"Stop that!" rapped the doctor imperatively—"and for the last time do not dare to touch that box!"
The flood of strange words was dammed. Ferrara stood quivering, but silent.
"The laws by which such as you were burnt—the wise laws of long ago—are no more," said Dr. Cairn. "English law cannot touch you, but God has provided for your kind!"
"Perhaps," whispered Ferrara, "you would like also to burn this box to which you object so strongly?"
"No power on earth would prevail upon me to touch it! But you—you have touched it—and you know the penalty! You raise forces of evil that have lain dormant for ages and dare to wield them. Beware! I know of some whom you have murdered; I cannot know how many you have sent to the madhouse. But I swear that in future your victims shall be few. There is a way to deal with you!"
He turned and walked to the door.
"Beware also, dear Dr. Cairn," came softly. "As you say, I raise forces of evil—"
Dr. Cairn spun about. In three strides he was standing over Antony Ferrara, fists clenched and his sinewy body tense in every fibre. His face was pale, as was apparent even in that vague light, and his eyes gleamed like steel.
"You raise other forces," he said—and his voice, though steady was very low; "evil forces, also."
Antony Ferrara, invoker of nameless horrors, shrank before him—before the primitive Celtic man whom unwittingly he had invoked. Dr. Cairn was spare and lean, but in perfect physical condition. Now he was strong, with the strength of a just cause. Moreover, he was dangerous, and Ferrara knew it well.