“We are in for it now,” remarked Kennedy half humorously, half seriously, “to see the Devil in the twentieth century.”
“And I,” I added, “I am, I suppose, to be the reporter to Satan.”
We said nothing more about it, but I thought much about it, and the more I thought, the more incomprehensible the thing seemed. I had heard of Devil Worship, but had always associated it with far-off Indian and other heathen lands—in fact never among Caucasians in modern times, except possibly in Paris. Was there such a cult here in my own city? I felt skeptical.
That night, however, promptly at the appointed time, a cab called for us, and in it was Veda Blair, nervous but determined.
“Seward has gone ahead,” she explained. “I told him that a friend had introduced you, that you had studied the occult abroad. I trust you to carry it out.”
Kennedy reassured her.
The curtains were drawn and we could see nothing outside, though we must have been driven several miles, far out into the suburbs.
At last the cab stopped. As we left it we could see nothing of the building, for the cab had entered a closed courtyard.
“Who enters the Red Lodge?” challenged a sepulchral voice at the porte-cochère. “Give the password!”
“The Serpent’s Tooth,” Veda answered.