“See what I’ve found!” he exclaimed. “It was just by the side of the wall there. Where’s that journal?”
He spread out the piece of paper—it fitted exactly into the empty space. They all read together:
“Professor Ashleigh, after being bitten by the anthropoid, rapidly developed hydrophobia of a serious nature. After treatment with a new serum the patient was relieved of the hydrophobic symptoms, but to my horror this mild-mannered, humane man seems possessed at times of all the characteristics of the brutal anthropoid—cunning, thievery, brutality. I do not know what may come of this. I hesitate to put even these words on to paper. I am doubtful as to what course, in the interests of humanity, I ought to take.
(Signed) “James Merrill, M.D.
“Editor’s Note. Just as we go to press, a cable announces the terrible death of Doctor Merrill, the writer of the above notes. He was attacked by wild animals while alone in a South American jungle, and torn to pieces.”
There was a queer little silence among the company. No one seemed inclined for speech. They looked at one another in dumb, wondering horror. Then Quest drew a penknife from his pocket and with a turn of his wrist forced the lock of the diary. They all watched him with fascinated eyes. It was something to escape from their thoughts. They leaned over as he spread the book out before him. Those first two sentences were almost in the light of a dedication:
“For ten years I have protected my master, Professor Edgar Ashleigh, at the cost of my peace of mind, my happiness, my reputation. This book, even though it be too late to help me, shall clear my reputation.”
Quest closed the volume.
“French,” he decided, “we must find the Professor. Will you have your men search the house and grounds immediately?”
The Inspector left the room like a dazed man. They could hear him giving orders outside.
“The next page,” Lenora begged. “Just one page more!”
Quest hesitated for a moment. Then he turned it over. All three read again: