position with the British government is a unique and peculiar one.
I hold what might be called a roving commission--an office created
solely for the purpose of suiting my special needs. As a secret service
official during the war, I convinced the powers of a need of such
office and of my ability to fill it.

"Somewhat over seventeen months ago I was sent to South Africa to
investigate the unrest which has been growing among the natives of
the interior ever since the World War and which has of late assumed
alarming proportions. There I first got on the track of this man
Kathulos. I found, in roundabout ways, that Africa was a seething
cauldron of rebellion from Morocco to Cape Town. The old, old vow had
been made again--the negroes and the Mohammedans, banded together,
should drive the white men into the sea.

"This pact has been made before but always, hitherto, broken. Now,
however, I sensed a giant intellect and a monstrous genius behind
the veil, a genius powerful enough to accomplish this union and hold
it together. Working entirely on hints and vague whispered clues, I
followed the trail up through Central Africa and into Egypt. There,
at last, I came upon definite evidence that such a man existed. The
whispers hinted of a living dead man--a _skull-faced_ man. I learned
that this man was the high priest of the mysterious Scorpion society of
northern Africa. He was spoken of variously as Skull-face, the Master,
and the Scorpion.

"Following a trail of bribed officials and filched state secrets,
I at last trailed him to Alexandria, where I had my first sight of
him in a dive in the native quarter--disguised as a leper. I heard
him distinctly addressed as 'Mighty Scorpion' by the natives, but he
escaped me.

"All trace vanished then; the trail ran out entirely until rumors of
strange happenings in London reached me and I came back to England, to
investigate an apparent leak in the war office.

"As I thought, the Scorpion had preceded me. This man, whose education
and craft transcend anything I ever met with, is simply the leader and
instigator of a world-wide movement such as the world has never seen
before. He plots, in a word, the overthrow of the white races!

"His ultimate aim is a black empire, with himself as emperor of
the world! And to that end he has banded together in one monstrous
conspiracy the black, the brown and the yellow."

"I understand now what Yussef Ali meant when he said 'the days of the
empire'," I muttered.

"Exactly," Gordon rapped with suppressed excitement. "Kathulos' power
is unlimited and unguessed. Like an octopus his tentacles stretch to
the high places of civilization and the far corners of the world.
And his Main weapon is--dope! He has flooded Europe and no doubt
America with opium and hashish, and in spite of all effort it has been
impossible to discover the break in the barriers through which the
hellish stuff is coming. With this he ensnares and enslaves men and
women.

"You have told me of the aristocratic men and women you saw coming to
Yun Shatu's dive. Without doubt they were dope addicts--for, as I said,
the habit lurks in high places--holders of governmental positions, no
doubt, coming to trade for the stuff they craved and giving in return
state secrets, inside information and promise of protection for the
Master's crimes.

"Oh, he does not work haphazardly! Before ever the black flood breaks,
he will be prepared; if he has his way, the governments of the white
races will be honeycombs of corruption--the strongest men of the white
races will be dead. The white men's secrets of war will be his. When
it comes, I look for a simultaneous uprising against white supremacy,
of all the colored races--races who, in the last war, learned the white
men's ways of battle, and who, led by such a man as Kathulos and armed
with white men's finest weapons, will be almost invincible.

"A steady stream of rifles and ammunition has been pouring into East
Africa and it was not until I discovered the source that it was
stopped. I found that a staid and reliable Scotch firm was smuggling
these arms among the natives and I found more: the manager of this
firm was an opium slave. That was enough. I saw Kathulos' hand in
the matter. The manager was arrested and committed suicide in his
cell--that is only one of the many situations with which I am called
upon to deal.

"Again, the case of Major Fairlan Morley. He, like myself, held a
very flexible commission and had been sent to the Transvaal to work
upon the same case. He sent to London a number of secret papers for
safe-keeping. They arrived some weeks ago and were put in a bank vault.
The letter accompanying them gave explicit instructions that they were
to be delivered to no one but the major himself, when he called for
them in person, or in event of his death, to myself.

"As soon as I learned that he had sailed from Africa I sent trusted men
to Bordeaux, where he intended to make his first landing in Europe.
They did not succeed in saving the major's life, but they certified
his death, for they found his body in a deserted ship whose hulk was
stranded on the beach. Efforts were made to keep the affair a secret
but somehow it leaked into the papers with the result----"

"I begin to understand why I was to impersonate the unfortunate major,"
I interrupted.

"Exactly. A false beard furnished you, and your black hair dyed blond,
you would have presented yourself at the bank, received the papers
from the banker, who knew Major Morley just intimately enough to be
deceived by your appearance, and the papers would have then fallen into
the hands of the Master.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I can only guess at the contents of those papers, for events have
been taking place too swiftly for me to call for and obtain them. But
they must deal with subjects closely connected with the activities of
Kathulos. How he learned of them and of the provisions of the letter
accompanying them, I have no idea, but as I said, London is honeycombed
with his spies.

"In my search for clues, I often frequented Limehouse disguised as
you first saw me. I went often to the Temple of Dreams and even once
managed to enter the back room, for I suspected some sort of rendezvous
in the rear of the building. The absence of any exit baffled me and
I had no time to search for secret doors before I was ejected by the
giant black man Hassim, who had no suspicion of my true identity. I
noticed that very often the leper entered or left Yun Shatu's, and
finally it was borne on me that past a shadow of doubt this supposed
leper was the Scorpion himself.

"That night you discovered me on the couch in the opium room, I had
come there with no especial plan in mind. Seeing Kathulos leaving, I
determined to rise and follow him, but you spoiled that."

He fingered his chin and laughed grimly.

"I was an amateur boxing champion in Oxford," said he, "but Tom Cribb
himself could not have withstood that blow--or have dealt it."

"I regret it as I regret few things."

"No need to apologize. You saved my life immediately afterward--I was
stunned, but not too much to know that that brown devil Yussef Ali was
burning to cut out my heart."

"How did you come to be at Sir Haldred Frenton's estate? And how is it
that you did not raid Yun Shatu's dive?"

"I did not have the place raided because I knew somehow Kathulos would
be warned and our efforts would come to naught. I was at Sir Haldred's
that night because I have contrived to spend at least part of each
night with him since he returned from the Congo. I anticipated an
attempt upon his life when I learned from his own lips that he was
preparing, from the studies he made on this trip, a treatise on the
secret native societies of West Africa. He hinted that the disclosures
he intended to make therein might prove sensational, to say the least.
Since it is to Kathulos' advantage to destroy such men as might be able
to arouse the Western world to its danger, I knew that Sir Haldred was
a marked man. Indeed, two distinct attempts were made upon his life
on his journey to the coast from the African interior. So I put two
trusted men on guard and they are at their post even now.

"Roaming about the darkened house, I heard the noise of your entry,
and, warning my men, I stole down to intercept you. At the time of
our conversation, Sir Haldred was sitting in his unlighted study,
a Scotland Yard man with drawn pistol on each side of him. Their
vigilance no doubt accounts for Yussef Ali's failure to attempt what
you were sent to do.

"Something in your manner convinced me in spite of yourself," he
meditated. "I will admit I had some bad moments of doubt as I waited in
the darkness that precedes dawn, outside the warehouse."

Gordon rose suddenly and going to a strong box which stood in a corner
of the room, drew thence a thick envelope.

"Although Kathulos has checkmated me at almost every move," he said,
"I have not been entirely idle. Noting the frequenters of Yun Shatu's,
I have compiled a partial list of the Egyptian's right-hand men, and
their records. What you have told me has enabled me to complete that
list. As we know, his henchmen are scattered all over the world, and
there are possibly hundreds of them here in London. However, this is a
list of those I believe to be in his closest council, now with him in
England. He told you himself that few even of his followers ever saw
him unmasked."

We bent together over the list, which contained the following names:
"Yun Shatu, Hongkong Chinese, suspected opium smuggler--keeper
of Temple of Dreams--resident of Limehouse seven years. Hassim,
ex-Senegalese chief--wanted in French Congo for murder. Santiago,
negro--fled from Haiti under suspicion of voodoo worship atrocities.
Yar Khan, Afridi, record unknown. Yussef Ali, Moor, slave-dealer
in Morocco--suspected of being a German spy in the World War--an
instigator of the Fellaheen Rebellion on the upper Nile. Ganra Singh,
Lahore, India, Sikh--smuggler of arms into Afghanistan--took an
active part in the Lahore and Delhi riots--suspected of murder on two
occasions--a dangerous man. Stephen Costigan, American--resident in
England since the war--hashish addict--man of remarkable strength. Li
Kung, northern China, opium smuggler."

Lines were drawn significantly through three names--mine, Li Kung's and
Yussef Ali's. Nothing was written next to mine, but following Li Kung's
name was scrawled briefly in Gordon's rambling characters: "Shot by
John Gordon during the raid on Yun Shatu's." And following the name of
Yussef Ali: "Killed by Stephen Costigan during the Yun Shatu raid."

I laughed mirthlessly. Black empire or not, Yussef Ali would never hold
Zuleika in his arms, for he had never risen from where I felled him.

"I know not," said Gordon somberly as he folded the list and replaced
it in the envelope, "what power Kathulos has that draws together black
men and yellow men to serve him--that unites world-old foes. Hindoo,
Moslem and pagan are among his followers. And back in the mists of the
East where mysterious and gigantic forces are at work, this uniting is
culminating on a monstrous scale."

He glanced at his watch.

"It is nearly ten. Make yourself at home here, Mr. Costigan, while I
visit Scotland Yard and see if any clue has been found as to Kathulos'
new quarters. I believe that the webs are closing on him, and with your
aid I promise you we will have the gang located within a week at most."



                     _15. The Mark of the Tulwar_

    "The fed wolf curls by his drowsy mate
    In a tight-trod earth; but the lean wolves wait."

    --Mundy.


I sat alone in John Gordon's apartments and laughed mirthlessly. In
spite of the elixir's stimulus, the strain of the previous night, with
its loss of sleep and its heartrending actions, was telling on me. My
mind was a chaotic whirl wherein the faces of Gordon, Kathulos and
Zuleika shifted with numbing swiftness. All the mass of information
Gordon had given to me seemed jumbled and incoherent.

Through this state of being, one fact stood out boldly. I must find
the latest hiding-place of the Egyptian and get Zuleika out of his
hands--if indeed she still lived.

A week, Gordon had said--I laughed again--a week and I would be beyond
aiding anyone. I had found the proper amount of elixir to use--knew
the minimum amount my system required--and knew that I could make the
flask last me four days at most. Four days! Four days in which to comb
the rat-holes of Limehouse and Chinatown--four days in which to ferret
out, somewhere in the mazes of East End, the lair of Kathulos.

I burned with impatience to begin, but nature rebelled, and staggering
to a couch, I fell upon it and was asleep instantly.

Then someone was shaking me.

"Wake up, Mr. Costigan!"

I sat up, blinking. Gordon stood over me, his face haggard.

"There's devil's work done, Costigan! The Scorpion has struck again!"

I sprang up, still half asleep and only partly realizing what he was
saying. He helped me into my coat, thrust my hat at me, and then his
firm grip on my arm was propelling me out of his door and down the
stairs. The street lights were blazing; I had slept an incredible time.

"A logical victim!" I was aware that my companion was saying. "He
should have notified me the instant of his arrival!"

"I don't understand----" I began dazedly.

We were at the curb now and Gordon hailed a taxi, giving the address of
a small and unassuming hotel in a staid and prim section of the city.

"The Baron Rokoff," he rapped as we whirled along at reckless speed,
"a Russian free-lance, connected with the war office. He returned from
Mongolia yesterday and apparently went into hiding. Undoubtedly he
had learned something vital in regard to the slow waking of the East.
He had not yet communicated with us, and I had no idea that he was in
England until just now."

"And you learned----"

"The baron was found in his room, his dead body mutilated in a
frightful manner!"

The respectable and conventional hotel which the doomed baron had
chosen for his hiding-place was in a state of mild uproar, suppressed
by the police. The management had attempted to keep the matter quiet,
but somehow the guests had learned of the atrocity and many were
leaving in haste--or preparing to, as the police were holding all for
investigation.

The baron's room, which was on the top floor, was in a state to
defy description. Not even in the great war have I seen a more
complete shambles. Nothing had been touched; all remained just as
the chambermaid had found it a half-hour since. Tables and chairs
lay shattered on the floor, and the furniture, floor and walls were
spattered with blood. The baron, a tall, muscular man in life, lay in
the middle of the room, a fearful spectacle. His skull had been cleft
to the brows, a deep gash under his left armpit had shorn through his
ribs, and his left arm hung by a shred of flesh. The cold bearded face
was set in a look of indescribable horror.

"Some heavy, curved weapon must have been used," said Gordon,
"something like a saber, wielded with terrific force. See where a
chance blow sank inches deep into the window-sill. And again, the
thick back of this heavy chair has been split like a shingle. A saber,
surely."

"A tulwar," I muttered, somberly. "Do you not recognize the handiwork
of the Central Asian butcher? Yar Khan has been here."

"The Afghan! He came across the roofs, of course, and descended to
the window-ledge by means of a knotted rope made fast to something on
the edge of the roof. About one-thirty the maid, passing through the
corridor, heard a terrific commotion in the baron's room--smashing of
chairs and a sudden short shriek which died abruptly into a ghastly
gurgle and then ceased--to the sound of heavy blows, curiously muffled,
such as a sword might make when driven deep into human flesh. Then all
noises stopped suddenly.

"She called the manager and they tried the door and, finding it locked,
and receiving no answer to their shouts, opened it with the desk key.
Only the corpse was there, but the window was open. This is strangely
unlike Kathulos' usual procedure. It lacks subtlety. Often his victims
have appeared to have died from natural causes. I scarcely understand."

"I see little difference in the outcome," I answered. "There is nothing
that can be done to apprehend the murderer as it is."

"True," Gordon scowled. "We know who did it but there is no proof--not
even a finger print. Even if we knew where the Afghan is hiding and
arrested him, we could prove nothing--there would be a score of men
to swear alibis for him. The baron returned only yesterday. Kathulos
probably did not know of his arrival until tonight. He knew that on the
morrow Rokoff would make known his presence to me and impart what he
learned in northern Asia. The Egyptian knew he must strike quickly, and
lacking time to prepare a safer and more elaborate form of murder, he
sent the Afridi with his tulwar. There is nothing we can do, at least
not until we discover the Scorpion's hiding-place; what the baron had
learned in Mongolia, we shall never know, but that it dealt with the
plans and aspirations of Kathulos, we may be sure."

       *       *       *       *       *

We went down the stairs again and out on the street, accompanied by one
of the Scotland Yard men, Hansen. Gordon suggested that we walk back to
his apartment and I greeted the opportunity to let the cool night air
blow some of the cobwebs out of my mazed brain.

As we walked along the deserted streets, Gordon suddenly cursed
savagely.

"This is a veritable labyrinth we are following, leading nowhere! Here,
in the very heart of civilization's metropolis, the direst enemy of
that civilization commits crimes of the most outrageous nature and
goes free! We are children, wandering in the night, struggling with an
unseen evil--dealing with an incarnate devil, of whose true identity we
know nothing and whose true ambitions we can only guess.

"Never have we managed to arrest one of the Egyptian's direct henchmen,
and the few dupes and tools of his we have apprehended have died
mysteriously before they could tell us anything. Again I repeat: what
strange power has Kathulos that dominates these men of different
creeds and races? The men in London with him are, of course, mostly
renegades, slaves of dope, but his tentacles stretch all over the East.
Some dominance is his: the power that sent the Chinaman, Li Kung, back
to kill you, in the face of certain death; that sent Yar Khan the
Moslem over the roofs of London to do murder; that holds Zuleika the
Circassian in unseen bonds of slavery.

"Of course we know," he continued after a brooding silence, "that the
East has secret societies which are behind and above all considerations
of creeds. There are cults in Africa and the Orient whose origin dates
back to Ophir and the fall of Atlantis. This man must be a power in
some or possibly all of these societies. Why, outside the Jews, I know
of no Oriental race which is so cordially despised by the other Eastern
races, as the Egyptians! Yet here we have a man, an Egyptian by his own
word, controlling the lives and destinies of orthodox Moslems, Hindoos,
Shintos and devil-worshipers. It's unnatural.

"Have you ever"--he turned to me abruptly--"heard the ocean mentioned
in connection with Kathulos?"

"Never."

"There is a widespread superstition in northern Africa, based on a very
ancient legend, that the great leader of the colored races would come
out of the sea! And I once heard a Berber speak of the Scorpion as 'The
Son of the Ocean.'"

"That is a term of respect among that tribe, is it not?"

"Yes; still I wonder sometimes."



                      _16. The Mummy Who Laughed_

    "Laughing as littered skulls that lie
    After lost battles turn to the sky
      An everlasting laugh."

    --Chesterton.


"A shop open this late," Gordon remarked suddenly.

A fog had descended on London and along the quiet street we were
traversing the lights glimmered with the peculiar reddish haze
characteristic of such atmospheric conditions. Our footfalls echoed
drearily. Even in the heart of a great city there are always sections
which seem overlooked and forgotten. Such a street was this. Not even a
policeman was in sight.

The shop which had attracted Gordon's attention was just in front of
us, on the same side of the street. There was no sign over the door,
merely some sort of emblem something like a dragon. Light flowed from
the open doorway and the small show windows on each side. As it was
neither a café nor the entrance to a hotel we found ourselves idly
speculating over its reason for being open. Ordinarily, I suppose,
neither of us would have given the matter a thought, but our nerves
were so keyed up that we found ourselves instinctively suspicious
of anything out of the ordinary. Then something occurred which was
distinctly out of the ordinary.

A very tall, very thin man, considerably stooped, suddenly loomed up
out of the fog in front of us, and beyond the shop. I had only a
glance of him--an impression of incredible gauntness, of worn, wrinkled
garments, a high silk hat drawn close over the brows, a face entirely
hidden by a muffler; then he turned aside and entered the shop. A cold
wind whispered down the street, twisting the fog into wispy ghosts, but
the coldness that came upon me transcended the wind's.

"Gordon!" I exclaimed in a fierce, low voice; "my senses are no longer
reliable or else Kathulos himself has just gone into that house!"

Gordon's eyes blazed. We were now close to the shop, and lengthening
his strides into a run he hurled himself into the door, the detective
and I close upon his heels.

A weird assortment of merchandise met our eyes. Antique weapons covered
the walls, and the floor was piled high with curious things. Maori
idols shouldered Chinese josses, and suits of mediæval armor bulked
darkly against stacks of rare Oriental rugs and Latin-make shawls. The
place was an antique shop. Of the figure who had aroused our interest
we saw nothing.

An old man clad bizarrely in red fez, brocaded jacket and Turkish
slippers came from the back of the shop; he was a Levantine of some
sort.

"You wish something, sirs?"

"You keep open rather late," Gordon said abruptly, his eyes traveling
swiftly over the shop for some secret hiding-place that might conceal
the object of our search.

"Yes, sir. My customers number many eccentric professors and students
who keep very irregular hours. Often the night boats unload special
pieces for me and very often I have customers later than this. I remain
open all night, sir."

"We are merely looking around," Gordon returned, and in an aside to
Hansen: "Go to the back and stop anyone who tries to leave that way."

Hansen nodded and strolled casually to the rear of the shop. The
back door was clearly visible to our view, through a vista of antique
furniture and tarnished hangings strung up for exhibition. We had
followed the Scorpion--if he it was--so closely that I did not believe
he would have had time to traverse the full length of the shop and make
his exit without our having seen him as we came in. For our eyes had
been on the rear door ever since we had entered.

Gordon and I browsed around casually among the curios, handling and
discussing some of them but I have no idea as to their nature. The
Levantine had seated himself cross-legged on a Moorish mat close to the
center of the shop and apparently took only a polite interest in our
explorations.

After a time Gordon whispered to me: "There is no advantage in keeping
up this pretense. We have looked everywhere the Scorpion might be
hiding, in the ordinary manner. I will make known my identity and
authority and we will search the entire building openly."

Even as he spoke a truck drew up outside the door and two burly negroes
entered. The Levantine seemed to have expected them, for he merely
waved them toward the back of the shop and they responded with a grunt
of understanding.

Gordon and I watched them closely as they made their way to a large
mummy-case which stood upright against the wall not far from the back.
They lowered this to a level position and then started for the door,
carrying it carefully between them.

"Halt!" Gordon stepped forward, raising his hand authoritatively.

[Illustration: "Halt!" Gordon stepped forward, raising his hand
authoritatively.]

"I represent Scotland Yard," he said swiftly, "and have sanction for
anything I choose to do. Set that mummy down; nothing leaves this shop
until we have thoroughly searched it."

The negroes obeyed without a word and my friend turned to the
Levantine, who, apparently not perturbed or even interested, sat
smoking a Turkish water-pipe.

"Who was that tall man who entered just before we did, and where did he
go?"

"No one entered before you, sir. Or, if anyone did, I was at the back
of the shop and did not see him. You are certainly at liberty to search
my shop, sir."

And search it we did, with the combined craft of a secret service
expert and a denizen of the underworld--while Hansen stood stolidly at
his post, the two negroes standing over the carved mummy-case watched
us impassively and the Levantine sitting like a sphinx on his mat,
puffing a fog of smoke into the air. The whole thing had a distinct
effect of unreality.

At last, baffled, we returned to the mummy-case, which was certainly
long enough to conceal even a man of Kathulos' height. The thing did
not appear to be sealed as is the usual custom, and Gordon opened it
without difficulty. A formless shape, swathed in moldering wrappings,
met our eyes. Gordon parted some of the wrappings and revealed an inch
or so of withered, brownish, leathery arm. He shuddered involuntarily
as he touched it, as a man will do at the touch of a reptile or some
inhumanly cold thing. Taking a small metal idol from a stand near by,
he rapped on the shrunken breast and the arm. Each gave out a solid
thumping, like some sort of wood.

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Dead for two thousand years anyway and
I don't suppose I should risk destroying a valuable mummy simply to
prove what we know to be true."

He closed the case again.

"The mummy may have crumbled some, even from this much exposure, but
perhaps it did not."

This last was addressed to the Levantine who replied merely by a
courteous gesture of his hand, and the negroes once more lifted the
case and carried it to the truck, where they loaded it on, and a moment
later mummy, truck and negroes had vanished in the fog.

Gordon still nosed about the shop, but I stood stock-still in the
center of the floor. To my chaotic and dope-ridden brain I attributed
it, but the sensation had been mine, that through the wrappings of
the mummy's face, great eyes had burned into mine, eyes like pools of
yellow fire, that seared my soul and froze me where I stood. And as
the case had been carried through the door, I knew that the lifeless
thing in it, dead, God only knows how many centuries, was _laughing_,
hideously and silently.



                    _17. The Dead Man from the Sea_

    "The blind gods roar and rave and dream
      Of all cities under the sea."

    --Chesterton.


Gordon puffed savagely at his Turkish cigarette, staring abstractedly
and unseeingly at Hansen, who sat opposite him.

"I suppose we must chalk up another failure against ourselves. That
Levantine, Kamonos, is evidently a creature of the Egyptian's and the
walls and floors of his shop are probably honeycombed with secret
panels and doors which would baffle a magician."

Hansen made some answer but I said nothing. Since our return to
Gordon's apartment, I had been conscious of a feeling of intense
languor and sluggishness which not even my condition could account
for. I knew that my system was full of the elixir--but my mind seemed
strangely slow and hard of comprehension in direct contrast with the
average state of my mentality when stimulated by the hellish dope.

This condition was slowly leaving me, like mist floating from the
surface of a lake, and I felt as if I were waking gradually from a
long and unnaturally sound sleep.

Gordon was saying: "I would give a good deal to know if Kamonos is
really one of Kathulos' slaves or if the Scorpion managed to make his
escape through some natural exit as we entered."

"Kamonos is his servant, true enough," I found myself saying slowly, as
if searching for the proper words. "As we left, I saw his gaze light
upon the scorpion which is traced on my hand. His eyes narrowed, and as
we were leaving he contrived to brush close against me--and to whisper
in a quick low voice: 'Soho, 48.'"

Gordon came erect like a loosened steel bow.

"Indeed!" he rapped. "Why did you not tell me at the time?"

"I don't know."

My friend eyed me sharply.

"I noticed you seemed like a man intoxicated all the way from the
shop," said he. "I attributed it to some aftermath of hashish. But no.
Kathulos is undoubtedly a masterful disciple of Mesmer--his power over
venomous reptiles shows that, and I am beginning to believe it is the
real source of his power over humans.

"Somehow, the Master caught you off your guard in that shop and partly
asserted his dominance over your mind. From what hidden nook he sent
his thought waves to shatter your brain, I do not know, but Kathulos
was somewhere in that shop, I am sure."

"He was. He was in the mummy-case."

"The mummy-case!" Gordon exclaimed rather impatiently. "That is
impossible! The mummy quite filled it and not even such a thin being as
the Master could have found room there."

I shrugged my shoulders, unable to argue the point but somehow sure of
the truth of my statement.

"Kamonos," Gordon continued, "doubtless is not a member of the inner
circle and does not know of your change of allegiance. Seeing the
mark of the scorpion, he undoubtedly supposed you to be a spy of the
Master's. The whole thing may be a plot to ensnare us, but I feel that
the man was sincere--Soho 48 can be nothing less than the Scorpion's
new rendezvous."

I too felt that Gordon was right, though a suspicion lurked in my mind.

"I secured the papers of Major Morley yesterday," he continued, "and
while you slept, I went over them. Mostly they but corroborated what
I already knew--touched on the unrest of the natives and repeated the
theory that one vast genius was behind all. But there was one matter
which interested me greatly and which I think will interest you also."

From his strong box he took a manuscript written in the close, neat
characters of the unfortunate major, and in a monotonous droning voice
which betrayed little of his intense excitement he read the following
nightmarish narrative:

       *       *       *       *       *

"This matter I consider worth jotting down--as to whether it has
any bearing on the case at hand, further developments will show. At
Alexandria, where I spent some weeks seeking further clues as to the
identity of the man known as the Scorpion, I made the acquaintance,
through my friend Ahmed Shah, of the noted Egyptologist Professor
Ezra Schuyler of New York. He verified the statement made by various
laymen, concerning the legend of the 'ocean-man.' This myth, handed
down from generation to generation, stretches back into the very
mists of antiquity and is, briefly, that some day a man shall come
up out of the sea and shall lead the people of Egypt to victory over
all others. This legend has spread over the continent so that now
all black races consider that it deals with the coming of a universal
emperor. Professor Schuyler gave it as his opinion that the myth
was somehow connected with the lost Atlantis, which, he maintains,
was located between the African and South American continents and
to whose inhabitants the ancestors of the Egyptians were tributary.
The reasons for his connection are too lengthy and vague to note
here, but following the line of his theory he told me a strange and
fantastic tale. He said that a close friend of his, Von Lorfmon of
Germany, a sort of free-lance scientist, now dead, was sailing off the
coast of Senegal some years ago, for the purpose of investigating and
classifying the rare specimens of sea-life found there. He was using
for his purpose a small trading-vessel, manned by a crew of Moors,
Greeks and negroes.

"Some days out of sight of land, something floating was sighted,
and this object, being grappled and brought aboard, proved to be _a
mummy-case of a most curious kind_. Professor Schuyler explained to me
the features whereby it differed from the ordinary Egyptian style, but
from his rather technical account I merely got the impression that it
was a strangely shaped affair carved with characters neither cuneiform
nor hieroglyphic. The case was heavily lacquered, being watertight and
airtight, and Von Lorfmon had considerable difficulty in opening it.
However, he managed to do so without damaging the case, and a most
unusual mummy was revealed. Schuyler said that he never saw either
the mummy or the case, but that from descriptions given him by the
Greek skipper who was present at the opening of the case, the mummy
differed as much from the ordinary man as the case differed from the
conventional type.

"Examination proved that the subject had not undergone the usual
procedure of mummification. All parts were intact just as in life, but
the whole form was shrunk and hardened to a wood-like consistency.
Cloth wrappings swathed the thing and they crumbled to dust and
vanished the instant air was let in upon them.

"Von Lorfmon was impressed by the effect upon the crew. The Greeks
showed no interest beyond that which would ordinarily be shown by any
man, but the Moors, and even more the negroes, seemed to be rendered
temporarily insane! As the case was hoisted on board, they all fell
prostrate on the deck and raised a sort of worshipful chant, and it
was necessary to use force in order to exclude them from the cabin
wherein the mummy was exposed. A number of fights broke out between
them and the Greek element of the crew, and the skipper and Von Lorfmon
thought best to put back to the nearest port in all haste. The skipper
attributed it to the natural aversion of seamen toward having a corpse
on board, but Von Lorfmon seemed to sense a deeper meaning.

"They made port in Lagos, and that very night Von Lorfmon was murdered
in his stateroom and the mummy and its case vanished. All the Moor and
negro sailors deserted ship the same night. Schuyler said--and here the
matter took on a most sinister and mysterious aspect--that immediately
afterward this widespread unrest among the natives began to smolder and
take tangible form; he connected it in some manner with the old legend.

"An aura of mystery, also, hung over Von Lorfmon's death. He had taken
the mummy into his stateroom, and anticipating an attack from the
fanatical crew, had carefully barred and bolted door and portholes.
The skipper, a reliable man, swore that it was virtually impossible to
effect an entrance from without. And what signs were present pointed to
the fact that the locks had been worked from _within_. The scientist
was killed by a dagger which formed part of his collection and which
was left in his breast.

"As I have said, immediately afterward the African cauldron began to
seethe. Schuyler said that in his opinion the natives considered the
ancient prophecy fulfilled. The mummy was _the man from the sea_.

"Schuyler gave as his opinion that the thing was the work of Atlanteans
and that the man in the mummy-case was a native of lost Atlantis. How
the case came to float up through the fathoms of water which cover the
forgotten land, he does not venture to offer a theory. He is sure that
somewhere in the ghost-ridden mazes of the African jungles the mummy
has been enthroned as a god, and, inspired by the dead thing, the black
warriors are gathering for a wholesale massacre. He believes, also,
that some crafty Moslem is the direct moving power of the threatened
rebellion."

Gordon ceased and looked up at me.

"Mummies seem to weave a weird dance through the warp of the tale," he
said. "The German scientist took several pictures of the mummy with his
camera, and it was after seeing these--which strangely enough were not
stolen along with the thing--that Major Morley began to think himself
on the brink of some monstrous discovery. His diary reflects his state
of mind and becomes incoherent--his condition seems to have bordered on
insanity. What did he learn to unbalance him so? Do you suppose that
the mesmeric spells of Kathulos were used against him?"

"These pictures----" I began.

"They fell into Schuyler's hands and he gave one to Morley. I found it
among the manuscripts."

He handed the thing to me, watching me narrowly. I stared, then rose
unsteadily and poured myself a tumbler of wine.

"Not a dead idol in a voodoo hut," I said shakily, "but a monster
animated by fearsome life, roaming the world for victims. Morley had
seen the Master--that is why his brain crumbled. Gordon, as I hope to
live again, _that face is the face of Kathulos_!"

Gordon stared wordlessly at me.

"The Master hand, Gordon," I laughed. A certain grim enjoyment
penetrated the mists of my horror, at the sight of the steel-nerved
Englishman struck speechless, doubtless for the first time in his life.

He moistened his lips and said in a scarcely recognizable voice, "Then,
in God's name, Costigan, nothing is stable or certain, and mankind
hovers at the brink of untold abysses of nameless horror. If that dead
monster found by Von Lorfmon be in truth the Scorpion, brought to life
in some hideous fashion, what can mortal effort do against him?"

"The mummy at Kamonos'----" I began.

"Aye, the man whose flesh, hardened by a thousand years of
non-existence--that must have been Kathulos himself! He would have
just had time to strip, wrap himself in the linens and step into the
case before we entered. You remember that the case, leaning upright
against the wall, stood partly concealed by a large Burmese idol, which
obstructed our view and doubtless gave him time to accomplish his
purpose. My God, Costigan, with what horror of the prehistoric world
are we dealing?"

"I have heard of Hindoo fakirs who could induce a condition closely
resembling death," I began. "Is it not possible that Kathulos, a shrewd
and crafty Oriental, could have placed himself in this state and his
followers have placed the case in the ocean where it was sure to be
found? And might not he have been in this shape tonight at Kamonos'?"

Gordon shook his head.

"No. I have seen these fakirs. None of them ever feigned death to the
extent of becoming shriveled and hard--in a word, dried up. Morley,
narrating in another place the description of the mummy-case as jotted
down by Von Lorfmon and passed on to Schuyler, mentions the fact that
large portions of seaweed adhered to it--seaweed of a kind found only
at great depths, on the bottom of the ocean. The wood, too, was of a
kind which Von Lorfmon failed to recognize or to classify, in spite of
the fact that he was one of the greatest living authorities on flora.
And his notes again and again emphasize the enormous _age_ of the
thing. He admitted that there was no way of telling how old the mummy
was, but his hints intimate that he believed it to be, not thousands of
years old, but millions of years!

"No. We must face the facts. Since you are positive that the picture
of the mummy is the picture of Kathulos--and there is little room
for fraud--one of two things is practically certain: the Scorpion was
never dead but ages ago was placed in that mummy-case and his life
preserved in some manner, or else--he was dead and has been brought to
life! Either of these theories, viewed in the cold light of reason, is
absolutely untenable. Are we all insane?"

"Had you ever walked the road to hashish land," I said somberly, "you
could believe anything to be true. Had you ever gazed into the terrible
reptilian eyes of Kathulos the sorcerer, you would not doubt that he
was both dead and alive."

Gordon gazed out the window, his fine face haggard in the gray light
which had begun to steal through them.

"At any rate," said he, "there are two places which I intend exploring
thoroughly before the sun rises again--Kamonos' antique shop and Soho
48."



                    _18. The Grip of the Scorpion_

    "While from a proud tower in the town
    Death looks gigantically down."

    --Poe.


Hansen snored on the bed as I paced the room. Another day had passed
over London and again the street lamps glimmered through the fog. Their
lights affected me strangely. They seemed to beat, solid waves of
energy, against my brain. They twisted the fog into strange sinister
shapes. Footlights of the stage that is the streets of London, how many
grisly scenes had they lighted? I pressed my hands hard against my
throbbing temples, striving to bring my thoughts back from the chaotic
labyrinth where they wandered.

Gordon I had not seen since dawn. Following the clue of "Soho 48" he
had gone forth to arrange a raid upon the place and he thought it best
that I should remain under cover. He anticipated an attempt upon my
life, and again he feared that if I went searching among the dives I
formerly frequented it would arouse suspicion.

Hansen snored on. I seated myself and began to study the Turkish
shoes which clothed my feet. Zuleika had worn Turkish slippers--how
she floated through my waking dreams, gilding prosaic things with her
witchery! Her face smiled at me from the fog; her eyes shone from the
flickering lamps; her phantom footfalls re-echoed through the misty
chambers of my skull.

They beat an endless tattoo, luring and haunting till it seemed that
these echoes found echoes in the hallway outside the room where I
stood, soft and stealthy. A sudden rap at the door and I started.

Hansen slept on as I crossed the room and flung the door swiftly open.
A swirling wisp of fog had invaded the corridor, and through it, like
a silver veil, I saw her--Zuleika stood before me with her shimmering
hair and her red lips parted and her great dark eyes.

Like a speechless fool I stood and she glanced quickly down the hallway
and then stepped inside and closed the door.

"Gordon!" she whispered in a thrilling undertone. "Your friend! The
Scorpion has him!"

Hansen had awakened and now sat gaping stupidly at the strange scene
which met his eyes.

Zuleika did not heed him.

"And oh, Steephen!" she cried, and tears shone in her eyes, "I have
tried so hard to secure some more elixir but I could not."

"Never mind that," I finally found my speech. "Tell me about Gordon."

"He went back to Kamonos' alone, and Hassim and Ganra Singh took him
captive and brought him to the Master's house. Tonight assemble a
great host of the people of the Scorpion for the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice!" A grisly thrill of horror coursed down my spine. Was there
no limit to the ghastliness of this business?

"Quick, Zuleika, where is this house of the Master's?"

"Soho, 48. You must summon the police and send many men to surround it,
but you must not go yourself----"

Hansen sprang up quivering for action, but I turned to him. My brain
was clear now, or seemed to be, and racing unnaturally.

"Wait!" I turned back to Zuleika. "When is this sacrifice to take
place?"

"At the rising of the moon."

"That is only a few hours before dawn. Time to save him, but if we raid
the house they'll kill him before we can reach them. And God only knows
how many diabolical things guard all approaches."

"I do not know," Zuleika whimpered. "I must go now, or the Master will
kill me."

Something gave way in my brain at that; something like a flood of wild
and terrible exultation swept over me.

"The Master will kill no one!" I shouted, flinging my arms on high.
"Before ever the east turns red for dawn, the Master dies! By all
things holy and unholy I swear it!"

Hansen stared wildly at me and Zuleika shrank back as I turned on her.
To my dope-inspired brain had come a sudden burst of light, true and
unerring. I knew Kathulos was a mesmerist--that he understood fully the
secret of dominating another's mind and soul. And I knew that at last
I had hit upon the reason of his power over the girl. Mesmerism! As a
snake fascinates and draws to him a bird, so the Master held Zuleika to
him with unseen shackles. So absolute was his rule over her that it
held even when she was out of his sight, working over great distances.

There was but one thing which would break that hold: the magnetic
power of some other person whose control was stronger with her than
Kathulos'. I laid my hands on her slim little shoulders and made her
face me.

"Zuleika," I said commandingly, "here you are safe; you shall not
return to Kathulos. There is no need of it. Now you are free."

But I knew I had failed before I ever started. Her eyes held a look of
amazed, unreasoning fear and she twisted timidly in my grasp.

"Steephen, please let me go!" she begged. "I must--I must!"

I drew her over to the bed and asked Hansen for his handcuffs. He
handed them to me, wonderingly, and I fastened one cuff to the bed-post
and the other to her slim wrist. The girl whimpered but made no
resistance, her limpid eyes seeking mine in mute appeal.

It cut me to the quick to enforce my will upon her in this apparently
brutal manner but I steeled myself.

"Zuleika," I said tenderly, "you are now my prisoner. The Scorpion
can not blame you for not returning to him when you are unable to do
so--and before dawn you shall be free of his rule entirely."

I turned to Hansen and spoke in a tone which admitted of no argument.

"Remain here, just without the door, until I return. On no account
allow any strangers to enter--that is, anyone whom you do not
personally know. And I charge you, on your honor as a man, do not
release this girl, no matter what she may say. If neither I nor Gordon
have returned by ten o'clock tomorrow, take her to this address--that
family once were friends of mine and will take care of a homeless girl.
I am going to Scotland Yard."

"Steephen," Zuleika wailed, "you are going to the Master's lair! You
will be killed! Send the police, do not go!"

I bent, drew her into my arms, felt her lips against mine, then tore
myself away.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fog plucked at me with ghostly fingers, cold as the hands of dead
men, as I raced down the street. I had no plan, but one was forming
in my mind, beginning to seethe in the stimulated cauldron that was
my brain. I halted at the sight of a policeman pacing his beat, and
beckoning him to me, scribbled a terse note on a piece of paper torn
from a notebook and handed it to him.

"Get this to Scotland Yard; it's a matter of life and death and it has
to do with the business of John Gordon."

At that name, a gloved hand came up in swift assent, but his assurance
of haste died out behind me as I renewed my flight. The note stated
briefly that Gordon was a prisoner at Soho 48 and advised an immediate
raid in force--advised, nay, in Gordon's name, commanded it.

My reason for my actions was simple; I knew that the first noise of
the raid sealed John Gordon's doom. Somehow I first must reach him and
protect or free him before the police arrived.

The time seemed endless, but at last the grim gaunt outlines of the
house that was Soho 48 rose up before me, a giant ghost in the fog.
The hour grew late; few people dared the mists and the dampness as I
came to a halt in the street before this forbidding building. No lights
showed from the windows, either upstairs or down. It seemed deserted.
But the lair of the scorpion often seems deserted until the silent
death strikes suddenly.

Here I halted and a wild thought struck me. One way or another, the
drama would be over by dawn. Tonight was the climax of my career,
the ultimate top of life. Tonight I was the strongest link in the
strange chain of events. Tomorrow it would not matter whether I lived
or died. I drew the flask of elixir from my pocket and gazed at it.
Enough for two more days if properly eked out. Two more days of life!
Or--I needed stimulation as I never needed it before; the task in front
of me was one no mere human could hope to accomplish. If I drank the
entire remainder of the elixir, I had no idea as to the duration of its
effect, but it would last the night through. And my legs were shaky; my
mind had curious periods of utter vacuity; weakness of brain and body
assailed me. I raised the flask and with one draft drained it.

For an instant I thought it was death. Never had I taken such an amount.

Sky and world reeled and I felt as if I would fly into a million
vibrating fragments, like the bursting of a globe of brittle steel.
Like fire, like hell-fire the elixir raced along my veins and I was a
giant! monster! a superman!

Turning, I strode to the menacing, shadowy doorway. I had no plan; I
felt the need of none. As a drunken man walks blithely into danger,
I strode to the lair of the Scorpion, magnificently aware of my
superiority, imperially confident of my stimulation and sure as the
unchanging stars that the way would open before me.

Oh, there never was a superman like that who knocked commandingly on
the door of Soho 48 that night in the rain and the fog!

I knocked four times, the old signal that we slaves had used to be
admitted into the idol-room at Yun Shatu's. An aperture opened in the
center of the door and slanted eyes looked warily out. They slightly
widened as the owner recognized me, then narrowed wickedly.

"You fool!" I said angrily. "Don't you see the mark?"

I held my hand to the aperture.

"Don't you recognize me? Let me in, curse you."

I think the very boldness of the trick made for its success. Surely by
now all the Scorpion's slaves knew of Stephen Costigan's rebellion,
knew that he was marked for death. And the very fact that I came there,
inviting doom, confused the doorman.

The door opened and I entered. The man who had admitted me was a tall,
lank Chinaman I had known as a servant of Kathulos. He closed the door
behind me and I saw we stood in a sort of vestibule, lighted by a
dim lamp whose glow could not be seen from the street for the reason
that the windows were heavily curtained. The Chinaman glowered at me
undecided. I looked at him, tensed. Then suspicion flared in his eyes
and his hand flew to his sleeve. But at the instant I was on him and
his lean neck broke like a rotten bough between my hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

I eased his corpse to the thickly carpeted floor and listened. No sound
broke the silence. Stepping as stealthily as a wolf, fingers spread
like talons, I stole into the next room. This was furnished in Oriental
style, with couches and rugs and gold-worked drapery, but was empty
of human life. I crossed it and went into the next one. Light flowed
softly from the censers which were swung from the ceiling, and the
Eastern rugs deadened the sound of my footfalls; I seemed to be moving
through a castle of enchantment.

Every moment I expected a rush of silent assassins from the doorways
or from behind the curtains or screens with their writhing dragons.
Utter silence reigned. Room after room I explored and at last halted at
the foot of the stairs. The inevitable censer shed an uncertain light,
but most of the stairs were veiled in shadows. What horrors awaited me
above?

But fear and the elixir are strangers and I mounted that stair of
lurking terror as boldly as I had entered that house of terror. The
upper rooms I found to be much like those below and with them they had
this fact in common: they were empty of human life. I sought an attic
but there seemed no door letting into one. Returning to the first
floor, I made a search for an entrance into the basement, but again my
efforts were fruitless. The amazing truth was borne in upon me: except
for myself and the dead man who lay sprawled so grotesquely in the
outer vestibule, there were no men in that house, dead or living.

I could not understand it. Had the house been bare of furniture I
should have reached the natural conclusion that Kathulos had fled--but
no signs of flight met my eye. This was unnatural, uncanny. I stood in
the great shadowy library and pondered. No, I had made no mistake in
the houses. Even if the broken corpse in the vestibule were not there
to furnish mute testimony, everything in the room pointed toward the
presence of the Master. There were the artificial palms, the lacquered
screen, the tapestries, even the idol, though now no incense smoke rose
before it. About the walls were ranged long shelves of books, bound
in strange and costly fashion--books in every language in the world,
I found from a swift examination, and on every subject--outré and
bizarre, most of them.

Remembering the secret passage in the Temple of Dreams, I investigated
the heavy mahogany table which stood in the center of the room. But
nothing resulted. A sudden blaze of fury surged up in me, primitive
and unreasoning. I snatched a statuette from the table and dashed it
against the shelf-covered wall. The noise of its breaking would surely
bring the gang from their hiding-places. But the result was much more
startling than that!

The statuette struck the edge of a shelf and instantly the whole
section of shelves with their load of books swung silently outward,
revealing a narrow doorway! As in the other secret door, a row of steps
led downward. At another time I would have shuddered at the thought of
descending, with the horrors of that other tunnel fresh in my mind, but
inflamed as I was by the elixir, I strode forward without an instant's
hesitancy.

Since there was no one in the house, they must be somewhere in the
tunnel or in whatever lair to which the tunnel led. I stepped through
the doorway, leaving the door open; the police might find it that way
and follow me, though somehow I felt as if mine would be a lone hand
from start to grim finish.

I went down a considerable distance and then the stair debouched into a
level corridor some twenty feet wide--a remarkable thing. In spite of
the width, the ceiling was rather low and from it hung small, curiously
shaped lamps which flung a dim light. I stalked hurriedly along the
corridor like old Death seeking victims, and as I went I noted the work
of the thing. The floor was of great broad flags and the walls seemed
to be of huge blocks of evenly set stone. This passage was clearly no
work of modern days; the slaves of Kathulos never tunneled there. Some
secret way of mediæval times, I thought--and after all, who knows what
catacombs lie below London, whose secrets are greater and darker than
those of Babylon and Rome?

On and on I went, and now I knew that I must be far below the earth.
The air was dank and heavy, and cold moisture dripped from the stones
of walls and ceiling. From time to time I saw smaller passages leading
away in the darkness but I determined to keep to the larger main one.

A ferocious impatience gripped me. I seemed to have been walking for
hours and still only dank damp walls and bare flags and guttering lamps
met my eyes. I kept a close watch for sinister-appearing chests or the
like--saw no such things.

Then as I was about to burst into savage curses, another stair loomed
up in the shadows in front of me.



                            _19. Dark Fury_

    "The ringed wolf glared the circle round
      Through baleful, blue-lit eye,
    Not unforgetful of his debt.
    Quoth he, 'I'll do some damage yet
      Or ere my turn to die!'"

    --Mundy.


Like a lean wolf I glided up the stairs. Some twenty feet up there was
a sort of landing from which other corridors diverged, much like the
lower one by which I had come. The thought came to me that the earth
below London must be honeycombed with such secret passages, one above
the other.

Some feet above this landing the steps halted at a door, and here I
hesitated, uncertain as to whether I should chance knocking or not.
Even as I meditated, the door began to open. I shrank back against the
wall, flattening myself out as much as possible. The door swung wide
and a Moor came through. Only a glimpse I had of the room beyond, out
of the corner of my eye, but my unnaturally alert senses registered the
fact that the room was empty.

And on the instant, before he could turn, I smote the Moor a single
deathly blow behind the angle of the jawbone and he toppled headlong
down the stairs, to lie in a crumpled heap on the landing, his limbs
tossed grotesquely about.

My left hand caught the door as it started to slam shut and in an
instant I was through and standing in the room beyond. As I had
thought, there were no occupants of this room. I crossed it swiftly and
entered the next. These rooms were furnished in a manner before which
the furnishings of the Soho house paled into insignificance. Barbaric,
terrible, unholy--these words alone convey some slight idea of the
ghastly sights which met my eyes. Skulls, bones and complete skeletons
formed much of the decorations, if such they were. Mummies leered
from their cases and mounted reptiles ranged the walls. Between these
sinister relics hung African shields of hide and bamboo, crossed with
assagais and war daggers. Here and there reared obscene idols, black
and horrific.

And in between and scattered about among these evidences of savagery
and barbarism were vases, screens, rugs and hangings of the highest
Oriental workmanship; a strange and incongruous effect.

I had passed through two of these rooms without seeing a human being,
when I came to stairs leading upward. Up these I went, several flights,
until I came to a door in a ceiling. I wondered if I were still under
the earth. Surely the first stairs had let into a house of some sort.
I raised the door cautiously. Starlight met my eyes and I drew myself
warily up and out. There I halted. A broad flat roof stretched away
on all sides and beyond its rim on all sides glimmered the lights of
London. Just what building I was on, I had no idea, but that it was a
tall one I could tell, for I seemed to be above most of the lights I
saw. Then I saw that I was not alone.

Over against the shadows of the ledge that ran around the roof's edge,
a great menacing form bulked in the starlight. A pair of eyes glinted
at me with a light not wholly sane; the starlight glanced silver from a
curving length of steel. Yar Khan the Afghan killer fronted me in the
silent shadows.

A fierce wild exultation surged over me. Now I could begin to pay the
debt I owed Kathulos and all his hellish band! The dope fired my veins
and sent waves of inhuman power and dark fury through me. A spring and
I was on my feet in a silent, deathly rush.

Yar Khan was a giant, taller and bulkier than I. He held a tulwar, and
from the instant I saw him I knew that he was full of the dope to the
use of which he was addicted--heroin.

As I came in he swung his heavy weapon high in air, but ere he could
strike I seized his sword wrist in an iron grip and with my free hand
drove smashing blows into his midriff.

Of that hideous battle, fought in silence above the sleeping city with
only the stars to see, I remember little. I remember tumbling back and
forth, locked in a death embrace. I remember the stiff beard rasping
my flesh as his dope-fired eyes gazed wildly into mine. I remember the
taste of hot blood in my mouth, the tang of fearful exultation in my
soul, the onrushing and upsurging of inhuman strength and fury.

God, what a sight for a human eye, had anyone looked upon that grim
roof where two human leopards, dope maniacs, tore each other to pieces!

I remember his arm breaking like rotten wood in my grip and the tulwar
falling from his useless hand. Handicapped by a broken arm, the end was
inevitable, and with one wild uproaring flood of might, I rushed him
to the edge of the roof and bent him backward far out over the ledge.
An instant we struggled there; then I tore loose his hold and hurled
him over, and one single shriek came up as he hurtled into the darkness
below.

I stood upright, arms hurled up toward the stars, a terrible statue of
primordial triumph. And down my breast trickled streams of blood from
the long wounds left by the Afghan's frantic nails, on neck and face.

Then I turned with the craft of the maniac. Had no one heard the sound
of that battle? My eyes were on the door through which I had come, but
a noise made me turn, and for the first time I noticed a small affair
like a tower jutting up from the roof. There was no window there, but
there was a door, and even as I looked that door opened and a huge
black form framed itself in the light that streamed from within. Hassim!

He stepped out on the roof and closed the door, his shoulders hunched
and neck outthrust as he glanced this way and that. I struck him
senseless to the roof with one hate-driven smash. I crouched over him,
waiting some sign of returning consciousness; then away in the sky,
close to the horizon, I saw a faint red tint. The rising of the moon!

Where in God's name was Gordon? Even as I stood undecided, a strange
noise reached me. It was curiously like the droning of many bees.

Striding in the direction from which it seemed to come, I crossed the
roof and leaned over the ledge. A sight nightmarish and incredible met
my eyes.

Some twenty feet below the level of the roof on which I stood, there
was another roof, of the same size and clearly a part of the same
building. On one side it was bounded by the wall; on the other three
sides a parapet several feet high took the place of a ledge.

A great throng of people stood, sat and squatted, close-packed on the
roof--and without exception they were _negroes_! There were hundreds of
them, and it was their low-voiced conversation which I had heard. But
what held my gaze was that upon which their eyes were fixed.

About the center of the roof rose a sort of teocalli some ten feet
high, almost exactly like those found in Mexico and on which the
priests of the Aztecs sacrificed human victims. This, allowing for
its infinitely smaller scale, was an exact type of those sacrificial
pyramids. On the flat top of it was a curiously carved altar, and
beside it stood a lank, dusky form whom even the ghastly mask he wore
could not disguise to my gaze--Santiago, the Haiti voodoo fetish man.
On the altar lay John Gordon, stripped to the waist and bound hand and
foot, but conscious.

       *       *       *       *       *

I reeled back from the roof edge, rent in twain by indecision. Even
the stimulus of the elixir was not equal to this. Then a sound brought
me about to see Hassim struggling dizzily to his knees. I reached him
with two long strides and ruthlessly smashed him down again. Then I
noticed a queer sort of contrivance dangling from his girdle. I bent
and examined it. It was a mask similar to that worn by Santiago. Then
my mind leaped swift and sudden to a wild desperate plan, which to my
dope-ridden brain seemed not at all wild or desperate. I stepped softly
to the tower and, opening the door, peered inward. I saw no one who
might need to be silenced, but I saw a long silken robe hanging upon a
peg in the wall. The luck of the dope fiend! I snatched it and closed
the door again. Hassim showed no signs of consciousness but I gave him
another smash on the chin to make sure and, seizing his mask, hurried
to the ledge.

A low guttural chant floated up to me, jangling, barbaric, with an
undertone of maniacal blood-lust. The negroes, men and women, were
swaying back and forth to the wild rhythm of their death chant. On the
teocalli Santiago stood like a statue of black basalt, facing the east,
dagger held high--a wild and terrible sight, naked as he was save for a
wide silken girdle and that inhuman mask on his face. The moon thrust a
red rim above the eastern horizon and a faint breeze stirred the great
black plumes which nodded above the voodoo man's mask. The chant of the
worshipers dropped to a low, sinister whisper.

I hurriedly slipped on the death mask, gathered the robe close about
me and prepared for the descent. I was prepared to drop the full
distance, being sure in the superb confidence of my insanity that I
would land unhurt, but as I climbed over the ledge I found a steel
ladder leading down. Evidently Hassim, one of the voodoo priests,
intended descending this way. So down I went, and in haste, for I knew
that the instant the moon's lower rim cleared the city's skyline, that
motionless dagger would descend into Gordon's breast.

Gathering the robe close about me so as to conceal my white skin, I
stepped down upon the roof and strode forward through rows of black
worshipers who shrank aside to let me through. To the foot of the
teocalli I stalked and up the stairs that ran about it, until I stood
beside the death altar and marked the dark red stains upon it. Gordon
lay on his back, his eyes open, his face drawn and haggard, but his
gaze dauntless and unflinching.

Santiago's eyes blazed at me through the slits of his mask, but I
read no suspicion in his gaze until I reached forward and took the
dagger from his hand. He was too much astonished to resist, and the
black throng fell suddenly silent. That he saw my hand was not that
of a negro it is certain, but he was simply struck speechless with
astonishment. Moving swiftly I cut Gordon's bonds and hauled him erect.
Then Santiago with a shriek leaped upon me--shrieked again and, arms
flung high, pitched headlong from the teocalli with his own dagger
buried to the hilt in his breast.

[Illustration: "Santiago pitched headlong from the teocalli."]

Then the black worshipers were on us with a screech and a roar--leaping
on the steps of the teocalli like black leopards in the moonlight,
knives flashing, eyes gleaming whitely.

I tore mask and robe from me and answered Gordon's exclamation with a
wild laugh. I had hoped that by virtue of my disguise I might get us
both safely away but now I was content to die there at his side.

He tore a great metal ornament from the altar, and as the attackers
came he wielded this. A moment we held them at bay and then they flowed
over us like a black wave. This to me was Valhalla! Knives stung me and
blackjacks smashed against me, but I laughed and drove my iron fists
in straight, steam-hammer smashes that shattered flesh and bone. I saw
Gordon's crude weapon rise and fall, and each time a man went down.
Skulls shattered and blood splashed and the dark fury swept over me.
Nightmare faces swirled about me and I was on my knees; up again and
the faces crumpled before my blows. Through far mists I seemed to hear
a hideous familiar voice raised in imperious command.

Gordon was swept away from me but from the sounds I knew that the work
of death still went on. The stars reeled through fogs of blood, but
hell's exaltation was on me and I reveled in the dark tide of fury
until a darker, deeper tide swept over me and I knew no more.



                         _20. Ancient Horror_

    "Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
      Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
    As a God self-slain on his own strange altar,
      Death lies dead."

    --Swinburne.


Slowly I drifted back into life--slowly, slowly. A mist held me and in
the mist I saw a Skull----

I lay in a steel cage like a captive wolf, and the bars were too
strong, I saw, even for my strength. The cage seemed to be set in
a sort of niche in the wall and I was looking into a large room.
This room was under the earth, for the floor was of stone flags and
the walls and ceilings were composed of gigantic blocks of the same
material. Shelves ranged the walls, covered with weird appliances,
apparently of a scientific nature, and more were on the great table
that stood in the center of the room. Beside this sat Kathulos.

The Sorcerer was clad in a snaky yellow robe, and those hideous hands
and that terrible head were more pronouncedly reptilian than ever. He
turned his great yellow eyes toward me, like pools of livid fire, and
his parchment-thin lips moved in what probably passed for a smile.

I staggered erect and gripped the bars, cursing.

"Gordon, curse you, where is Gordon?"

Kathulos took a test-tube from the table, eyed it closely and emptied
it into another.

"Ah, my friend awakes," he murmured in his voice--the voice of a living
dead man.

He thrust his hands into his long sleeves and turned fully to me.

"I think in you," he said distinctly, "I have created a Frankenstein
monster. I made of you a superhuman creature to serve my wishes and
you broke from me. You are the bane of my might, worse than Gordon
even. You have killed valuable servants and interfered with my plans.
However, your evil comes to an end tonight. Your friend Gordon broke
away but he is being hunted through the tunnels and can not escape.

"You," he continued with the sincere interest of the scientist, "are a
most interesting subject. Your brain must be formed differently from
any other man that ever lived. I will make a close study of it and add
it to my laboratory. How a man, with the apparent need of the elixir in
his system, has managed to go on for two days still stimulated by the
last draft is more than I can understand."

My heart leaped. With all his wisdom, little Zuleika had tricked him
and he evidently did not know that she had filched a flask of the
life-giving stuff from him.

"The last draft you had from me," he went on, "was sufficient only
for some eight hours. I repeat, it has me puzzled. Can you offer any
suggestion?"

I snarled wordlessly. He sighed.

"As always the barbarian. Truly the proverb speaks: 'Jest with the
wounded tiger and warm the adder in your bosom before you seek to lift
the savage from his savagery.'"

He meditated awhile in silence. I watched him uneasily. There was about
him a vague and curious difference--his long fingers emerging from the
sleeves drummed on the chair arms and some hidden exultation strummed
at the back of his voice, lending it unaccustomed vibrancy.

"And you might have been a king of the new regime," he said suddenly.
"Aye, the new--new and inhumanly old!"

I shuddered as his dry cackling laugh rasped out.

He bent his head as if listening. From far off seemed to come a hum of
guttural voices. His lips writhed in a smile.

"My black children," he murmured. "They tear my enemy Gordon to pieces
in the tunnels. They, Mr. Costigan, are my real henchmen and it was for
their edification tonight that I laid John Gordon on the sacrificial
stone. I would have preferred to have made some experiments with him,
based on certain scientific theories, but my children must be humored.
Later under my tutelage they will outgrow their childish superstitions
and throw aside their foolish customs, but now they must be led gently
by the hand.

"How do you like these under-the-earth corridors, Mr. Costigan?" he
switched suddenly. "You thought of them--what? No doubt that the white
savages of your Middle Ages built them? Faugh! These tunnels are older
than your world! They were brought into being by mighty kings, too many
eons ago for your mind to grasp, when an imperial city towered where
now this crude village of London stands. All trace of that metropolis
has crumbled to dust and vanished, but these corridors were built by
more than human skill--ha ha! Of all the teeming thousands who move
daily above them, none knows of their existence save my servants--and
not all of them. Zuleika, for instance, does not know of them, for of
late I have begun to doubt her loyalty and shall doubtless soon make of
her an example."

At that I hurled myself blindly against the side of the cage, a red
wave of hate and fury tossing me in its grip. I seized the bars and
strained until the veins stood out on my forehead and the muscles
bulged and crackled in my arms and shoulders. And the bars bent before
my onslaught--a little but no more, and finally the power flowed from
my limbs and I sank down trembling and weakened. Kathulos watched me
imperturbably.

"The bars hold," he announced with something almost like relief in his
tone. "Frankly, I prefer to be on the opposite side of them. You are a
human ape if there was ever one."

He laughed suddenly and wildly.

"But why do you seek to oppose me?" he shrieked unexpectedly. "Why
defy me, who am Kathulos, the Sorcerer, great even in the days of the
old empire? Today, invincible! A magician, a scientist, among ignorant
savages! Ha ha!"

I shuddered, and sudden blinding light broke in on me. Kathulos himself
was an addict, and was fired by the stuff of his choice! What hellish
concoction was strong enough, terrible enough to thrill the Master and
inflame him, I do not know, nor do I wish to know. Of all the uncanny
knowledge that was his, I, knowing the man as I did, count this the
most weird and grisly.

"You, you paltry fool!" he was ranting, his face lit supernaturally.
"Know you who I am? Kathulos of Egypt! Bah! They knew me in the old
days! I reigned in the dim misty sea lands ages and ages before the
sea rose and engulfed the land. I died, not as men die; the magic
draft of life everlasting was ours! I drank deep and slept. Long I
slept in my lacquered case! My flesh withered and grew hard; my blood
dried in my veins. I became as one dead. But still within me burned
the spirit of life, sleeping but anticipating the awakening. The great
cities crumbled to dust. The sea drank the land. The tall shrines and
the lofty spires sank beneath the green waves. All this I knew as I
slept, as a man knows in dreams. Kathulos of Egypt? Faugh! _Kathulos of
Atlantis!_"

I uttered a sudden involuntary cry. This was too grisly for sanity.

"Aye, the magician, the Sorcerer.

"And down the long years of savagery, through which the barbaric races
struggled to rise without their masters, the legend came of the day of
empire, when one of the Old Race would rise up from the sea. Aye, and
lead to victory the black people who were our slaves in the old days.

"These brown and yellow people, what care I for them? The blacks were
the slaves of my race, and I am their god today. They will obey me. The
yellow and the brown peoples are fools--I make them my tools and the
day will come when my black warriors will turn on them and slay at my
word. And you, you white barbarians, whose ape-ancestors forever defied
my race and me, your doom is at hand! And when I mount my universal
throne, the only whites shall be white slaves!

"The day came as prophesied, when my case, breaking free from the halls
where it lay--where it had lain when Atlantis was still sovran of the
world--where since her empery it had sunk into the green fathoms--when
my case, I say, was smitten by the deep sea tides and moved and
stirred, and thrust aside the clinging seaweed that masks temples
and minarets, and came floating up past the lofty sapphire and golden
spires, up through the green waters, to float upon the lazy waves of
the sea.

"Then came a white fool carrying out the destiny of which he was not
aware. The men on his ship, true believers, knew that the time had
come. And I--the air entered my nostrils and I awoke from the long,
long sleep. I stirred and moved and lived. And rising in the night,
I slew the fool that had lifted me from the ocean, and my servants
made obeisance to me and took me into Africa, where I abode awhile and
learned new languages and new ways of a new world and became strong.

"The wisdom of your dreary world--ha ha! I who delved deeper in the
mysteries of the old than any man dared go! All that men know today,
I know, and the knowledge beside that which I have brought down the
centuries is as a grain of sand beside a mountain! You should know
something of that knowledge! By it I lifted you from one hell to plunge
you into a greater! You fool, here at my hand is that which would lift
you from this! Aye, would strike from you the chains whereby I have
bound you!"

       *       *       *       *       *

He snatched up a golden vial and shook it before my gaze. I eyed it as
men dying in the desert must eye the distant mirages. Kathulos fingered
it meditatively. His unnatural excitement seemed to have passed
suddenly, and when he spoke again it was in the passionless, measured
tones of the scientist.

"That would indeed be an experiment worth while--to free you of the
elixir habit and see if your dope-riddled body would sustain life. Nine
times out of ten the victim, with the need and stimulus removed, would
die--but you are such a giant of a brute----"

He sighed and set the vial down.

"The dreamer opposes the man of destiny. My time is not my own or I
should choose to spend my life pent in my laboratories, carrying out
my experiments. But now, as in the days of the old empire when kings
sought my counsel, I must work and labor for the good of the race at
large. Aye, I must toil and sow the seed of glory against the full
coming of the imperial days when the seas give up all their living
dead."

I shuddered. Kathulos laughed wildly again. His fingers began to drum
his chair arms and his face gleamed with the unnatural light once more.
The red visions had begun to seethe in his skull again.

"Under the green seas they lie, the ancient masters, in their lacquered
cases, dead as men reckon death, but only sleeping. Sleeping through
the long ages as hours, awaiting the day of awakening! The old masters,
the wise men, who foresaw the day when the sea should gulp the land,
and who made ready. Made ready that they might rise again in the
barbaric days to come. As did I. Sleeping they lie, ancient kings and
grim wizards, who died as men die, before Atlantis sank. Who, sleeping,
sank with her but who shall arise again!

"Mine the glory! I rose first. And I sought out the site of old cities,
on shores that did not sink. Vanished, long vanished. The barbarian
tide swept over them thousands of years ago as the green waters swept
over their elder sister of the deeps. On some the deserts stretch bare.
Over some, as here, young barbarian cities rise."

He halted suddenly. His eyes sought one of the dark openings that
marked a corridor. I think his strange intuition warned him of some
impending danger but I do not believe that he had any inkling of how
dramatically our scene would be interrupted.

As he looked, swift footsteps sounded and a man appeared suddenly in
the doorway--a man disheveled, tattered and bloody. _John Gordon!_
Kathulos sprang erect with a cry, and Gordon, gasping as from
superhuman exertion, brought down the revolver he held in his hand and
fired point-blank. Kathulos staggered, clapping his hand to his breast,
and then, groping wildly, reeled to the wall and fell against it. A
doorway opened and he reeled through, but as Gordon leaped fiercely
across the chamber, a blank stone surface met his gaze, which yielded
not to his savage hammerings.

He whirled and ran drunkenly to the table where lay a bunch of keys the
Master had dropped there.

"The vial!" I shrieked. "Take the vial!" And he thrust it into his
pocket.

Back along the corridor through which he had come sounded a faint
clamor growing swiftly like a wolf-pack in full cry. A few precious
seconds spent with fumbling for the right key, then the cage door swung
open and I sprang out. A sight for the gods we were, the two of us!
Slashed, bruised and cut, our garments hanging in tatters--my wounds
had ceased to bleed, but now as I moved they began again, and from the
stiffness of my hands I knew that my knuckles were shattered. As for
Gordon, he was fairly drenched in blood from crown to foot.

       *       *       *       *       *

We made off down a passage in the opposite direction from the menacing
noise, which I knew to be the black servants of the Master in full
pursuit of us. Neither of us was in good shape for running, but we did
our best. Where we were going I had no idea. My superhuman strength had
deserted me and I was going now on will-power alone. We switched off
into another corridor and we had not gone twenty steps until, looking
back, I saw the first of the black devils round the corner.

A desperate effort increased our lead a trifle. But they had seen
us, were in full view now, and a yell of fury broke from them to
be succeeded by a more sinister silence as they bent all efforts to
overhauling us.

There a short distance in front of us we saw a stair loom suddenly in
the gloom. If we might reach that--but we saw something else.

Against the ceiling, between us and the stairs, hung a huge thing like
an iron grill, with great spikes along the bottom--a portcullis. And
even as we looked, without halting in our panting strides, it began to
move.

"They're lowering the portcullis!" Gordon croaked, his blood-streaked
face a mask of exhaustion and will.

Now the blacks were only ten feet behind us--now the huge grate,
gaining momentum, with a creak of rusty, unused mechanism, rushed
downward. A final spurt, a gasping straining nightmare of effort--and
Gordon, sweeping us both along in a wild burst of pure nerve-strength,
hurled us under and through, and the grate crashed behind us!

A moment we lay gasping, not heeding the frenzied horde who raved and
screamed on the other side of the grate. So close had that final leap
been, that the great spikes in their descent had torn shreds from our
clothing.

The blacks were thrusting at us with daggers through the bars, but we
were out of reach and it seemed to me that I was content to lie there
and die of exhaustion. But Gordon weaved unsteadily erect and hauled me
with him.

"Got to get out," he croaked; "got to warn--Scotland Yard--honeycombs
in heart of London--high explosives--arms--ammunition."

We blundered up the steps, and in front of us I seemed to hear a sound
of metal grating against metal. The stairs ended abruptly, on a landing
that terminated in a blank wall. Gordon hammered against this and the
inevitable secret doorway opened. Light streamed in, through the bars
of a sort of grille. Men in the uniform of London police were sawing at
these with hacksaws, and even as they greeted us, an opening was made
through which we crawled.

"You're hurt, sir!" One of the men took Gordon's arm.

My companion shook him off.

"There's no time to lose! Out of here, as quick as we can go!"

I saw that we were in a basement of some sort. We hastened up the steps
and out into the early dawn which was turning the east scarlet. Over
the tops of smaller houses I saw in the distance a great gaunt building
on the roof of which, I felt instinctively, that wild drama had been
enacted the night before.

"That building was leased some months ago by a mysterious Chinaman,"
said Gordon, following my gaze. "Office building originally--the
neighborhood deteriorated and the building stood vacant for some time.
The new tenant added several stories to it but left it apparently
empty. Had my eye on it for some time."

This was told in Gordon's jerky swift manner as we started hurriedly
along the sidewalk. I listened mechanically, like a man in a trance. My
vitality was ebbing fast and I knew that I was going to crumple at any
moment.

"The people living in the vicinity had been reporting strange sights
and noises. The man who owned the basement we just left heard queer
sounds emanating from the wall of the basement and called the police.
About that time I was racing back and forth among those cursed
corridors like a hunted rat and I heard the police banging on the wall.
I found the secret door and opened it but found it barred by a grating.
It was while I was telling the astounded policemen to procure a hacksaw
that the pursuing negroes, whom I had eluded for the moment, came into
sight and I was forced to shut the door and run for it again. By pure
luck I found you and by pure luck managed to find the way back to the
door.

"Now we must get to Scotland Yard. If we strike swiftly, we may capture
the entire band of devils. Whether I killed Kathulos or not I do not
know, or if he can be killed by mortal weapons. But to the best of my
knowledge all of them are now in those subterranean corridors and----"

At that moment the world shook! A brain-shattering roar seemed to break
the sky with its incredible detonation; houses tottered and crashed to
ruins; a mighty pillar of smoke and flame burst from the earth and on
its wings great masses of debris soared skyward. A black fog of smoke
and dust and falling timbers enveloped the world, a prolonged thunder
seemed to rumble up from the center of the earth as of walls and
ceilings falling, and amid the uproar and the screaming I sank down and
knew no more.



                    _21. The Breaking of the Chain_

    "And like a soul belated,
    In heaven and hell unmated,
    By cloud and mist abated,
      Comes out of darkness morn."

    --Swinburne.


There is little need to linger on the scenes of horror of that terrible
London morning. The world is familiar with and knows most of the
details attendant to the great explosion which wiped out a tenth of
that great city with a resultant loss of lives and property. For such
a happening some reason must needs be given; the tale of the deserted
building got out, and many wild stories were circulated. Finally, to
still the rumors, the report was unofficially given out that this
building had been the rendezvous and secret stronghold of a gang of
international anarchists, who had stored its basement full of high
explosives and who had supposedly ignited these accidentally. In a way
there was a good deal to this tale, as you know, but the threat that
had lurked there far transcended any anarchist.

All this was told to me, for when I sank unconscious, Gordon,
attributing my condition to exhaustion and a need of the hashish to the
use of which he thought I was addicted, lifted me and with the aid of
the stunned policemen got me to his rooms before returning to the scene
of the explosion. At his rooms he found Hansen, and Zuleika handcuffed
to the bed as I had left her. He released her and left her to tend
to me, for all London was in a terrible turmoil and he was needed
elsewhere.

When I came to myself at last, I looked up into her starry eyes and lay
quiet, smiling up at her. She sank down upon my bosom, nestling my head
in her arms and covering my face with her kisses.

"Steephen!" she sobbed over and over, as her tears splashed hot on my
face.

I was scarcely strong enough to put my arms about her but I managed it,
and we lay there for a space, in silence except for the girl's hard,
racking sobs.

"Zuleika, I love you," I murmured.

"And I love you, Steephen," she sobbed. "Oh, it is so hard to part
now--but I'm going with you, Steephen; I can't live without you!"

"My dear child," said John Gordon, entering the room suddenly,
"Costigan's not going to die. We will let him have enough hashish to
tide him along, and when he is stronger we will take him off the habit
slowly."

"You don't understand, sahib; it is not hashish Steephen must have. It
is something which only the Master knew, and now that he is dead or is
fled, Steephen can not get it and must die."

Gordon shot a quick, uncertain glance at me. His fine face was drawn
and haggard, his clothes sooty and torn from his work among the debris
of the explosion.

"She's right, Gordon," I said languidly, "I'm dying. Kathulos killed
the hashish-craving with a concoction he called the elixir. I've been
keeping myself alive on some of the stuff that Zuleika stole from him
and gave me, but I drank it all last night."

I was aware of no craving of any kind, no physical or mental discomfort
even. All my mechanism was slowing down fast; I had passed the stage
where the need of the elixir would tear and rend me. I felt only a
great lassitude and a desire to sleep. And I knew that the moment I
closed my eyes, I would die.

"A strange dope, that elixir," I said with growing languor. "It burns
and freezes and then at last the craving kills easily and without
torment."

"Costigan, curse it," said Gordon desperately, "you can't go like this!
That vial I took from the Egyptian's table--what is in it?"

"The Master swore it would free me of my curse and probably kill me
also," I muttered. "I'd forgotten about it. Let me have it; it can no
more than kill me and I'm dying now."

"Yes, quick, let me have it!" exclaimed Zuleika fiercely, springing
to Gordon's side, her hands passionately outstretched. She returned
with the vial which he had taken from his pocket, and knelt beside me,
holding it to my lips, while she murmured to me gently and soothingly
in her own language.

I drank, draining the vial, but feeling little interest in the whole
matter. My outlook was purely impersonal, at such a low ebb was my
life, and I can not even remember how the stuff tasted. I only remember
feeling a curious sluggish fire burn faintly along my veins, and the
last thing I saw was Zuleika crouching over me, her great eyes fixed
with a burning intensity on me. Her tense little hand rested inside her
blouse, and remembering her vow to take her own life if I died I tried
to lift a hand and disarm her, tried to tell Gordon to take away the
dagger she had hidden in her garments. But speech and action failed me
and I drifted away into a curious sea of unconsciousness.

Of that period I remember nothing. No sensation fired my sleeping brain
to such an extent as to bridge the gulf over which I drifted. They say
I lay like a dead man for hours, scarcely breathing, while Zuleika
hovered over me, never leaving my side an instant, and fighting like
a tigress when anyone tried to coax her away to rest. Her chain was
broken.

       *       *       *       *       *

As I had carried the vision of her into that dim land of nothingness,
so her dear eyes were the first thing which greeted my returning
consciousness. I was aware of a greater weakness than I thought
possible for a man to feel, as if I had been an invalid for months, but
the life in me, faint though it was, was sound and normal, caused by no
artificial stimulation. I smiled up at my girl and murmured weakly:

"Throw away your dagger, little Zuleika; I'm going to live."

She screamed and fell on her knees beside me, weeping and laughing
at the same time. Women are strange beings, of mixed and powerful
emotions, truly.

Gordon entered and grasped the hand which I could not lift from the bed.

"You're a case for an ordinary human physician now, Costigan," he said.
"Even a layman like myself can tell that. For the first time since I've
known you, the look in your eyes is entirely sane. You look like a man
who has had a complete nervous breakdown, and needs about a year of
rest and quiet. Great heavens, man, you've been through enough, outside
your dope experience, to last you a lifetime."

"Tell me first," said I: "Was Kathulos killed in the explosion?"

"I don't know," answered Gordon somberly. "Apparently the entire system
of subterranean passages was destroyed. I know my last bullet--the
last bullet that was in the revolver which I wrested from one of my
attackers--found its mark in the Master's body, but whether he died
from the wound, or whether a bullet can hurt him, I do not know. And
whether in his death agonies he ignited the tons and tons of high
explosives which were stored in the corridors, or whether the negroes
did it unintentionally, we shall never know.

"My God, Costigan, did you ever see such a honeycomb? And we know not
how many miles in either direction the passages reached. Even now
Scotland Yard men are combing the subways and basements of the town for
secret openings. All known openings, such as the one through which we
came and the one in Soho 48, were blocked by falling walls. The office
building was simply blown to atoms."

"What about the men who raided Soho 48?"

"The door in the library wall had been closed. They found the Chinaman
you killed, but searched the house without avail. Lucky for them, too,
else they had doubtless been in the tunnels when the explosion came,
and perished with the hundreds of negroes who must have died then."

"Every negro in London must have been there."

"I dare say. Most of them are voodoo worshipers at heart and the power
the Master wielded was incredible. They died, but what of him? Was he
blown to atoms by the stuff which he had secretly stored, or crushed
when the stone walls crumbled and the ceilings came thundering down?"

"There is no way to search among those subterranean ruins, I suppose?"

"None whatever. When the walls caved in, the tons of earth upheld by
the ceilings also came crashing down, filling the corridors with dirt
and broken stone, blocking them forever. And on the surface of the
earth, the houses which the vibration shook down were heaped high in
utter ruins. What happened in those terrible corridors must remain
forever a mystery."

       *       *       *       *       *

My tale draws to a close. The months that followed passed uneventfully,
except for the growing happiness which to me was paradise, but which
would bore you were I to relate it. But one day Gordon and I again
discussed the mysterious happenings that had had their being under the
grim hand of the Master.

"Since that day," said Gordon, "the world has been quiet. Africa has
subsided and the East seems to have returned to her ancient sleep.
There can be but one answer--living or dead, Kathulos was destroyed
that morning when his world crashed about him."

"Gordon," said I, "what is the answer to that greatest of all
mysteries?"

My friend shrugged his shoulders.

"I have come to believe that mankind eternally hovers on the brinks
of secret oceans of which it knows nothing. Races have lived and
vanished before our race rose out of the slime of the primitive, and
it is likely still others will live upon the earth after ours has
vanished. Scientists have long upheld the theory that the Atlanteans
possessed a higher civilization than our own, and on very different
lines. Certainly Kathulos himself was proof that our boasted culture
and knowledge were nothing beside that of whatever fearful civilization
produced him.

"His dealings with you alone have puzzled all the scientific world, for
none of them has been able to explain how he could remove the hashish
craving, stimulate you with a drug so infinitely more powerful, and
then produce another drug which entirely effaced the effects of the
other."

"I have him to thank for two things," I said slowly; "the regaining of
my lost manhood--and Zuleika. Kathulos, then, is dead, as far as any
mortal thing can die. But what of those others--those 'ancient masters'
who still sleep in the sea?"

Gordon shuddered.

"As I said, perhaps mankind loiters on the brink of unthinkable chasms
of horror. But a fleet of gunboats is even now patrolling the oceans
unobtrusively, with orders to destroy instantly any strange case that
may be found floating--to destroy it and its contents. And if my word
has any weight with the English government and the nations of the
world, the seas will be so patrolled until doomsday shall let down the
curtain on the races of today."

"At night I dream of them, sometimes," I muttered, "sleeping in their
lacquered cases, which drip with strange seaweed, far down among the
green surges--where unholy spires and strange towers rise in the dark
ocean."

"We have been face to face with an ancient horror," said Gordon
somberly, "with a fear too dark and mysterious for the human brain to
cope with. Fortune has been with us; she may not again favor the sons
of men. It is best that we be ever on our guard. The universe was not
made for humanity alone; life takes strange phases and it is the first
instinct of nature for the different species to destroy each other.
No doubt we seemed as horrible to the Master as he did to us. We have
scarcely tapped the chest of secrets which nature has stored, and I
shudder to think of what that chest may hold for the human race."

"That's true," said I, inwardly rejoicing at the vigor which was
beginning to course through my wasted veins, "but men will meet
obstacles as they come, as men have always risen to meet them. Now, I
am beginning to know the full worth of life and love, and not all the
devils from all the abysses can hold me."

Gordon smiled.

"You have it coming to you, old comrade. The best thing is to forget
all that dark interlude, for in that course lies light and happiness."


                               [THE END]



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