"Price was dead without a doubt. He had been strangled, the doctor thought from the greenish-black marks on his neck and other circumstances. The savage deed had been accomplished with frightful ferociousness and strength. Soon the room was in the possession of the police, and the vicar and I turned out. There was little evidence at the inquest. The cries of poor Price had been heard by my man, the body had been found—that was the practical summing-up of the whole matter. The doctor gave his evidence as to the probability of murder, and the police evidence tended in the same direction. It was affirmed that (some would say) he had been baffled by Price in an attempt to rob the house, had sacrificed the poor fellow to the fury of his checked greed, and had afterwards escaped by the window. The jury found that Price had died by the hand of some person unknown.
"'Well, vicar,' I asked afterwards, 'what do you think of the verdict?'
"He told me that from his point of view it seemed to be the most reasonable one that could be given; and to agree with the laws of common-sense.
"'Yes,' I replied, 'perhaps you are right from the common-sense point of view. Nevertheless, I know that Price did not die by any human agency. It is too ghastly; I can still see that green shadow hovering above his body on the couch. The huge shadow, the Elemental, the spirit of Ombos—whatever you like to call it—was there in that room with Price. It was there in a form that could be seen and felt. It is something more substantial than an ordinary shadow ... it is a thing of hellish terror, and it comes from that infernal bronze statue.'
"Thence forward, as day followed day, the ghastly memory of the murder of Price seemed to recede from my mind. I neither heard nor saw anything, nor did that sense of the unseen presence lurking about the house, come to me. I was beginning to hope that the spell of the bronze statue had passed away for good. But one night after this interval I again felt fear looking whitely on me again. If I were to describe all the incidents of the next few days in their order my story would never come to an end, and your patience would be exhausted. Wherever I went after dark had fallen the shadow of the unseen followed me. I had a passion for inviting people to stay with me, and I longed for companionship of my kind which I had never known before; I was eager to throw myself into the realities of life. The sense of a certain kind of separateness is hell! Just you ask anybody who knows. I called on people, lived in my car, and dined out on the slightest provocation. I remember I spent one evening, (after my desperate efforts to find some good Samaritan to bear me company), with a party of road-menders; I helped them break up the stones and all that kind of thing. But after they had packed up their tools and tea cans and bid me 'thanks and good night,' I met fear on the homeward road—a shadow among shadows. It would be almost impossible to describe the swerves that my mind took from that time till the end. The presence of the Albertus Magnus filled me by turns with dread, blind fear, an overshadowed sort of pleasure, and utter hopelessness. I dare not have it taken away; and I knew that its presence was driving me mad. The vicar told me that if I could make up my mind to have the statue removed or destroyed, it might dispel all my troubles. I ought to make an application to the authority on bronzes at the British Museum, who would be only too pleased to accept it. An application to escape the company of Albertus Magnus! A request that the British Museum would graciously take over a bronze statue, the soul of departed Ombos, and a blind terror that walked at twilight! The vicar's proposal sent me into a paroxysm of hysterical laughter.
"I'd gone into the library one afternoon about four, as I had heavy arrears of letter-writing to make up. It was surprising that I should choose that room where Albertus Magnus towered in his corner—and (I don't know why) I felt vaguely unhappy when I had been separated too long from him. By half past six I had finished. I went to the door to ring for Clayton to post my letters, and turned to light up the candelabra (I forgot to say that it was a fad of my father's all through his life to use candelabra in preference to electric light or gas), when I heard, I thought I heard a chuckle behind me—low, faint, but unmistakably malicious. The fate of poor Price flashed into my mind, and at the same time, I myself was watching myself fight on that same chesterfield with something horrible, unclean, intangible. I turned round instantaneously, feeling that the Albertus Magnus was at his hellish game again. With sudden horror I saw where the chuckle had come from. The statue had changed from the bronze-green to a fleshy-green. It was alive, and the great muscles were twitching and quivering. To my unutterable horror, I perceived it was not Albertus Magnus.... It was Ombos! His breath came in horrid little flutters, with seconds between each one, as if he had just come to life and was not quite used to it. A dreadful viciousness and vitality shone from his green eyes, and his demon-like mouth was twisted into a grin of unimaginable evil.
"'Gods don't grow in one night like mushrooms,' he said with a leer. (There was no mistake about his voice—it was Ombos; the words rang through my brain as if they had been shouted.) 'You can't expect a statue to turn into a god in a breath, or to come down and skip about ... it takes time and faith.'
"At that moment I must have gone mad. I snatched the heavy candelabra and with a howl of rage I hurled it with all my force at his narrow leering eyes. It struck the solid bronze with a terrific crash and fell at the base of the pedestal whereon Ombos had stood a moment before.
"Clayton rushed in at this juncture, and we went into the sitting-room. I saw him wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.
"'He's been here again, sir,' he said. 'I was standing on the gravel path by the library, a minute ago, when I saw him close by me in the bushes. He came across the water-meadow, I think. And any way he made off back that way when I shouted at him. Begad, though, it'll be worth a trifle to see who this rascal is, sir. I wonder what he's after. Not the common kind of assassin. What?'