FOREWORD

I am a medical man specializing in neurology and diseases of the brain. My peculiar field is abnormal

psychology, and in it I am recognized as an expert. I am closely connected with two of the foremost

hospitals in New York, and have received many honors in this country and abroad. I set this down,

risking identification, not through egotism but because I desire to show that I was competent to observe,

and competent to bring practiced scientific judgment upon, the singular events I am about to relate.

I say that I risk identification, because Lowell is not my name. It is a pseudonym, as are the names of all

the other characters in this narrative. The reasons for this evasion will become increasingly apparent.

Yet I have the strongest feeling that the facts and observations which in my case-books are grouped

under the heading of "The Dolls of Mme. Mandilip" should be clarified, set down in orderly sequence and

be made known. Obviously, I could do this in the form of a report to one of my medical societies, but I

am too well aware of the way my colleagues would receive such a paper, and with what suspicion, pity

or even abhorrence, they would henceforth regard me so counter to accepted notions of cause and effect

do many of these facts and observations run.

But now, orthodox man of medicine that I am, I ask myself whether there may not be causes other than

those we admit. Forces and energies which we stubbornly disavow because we can find no explanation

for them within the narrow confines of our present knowledge. Energies whose reality is recognized in

folk-lore, the ancient traditions, of all peoples, and which, to justify our ignorance, we label myth and

superstition.

A wisdom, a science, immeasurably old. Born before history, but never dying nor ever wholly lost. A

secret wisdom, but always with its priests and priestesses guarding its dark flame, passing it on from

century to century. Dark flame of forbidden knowledge…burning in Egypt before even the Pyramids were

raised; and in temples crumbling now beneath the Gobi's sands; known to the sons of Ad whom Allah, so

say the Arabs, turned to stone for their sorceries ten thousand years before Abraham trod the streets of

Ur of the Chaldees; known in China-and known to the Tibetan lama, the Buryat shaman of the steppes

and to the warlock of the South Seas alike.

Dark flame of evil wisdom…deepening the shadows of Stonehenge's brooding menhirs; fed later by

hands of Roman legionaries; gathering strength, none knows why, in medieval Europe…and still burning,

still alive, still strong.

Enough of preamble. I begin where the dark wisdom, if that it were, first cast its shadow upon me.

CHAPTER I: THE UNKNOWN DEATH

I heard the clock strike one as I walked up the hospital steps. Ordinarily I would have been in bed and

asleep, but there was a case in which I was much interested, and Braile, my assistant, had telephoned me

of certain developments which I wished to observe. It was a night in early November. I paused for a

moment at the top of the steps to look at the brilliancy of the stars. As I did so an automobile drew up at

the entrance to the hospital.

As I stood, wondering what its arrival at that hour meant, a man slipped out of it. He looked sharply up

and down the deserted street, then threw the door wide open. Another man emerged. The two of them

stooped and seemed to be fumbling around inside. They straightened and then I saw that they had locked

their arms around the shoulders of a third. They moved forward, not supporting but carrying this other

man. His head hung upon his breast and his body swung limply.

A fourth man stepped from the automobile.

I recognized him. He was Julian Ricori, a notorious underworld chieftain, one of the finished products of

the Prohibition Law. He had been pointed out to me several times. Even if he had not been, the

newspapers would have made me familiar with his features and figure. Lean and long, with silvery white

hair, always immaculately dressed, a leisured type from outward seeming, rather than leader of such

activities as those of which he was accused.

I had been standing in the shadow, unnoticed. I stepped out of the shadow. Instantly the burdened pair

halted, swiftly as hunting hounds. Their free hands dropped into the pockets of their coats. Menace was

in that movement.

"I am Dr. Lowell," I said, hastily. "Connected with the hospital. Come right along."

They did not answer me. Nor did their gaze waver from me; nor did they move. Ricori stepped in front

of them. His hands were also in his pockets. He looked me over, then nodded to the others; I felt the

tension relax.

"I know you, Doctor," he said pleasantly, in oddly precise English. "But that was quite a chance you

took. If I might advise you, it is not well to move so quickly when those come whom you do not know,

and at night-not in this town."

"But," I said, "I do know you, Mr. Ricori."

"Then," he smiled, faintly, "your judgment was doubly at fault. And my advice doubly pertinent."

There was an awkward moment of silence. He broke it.

"And being who I am, I shall feel much better inside your doors than outside."

I opened the doors. The two men passed through with their burden, and after them Ricori and I. Once

within, I gave way to my professional instincts and stepped up to the man the two were carrying. They

shot a quick glance at Ricori. He nodded. I raised the man's head.

A little shock went through me. The man's eyes were wide open. He was neither dead nor unconscious.

But upon his face was the most extraordinary expression of terror I had ever seen in a long experience

with sane, insane and borderland cases. It was not undiluted fear. It was mixed with an equally disturbing

horror. The eyes, blue and with distended pupils, were like exclamation points to the emotions printed

upon that face. They stared up at me, through me and beyond me. And still they seemed to be looking

inward-as though whatever nightmare vision they were seeing was both behind and in front of them.

"Exactly!" Ricori had been watching me closely. "Exactly, Dr. Lowell, what could it be that my friend has

seen-or has been given-that could make him appear so? I am most anxious to learn. I am willing to

spend much money to learn. I wish him cured, yes-but I shall be frank with you, Dr. Lowell. I would

give my last penny for the certainty that those who did this to him could not do the same thing to

me-could not make me as he is, could not make me see what he is seeing, could not make feel what he

is feeling."

At my signal, orderlies had come up. They took the patient and laid him on a stretcher. By this time the

resident physician had appeared. Ricori touched my elbow.

"I know a great deal about you, Dr. Lowell," he said. "I would like you to take full charge of this case."

I hesitated.

He continued, earnestly: "Could you drop everything else? Spend all your time upon it? Bring in any

others you wish to consult-don't think of expense-"

"A moment, Mr. Ricori," I broke in. "I have patients who cannot be neglected. I will give all the time I

can spare, and so will my assistant, Dr. Braile. Your friend will be constantly under observation here by

people who have my complete confidence. Do you wish me to take the case under those conditions?"

He acquiesced, though I could see he was not entirely satisfied. I had the patient taken to an isolated

private room, and went through the necessary hospital formalities. Ricori gave the man's name as Thomas

Peters, asserted that he knew of no close relations, had himself recorded at Peters' nearest friend,

assumed all responsibility, and taking out a roll of currency, skimmed a thousand dollar bill from it,

passing it to the desk as "preliminary costs."

I asked Ricori if he would like to be present at my examination. He said that he would. He spoke to his

two men, and they took positions at each side of the hospital doors-on guard. Ricori and I went to the

room assigned to the patient. The orderlies had stripped him, and he lay upon the adjustable cot, covered

by a sheet. Braile, for whom I had sent, was bending over Peters, intent upon his face, and plainly

puzzled. I saw with satisfaction that Nurse Walters, an unusually capable and conscientious young

woman, had been assigned to the case. Braile looked up at me. He said: "Obviously some drug."

"Maybe," I answered. "But if so then a drug I have never encountered. Look at his eyes-"

I closed Peters' lids. As soon as I had lifted my fingers they began to rise, slowly, until they were again

wide open. Several times I tried to shut them. Always they opened: the terror, the horror in them,

undiminished.

I began my examination. The entire body was limp, muscles and joints. It was as flaccid, the simile came

to me, as a doll. It was as though every motor nerve had gone out of business. Yet there was none of the

familiar symptoms of paralysis. Nor did the body respond to any sensory stimulus, although I struck

down into the nerve trunks. The only reaction I could obtain was a slight contraction of the dilated pupils

under strongest light.

Hoskins, the pathologist, came in to take his samples for blood tests. When he had drawn what he

wanted, I went over the body minutely. I could find not a single puncture, wound, bruise or abrasion.

Peters was hairy. With Ricori's permission, I had him shaved clean-chest, shoulders, legs, even the head.

I found nothing to indicate that a drug might have been given him by hypodermic. I had the stomach

emptied and took specimens from the excretory organs, including the skin. I examined the membranes of

nose and throat: they seemed healthy and normal; nevertheless, I had smears taken from them. The blood

pressure was low, the temperature slightly subnormal; but that might mean nothing. I gave an injection of

adrenaline. There was absolutely no reaction from it. That might mean much.

"Poor devil," I said to myself. "I'm going to try to kill that nightmare for you, at any rate."

I gave him a minimum hypo of morphine. It might have been water for all the good it did. Then I gave him

all I dared. His eyes remained open, terror and horror undiminished. And pulse and respiration

unchanged.

Ricori had watched all these operations with intense interest. I had done all I could for the time, and told

him so.

"I can do no more," I said, "until I receive the reports of the specimens. Frankly, I am all at sea. I know

of no disease nor drug which would produce these conditions."

"But Dr. Braile," he said, "mentioned a drug-"

"A suggestion only," interposed Braile hastily. "Like Dr. Lowell, I know of no drug which would cause

such symptoms."

Ricori glanced at Peters' face and shivered.

"Now," I said, "I must ask you some questions. Has this man been ill? If so, has he been under medical

care? If he has not actually been ill, has he spoken of any discomfort? Or have you noticed anything

unusual in his manner or behavior?"

"No, to all questions," he answered. "Peters has been in closest touch with me for the past week. He has

not been ailing in the least. Tonight we were talking in my apartments, eating a late and light dinner. He

was in high spirits. In the middle of a word, he stopped, half-turned his head as though listening; then

slipped from his chair to the floor. When I bent over him he was as you see him now. That was precisely

half after midnight. I brought him here at once."

"Well," I said, "that at least gives us the exact time of the seizure. There is no use of your remaining, Mr.

Ricori, unless you wish."

He studied his hands a few moments, rubbing the carefully manicured nails.

"Dr. Lowell," he said at last, "if this man dies without your discovering what killed him, I will pay you the

customary fees and the hospital the customary charges and no more. If he dies and you make this

discovery after his death, I will give a hundred thousand dollars to any charity you name. But if you make

the discovery before he dies, and restore him to health-I will give you the same sum."

We stared at him, and then as the significance of this remarkable offer sank in, I found it hard to curb my

anger.

"Ricori," I said, "you and I live in different worlds, therefore I answer you politely, although I find it

difficult. I will do all in my power to find out what is the matter with your friend and to cure him. I would

do that if he and you were paupers. I am interested in him only as a problem which challenges me as a

physician. But I am not interested in you in the slightest. Nor in your money. Nor in your offer. Consider

it definitely rejected. Do you thoroughly understand that?"

He betrayed no resentment.

"So much so that more than ever do I wish you to take full charge," he said.

"Very well. Now where can I get you if I want to bring you here quickly?"

"With your permission," he answered, "I should like to have-well, representatives-in this room at all

times. There will be two of them. If you want me, tell them-and I will soon be here."

I smiled at that, but he did not.

"You have reminded me," he said, "that we live in different worlds. You take your precautions to go

safely in your world-and I order my life to minimize the perils of mine. Not for a moment would I

presume to advise you how to walk among the dangers of your laboratory, Dr. Lowell. I have the

counterparts of those dangers. Bene-I guard against them as best I can."

It was a most irregular request, of course. But I found myself close to liking Ricori just then, and saw

clearly his point of view. He knew that and pressed the advantage.

"My men will be no bother," he said. "They will not interfere in any way with you. If what I suspect to be

true is true they will be a protection for you and your aids as well. But they, and those who relieve them,

must stay in the room night and day. If Peters is taken from the room, they must accompany him-no

matter where it is that he is taken."

"I can arrange it," I said. Then, at his request, I sent an orderly down to the doors. He returned with one

of the men Ricori had left on guard. Ricori whispered to him, and he went out. In a little while two other

men came up. In the meantime I had explained the peculiar situation to the resident and the

superintendent and secured the necessary permission for their stay.

The two men were well-dressed, polite, of a singularly tight-lipped and cold-eyed alertness. One of them

shot a glance at Peters.

"Christ!" he muttered.

The room was a corner one with two windows, one opening out on the Drive, the other on the side

street. Besides these, there were no outer openings except the door to the hall; the private bathroom

being enclosed and having no windows. Ricori and the two inspected the room minutely, keeping away, I

noticed, from the windows. He asked me then if the room could be darkened. Much interested, I

nodded. The lights were turned off, the three went to the windows, opened them and carefully scrutinized

the six-story sheer drop to both streets. On the side of the Drive there is nothing but the open space

above the park. Opposite the other side is a church.

"It is at this side you must watch," I heard Ricori say; he pointed to the church. "You can turn the lights on

now, Doctor."

He started toward the door, then turned.

"I have many enemies, Dr. Lowell. Peters was my right hand. If it was one of these enemies who struck

him, he did it to weaken me. Or, perhaps, because he had not the opportunity to strike at me. I look at

Peters, and for the first time in my life I, Ricori-am afraid. I have no wish to be the next, I have no wish

to look into hell!"

I grunted at that! He had put so aptly what I had felt and had not formulated into words.

He started to open the door. He hesitated.

"One thing more. If there should be any telephone calls inquiring as to Peters' condition let one of these

men, or their reliefs, answer. If any should come in person making inquiry, allow them to come up-but if

they are more than one, let only one come at a time. If any should appear, asserting that they are

relations, again let these men meet and question them."

He gripped my hand, then opened the door of the room. Another pair of the efficient-appearing retainers

were awaiting him at the threshold. They swung in before and behind him. As he walked away, I saw that

he was crossing himself vigorously.

I closed the door and went back into the room. I looked down on Peters.

If I had been religious, I too would have been doing some crossing. The expression on Peters' face had

changed. The terror and horror were gone. He still seemed to be looking both beyond me and into

himself, but it was a look of evil expectancy-so evil that involuntarily I shot a glance over my shoulder to

see what ugly thing might be creeping upon me.

There was nothing. One of Ricori's gunmen sat in the corner of the window, in the shadow, watching the

parapet of the church roof opposite; the other sat stolidly at the door.

Braile and Nurse Walters were at the other side of the bed. Their eyes were fixed with horrified

fascination on Peters' face. And then I saw Braile turn his head and stare about the room as I had.

Suddenly Peters' eyes seemed to focus, to become aware of the three of us, to become aware of the

entire room. They flashed with an unholy glee. That glee was not maniacal-it was diabolical. It was the

look of a devil long exiled from his well-beloved hell, and suddenly summoned to return.

Or was it like the glee of some devil sent hurtling out of his hell to work his will upon whom he might?

Very well do I know how fantastic, how utterly unscientific, are such comparisons. Yet not otherwise can

I describe that strange change.

Then, abruptly as the closing of a camera shutter, that expression fled and the old terror and horror came

back. I gave an involuntary gasp of relief, for it was precisely as though some evil presence had

withdrawn. The nurse was trembling; Braile asked, in a strained voice: "How about another

hypodermic?"

"No," I said. "I want you to watch the progress of this-whatever it is-without drugs. I'm going down to

the laboratory. Watch him closely until I return."

I went down to the laboratory. Hoskins looked up at me.

"Nothing wrong, so far. Remarkable health, I'd say. Of course all I've results on are the simpler tests."

I nodded. I had an uncomfortable feeling that the other tests also would show nothing. And I had been

more shaken than I would have cared to confess by those alternations of hellish fear, hellish expectancy

and hellish glee in Peters' face and eyes. The whole case troubled me, gave me a nightmarish feeling of

standing outside some door which it was vitally important to open, and to which not only did I have no

key but couldn't find the keyhole. I have found that concentration upon microscopic work often permits

me to think more freely upon problems. So I took a few smears of Peters' blood and began to study

them, not with any expectation of finding anything, but to slip the brakes from another part of my brain.

I was on my fourth slide when I suddenly realized that I was looking at the incredible. As I had

perfunctorily moved the slide, a white corpuscle had slid into the field of vision. Only a simple white

corpuscle-but within it was a spark of phosphorescence, shining out like a tiny lamp!

I thought at first that it was some effect of the light, but no manipulation of the illumination changed that

spark. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. I called Hoskins.

"Tell me if you see something peculiar in there."

He peered into the microscope. He started, then shifted the light as I had.

"What do you see, Hoskins?"

He said, still staring through the lens:

"A leucocyte inside of which is a globe of phosphorescence. Its glow is neither dimmed when I turn on

the full illumination, nor is it increased when I lessen it. In all except the ingested globe the corpuscle

seems normal."

"And all of which," I said, "is quite impossible."

"Quite," he agreed, straightening. "Yet there it is!"

I transferred the slide to the micro-manipulator, hoping to isolate the corpuscle, and touched it with the

tip of the manipulating needle. At the instant of contact the corpuscle seemed to burst. The globe of

phosphorescence appeared to flatten, and something like a miniature flash of heat-lightning ran over the

visible portion of the slide.

And that was all-the phosphorescence was gone.

We prepared and examined slide after slide. Twice more we found a tiny shining globe, and each time

with the same result, the bursting corpuscle, the strange flicker of faint luminosity-then nothing.

The laboratory 'phone rang. Hoskins answered.

"It's Braile. He wants you-quick."

"Keep after it, Hoskins," I said, and hastened to Peters' room. Entering, I saw Nurse Walters, face chalk

white, eyes closed, standing with her back turned to the bed. Braile was leaning over the patient,

stethoscope to his heart. I looked at Peters; and stood stock still, something like a touch of unreasoning

panic at my own heart. Upon his face was that look of devilish expectancy, but intensified. As I looked, it

gave way to the diabolic joy, and that, too, was intensified. The face held it for not many seconds. Back

came the expectancy then on its heels the unholy glee. The two expressions alternated, rapidly. They

flickered over Peters' face like-like the flickers of the tiny lights within the corpuscles of his blood. Braile

spoke to me through stiff lips:

"His heart stopped three minutes ago! He ought to be dead-yet listen-"

The body of Peters stretched and stiffened. A sound came from his lips-a chuckling sound; low yet

singularly penetrating, inhuman, the chattering laughter of a devil. The gunman at the window leaped to his

feet, his chair going over with a crash. The laughter choked and died away, and the body of Peters lay

limp.

I heard the door open, and Ricori's voice: "How is he, Dr. Lowell? I could not sleep-" He saw Peters'

face.

"Mother of Christ!" I heard him whisper. He dropped to his knees.

I saw him dimly for I could not take my eyes from Peters' face. It was the face of a grinning, triumphant

fiend-all humanity wiped from it-the face of a demon straight out of some mad medieval painter's hell.

The blue eyes, now utterly malignant, glared at Ricori.

And as I looked, the dead hands moved; slowly the arms bent up from the elbows, the fingers

contracting like claws; the dead body began to stir beneath the covers-

At that the spell of nightmare dropped from me; for the first time in hours I was on ground that I knew. It

was the rigor mortis, the stiffening of death-but setting in more quickly and proceeding at a rate I had

never known.

I stepped forward and drew the lids down over the glaring eyes. I covered the dreadful face.

I looked at Ricori. He was still on his knees, crossing himself and praying. And kneeling beside him, arm

around his shoulders, was Nurse Walters, and she, too, was praying.

Somewhere a clock struck five.

CHAPTER II: THE QUESTIONNAIRE

I offered to go home with Ricori, and somewhat to my surprise he accepted with alacrity. The man was

pitiably shaken. We rode silently, the tight-lipped gunmen alert. Peters' face kept floating before me.

I gave Ricori a strong sedative, and left him sleeping, his men on guard. I had told him that I meant to

make a complete autopsy.

Returning to the hospital in his car, I found the body of Peters had been taken to the mortuary. Rigor

mortis, Braile told me, had been complete in less than an hour-an astonishingly short time. I made the

necessary arrangements for the autopsy, and took Braile home with me to snatch a few hours sleep. It is

difficult to convey by words the peculiarly unpleasant impression the whole occurrence had made upon

me. I can only say that I was as grateful for Braile's company as he seemed to be for mine.

When I awoke, the nightmarish oppression still lingered, though not so strongly. It was about two when

we began the autopsy. I lifted the sheet from Peters' body with noticeable hesitation. I stared at his face

with amazement. All diabolism had been wiped away. It was serene, unlined-the face of a man who had

died peacefully, with no agony either of body or mind. I lifted his hand, it was limp, the whole body

flaccid, the rigor gone.

It was then, I think, that I first felt full conviction I was dealing with an entirely new, or at least unknown,

agency of death, whether microbic or otherwise. As a rule, rigor does not set in for sixteen to twenty-four

hours, depending upon the condition of the patient before death, temperature and a dozen other things.

Normally, it does not disappear for forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Usually a rapid setting-in of the

stiffening means as rapid a disappearance, and vice versa. Diabetics stiffen quicker than others. A sudden

brain injury, like shooting, is even swifter. In this case, the rigor had begun instantaneously with death,

and must have completed its cycle in the astonishingly short time of less than five hours-for the attendant

told me that he had examined the body about ten o'clock and he had thought that stiffening had not yet

set in. As a matter of fact, it had come and gone.

The results of the autopsy can be told in two sentences. There was no ascertainable reason why Peters

should not be alive. And he was dead!

Later, when Hoskins made his reports, both of these utterly conflicting statements continued to be true.

There was no reason why Peters should be dead. Yet dead he was. If the enigmatic lights we had

observed had anything to do with his death, they left no traces. His organs were perfect, all else as it

should have been; he was, indeed, an extraordinarily healthy specimen. Nor had Hoskins been able to

capture any more of the light-carrying corpuscles after I had left him.

That night I framed a short letter describing briefly the symptoms observed in Peters' case, not dwelling

upon the changes in expression but referring cautiously to "unusual grimaces" and a "look of intense fear."

Braile and I had this manifold and mailed to every physician in Greater New York. I personally attended

to a quiet inquiry to the same effect among the hospitals. The letters asked if the physicians had treated

any patients with similar symptoms, and if so to give particulars, names, addresses, occupations and any

characteristic interest under seal, of course, of professional confidence. I flattered myself that my

reputation was such that none of those who received the questionnaires would think the request actuated

either by idle curiosity or slightest unethical motive.

I received in response seven letters and a personal visit from the writer of one of them. Each letter,

except one, gave me in various degrees of medical conservatism, the information I had asked. After

reading them, there was no question that within six months seven persons of oddly dissimilar

characteristics and stations in life had died as had Peters.

Chronologically, the cases were as follows:

May 25: Ruth Bailey, spinster; fifty years old; moderately wealthy; Social Registerite and best of

reputation; charitable and devoted to children. June 20: Patrick McIlraine; bricklayer; wife and two

children. August 1: Anita Green; child of eleven; parents in moderate circumstances and well educated.

August 15: Steve Standish; acrobat; thirty; wife and three children. August 30: John J. Marshall; banker;

sixty interested in child welfare. September 10: Phineas Dimott; thirty-five; trapeze performer; wife and

small child. October 12: Hortense Darnley; about thirty; no occupation.

Their addresses, except two, were widely scattered throughout the city.

Each of the letters noted the sudden onset of rigor mortis and its rapid passing. Each of them gave the

time of death following the initial seizure as approximately five hours. Five of them referred to the

changing expressions which had so troubled me; in the guarded way they did it I read the bewilderment

of the writers.

"Patient's eyes remained open," recorded the physician in charge of the spinster Bailey. "Staring, but gave

no sign of recognition of surroundings and failed to focus upon or present any evidence of seeing objects

held before them. Expression one of intense terror, giving away toward death to others peculiarly

disquieting to observer. The latter intensified after death ensued. Rigor mortis complete and dissipated

within five hours."

The physician in charge of McIlraine, the bricklayer, had nothing to say about the ante-mortem

phenomena, but wrote at some length about the expression of his patient's face after death.

"It had," he reported, "nothing in common with the muscular contraction of the so-called 'Hippocratic

countenance,' nor was it in any way the staring eyes and contorted mouth familiarly known as the death

grin. There was no suggestion of agony, after the death-rather the opposite. I would term the expression

one of unusual malice."

The report of the physician who had attended Standish, the acrobat, was perfunctory, but it mentioned

that "after patient had apparently died, singularly disagreeable sounds emanated from his throat." I

wondered whether these had been the same demonic machinations that had come from Peters, and, if so,

I could not wonder at all at my correspondent's reticence concerning them.

I knew the physician who had attended the banker-opinionated, pompous, a perfect doctor of the very

rich.

"There can be no mystery as to the cause of death," he wrote. "It was certainly thrombosis, a clot

somewhere in the brain. I attach no importance whatever to the facial grimaces, nor to the time element

involved in the rigor. You know, my dear Lowell," he added, patronizingly, "it is an axiom in forensic

medicine that one can prove anything by rigor mortis."

I would have liked to have replied that when in doubt thrombosis as a diagnosis is equally as useful in

covering the ignorance of practitioners, but it would not have punctured his complacency.

The Dimott report was a simple record with no comment whatever upon grimaces or sounds.

But the doctor who had attended little Anita had not been so reticent.

"The child," he wrote, "had been beautiful. She seemed to suffer no pain, but at the onset of the illness I

was shocked by the intensity of terror in her fixed gaze. It was like a waking nightmare-for

unquestionably she was conscious until death. Morphine in almost lethal dosage produced no change in

this symptom, nor did it seem to have any effect upon heart or respiration. Later the terror disappeared,

giving way to other emotions which I hesitate to describe in this report, but will do so in person if you so

desire. The aspect of the child after death was peculiarly disturbing, but again I would rather speak than

write of that."

There was a hastily scrawled postscript; I could see him hesitating, then giving way at last to the necessity

of unburdening his mind, dashing off that postscript and rushing the letter away before he could

reconsider-

"I have written that the child was conscious until death. What haunts me is the conviction that she was

conscious after physical death! Let me talk to you."

I nodded with satisfaction. I had not dared to put that observation down in my questionnaire. And if it has

been true of the other cases, as I now believed it must have been, all the doctors except Standish's had

shared my conservatism-or timidity. I called little Anita's physician upon the 'phone at once. He was

strongly perturbed. In every detail his case had paralleled that of Peters. He kept repeating over and

over:

"The child was sweet and good as an angel, and she changed into a devil!"

I promised to keep him apprised of any discoveries I might make, and shortly after our conversation I

was visited by the young physician who had attended Hortense Darnley. Doctor Y, as I shall call him,

had nothing to add to the medical aspect other than what I already knew, but his talk suggested the first

practical line of approach toward the problem.

His office, he said, was in the apartment house which had been Hortense Darnley's home. He had been

working late, and had been summoned to her apartment about ten o'clock by the woman's maid, a

colored girl. He had found the patient lying upon her bed, and had at once been struck by the expression

of terror on her face and the extraordinary limpness of her body. He described her as blonde,

blue-eyed-"the doll type."

A man was in the apartment. He had at first evaded giving his name, saying that he was merely a friend.

At first glance, Dr. Y had thought the woman had been subjected to some violence, but examination

revealed no bruises or other injuries. The "friend" had told him they had been eating dinner when "Miss

Darnley flopped right down on the floor as though all her bones had gone soft, and we couldn't get

anything out of her." The maid confirmed this. There was a half-eaten dinner on the table, and both man

and servant declared Hortense had been in the best of spirits. There had been no quarrel. Reluctantly, the

"friend" had admitted that the seizure had occurred three hours before, and that they had tried to "bring

her about" themselves, calling upon him only when the alternating expressions which I have referred to in

the case of Peters began to appear.

As the seizure progressed, the maid had become hysterical with fright and fled. The man was of tougher

timber and had remained until the end. He had been much shaken, as had Dr. Y, by the after-death

phenomena. Upon the physician declaring that the case was one for the coroner, he had lost his

reticence, volunteering his name as James Martin, and expressing himself as eager for a complete

autopsy. He was quite frank as to his reasons. The Darnley woman had been his mistress, and he "had

enough trouble without her death pinned to me."

There had been a thorough autopsy. No trace of disease or poison had been found. Beyond a slight

valvular trouble of the heart, Hortense Darnley had been perfectly healthy. The verdict had been death by

heart disease. But Dr. Y was perfectly convinced the heart had nothing to do with it.

It was, of course, quite obvious that Hortense Darnley had died from the same cause or agency as had all

the others. But to me the outstanding fact was that her apartment had been within a stone's throw of the

address Ricori had given me as that of Peters. Furthermore, Martin was of the same world, if Dr. Y's

impressions were correct. Here was conceivably a link between two of the cases-missing in the others. I

determined to call in Ricori, to lay all the cards before him, and enlist his aid if possible.

My investigation had consumed about two weeks. During that time I had become well acquainted with

Ricori. For one thing he interested me immensely as a product of present-day conditions; for another I

liked him, despite his reputation. He was remarkably well read, of a high grade of totally unmoral

intelligence, subtle and superstitious-in olden time he would probably have been a Captain of

Condettieri, his wits and sword for hire. I wondered what were his antecedents. He had paid me several

visits since the death of Peters, and quite plainly my liking was reciprocated. On these visits he was

guarded by the tight-lipped man who had watched by the hospital window. This man's name, I learned,

was McCann. He was Ricori's most trusted bodyguard, apparently wholly devoted to his white-haired

chief. He was an interesting character too, and quite approved of me. He was a drawling Southerner who

had been, as he put it, "a cow-nurse down Arizona way, and then got too popular on the Border."

"I'm for you, Doc," he told me. "You're sure good for the boss. Sort of take his mind off business. An'

when I come here I can keep my hands outa my pockets. Any time anybody's cutting in on your cattle,

let me know. I'll ask for a day off."

Then he remarked casually that he "could ring a quarter with six holes at a hundred foot range."

I did not know whether this was meant humorously or seriously. At any rate, Ricori never went anywhere

without him; and it showed me how much he had thought of Peters that he had left McCann to guard him.

I got in touch with Ricori and asked him to take dinner with Braile and me that night at my house. At

seven he arrived, telling his chauffeur to return at ten. We sat at the table with McCann, as usual, on

watch in my hall, thrilling, I knew, my two night nurses-I have a small private hospital adjunct-by

playing the part of a gunman as conceived by the motion pictures.

Dinner over, I dismissed the butler and came to the point. I told Ricori of my questionnaire, remarking

that by it I had unearthed seven cases similar to that of Peters.

"You can dismiss from your mind any idea that Peters' death was due to his connection with you,

including the tiny globes of radiance in the blood of Peters."

At that his face grew white. He crossed himself.

"La strega!" he muttered. "The Witch! The Witch-fire!"

"Nonsense, man!" I said. "Forget your damned superstitions. I want help."

"You are scientifically ignorant! There are some things, Dr. Lowell-" he began, hotly; then controlled

himself.

"What is it you want me to do?"

"First," I said, "let's go over these eight cases, analyze them. Braile, have you come to any conclusions?"

"Yes," Braile answered. "I think all eight were murdered!"

CHAPTER III: THE DEATH AND NURSE WALTERS

That Braile had voiced the thought lurking behind my own mind-and without a shred of evidence so far

as I could see to support it-irritated me.

"You're a better man than I am, Sherlock Holmes," I said sarcastically. He flushed, but repeated

stubbornly:

"They were murdered."

"La strega!" whispered Ricori. I glared at him.

"Quit beating around the bush, Braile. What's your evidence?"

"You were away from Peters almost two hours; I was with him practically from start to finish. As I

studied him, I had the feeling that the whole trouble was in the mind-that it was not his body, his nerves,

his brain, that refused to function, but his will. Not quite that, either. Put it that his will had ceased to care

about the functions of the body-and was centered upon killing it!"

"What you're outlining now is not murder but suicide. Well, it has been done. I've watched a few die

because they had lost the will to live-"

"I don't mean that," he interrupted. "That's passive. This was active-"

"Good God, Braile!" I was honestly shocked. "Don't tell me you're suggesting all eight passed from the

picture by willing themselves out of it-and one of them only an eleven-year-old child!"

"I didn't say that," he replied. "What I felt was that it was not primarily Peters' own will doing it, but

another's will, which had gripped his, had wound itself around, threaded itself through his will. Another's

will which he could not, or did not want to resist-at least toward the end."

"La maledetta strega!" muttered Ricori again.

I curbed my irritation and sat considering; after all, I had a wholesome respect for Braile. He was too

good a man, too sound, for one to ride roughshod over any idea he might voice.

"Have you any idea as to how these murders, if murders they are, were carried out?" I asked politely.

"Not the slightest," said Braile.

"Let's consider the murder theory. Ricori, you have had more experience in this line than we, so listen

carefully and forget your witch," I said, brutally enough. "There are three essential factors to any

murder-method, opportunity, motive. Take them in order. First-the method.

"There are three ways a person can be killed by poison or by infection: through the nose-and this

includes by gases-through the mouth and through the skin. There are two or three other avenues.

Hamlet's father, for example, was poisoned, we read, through the ears, although I've always had my

doubts about that. I think, pursuing the hypothesis of murder, we can bar out all approaches except

mouth, nose, skin-and, by the last, entrance to the blood can be accomplished by absorption as well as

by penetration. Was there any evidence whatever on the skin, in the membranes of the respiratory

channels, in the throat, in the viscera, stomach, blood, nerves, brain-of anything of the sort?"

"You know there wasn't," he answered.

"Quite so. Then except for the problematical lighted corpuscle, there is absolutely no evidence of method.

Therefore we have absolutely nothing in essential number one upon which to base a theory of murder.

Let's take number two-opportunity.

"We have a tarnished lady, a racketeer, a respectable spinster, a bricklayer, an eleven-year-old

schoolgirl, a banker, an acrobat and a trapeze performer. There, I submit, is about as incongruous a

congregation as is possible. So far as we can tell, none of them except conceivably the circus men-and

Peters and the Darnley woman-had anything in common. How could anyone, who had opportunity to

come in close enough contact to Peters the racketeer to kill him, have equal opportunity to come in

similar close contact with Ruth Bailey, the Social Registerite maiden lady? How could one who had found

a way to make contact with banker Marshall come equally close to acrobat Standish? And so on-you

perceive the difficulty? To administer whatever it was that caused the deaths-if they were murder-could

have been no casual matter. It implies a certain degree of intimacy. You agree?"

"Partly," he conceded.

"Had all lived in the same neighborhood, we might assume that they might normally have come within

range of the hypothetical killer. But they did not-"

"Pardon me, Dr. Lowell," Ricori interrupted, "but suppose they had some common interest which brought

them within that range."

"What possible common interest could so divergent a group have had?"

"One common interest is very plainly indicated in these reports and in what McCann has told us."

"What do you mean, Ricori?"

"Babies," he answered. "Or at least-children."

Braile nodded: "I noticed that."

"Consider the reports," Ricori went on. "Miss Bailey is described as charitable and devoted to children.

Her charities, presumably, took the form of helping them. Marshall, the banker, was interested in

child-welfare. The bricklayer, the acrobat and the trapeze performer had children. Anita was a child.

Peters and the Darnley woman were, to use McCann's expression, 'daffy' over a baby."

"But," I objected, "if they are murders, they are the work of one hand. It is beyond range of possibility

that all of the eight were interested in one baby, one child, or one group of children."

"Very true," said Braile. "But all could have been interested in one especial, peculiar thing which they

believed would be of benefit to or would delight the child or children to whom each was devoted. And

that peculiar article might be obtainable in only one place. If we could find that this is the fact, then

certainly that place would bear investigation."

"It is," I said, "undeniably worth looking into. Yet it seems to me that the common-interest idea works

two ways. The homes of those who died might have had something of common interest to an individual.

The murderer, for example, might be a radio adjuster. Or a plumber. Or a collector. An electrician, and

so and so on."

Braile shrugged a shoulder. Ricori did not answer; he sat deep in thought, as though he had not heard me.

"Please listen, Ricori," I said. "We've gotten this far. Method of murder-if it is murder-unknown.

Opportunity for killing-find some person whose business, profession or what not was a matter of interest

to each of the eight, and whom they visited or who visited them; said business being concerned, possibly,

in some way with babies or older children. Now for motive. Revenge, gain, love, hate, jealousy,

self-protection? None of these seems to fit, for again we come to that barrier of dissimilar stations in life."

"How about the satisfaction of an appetite for death-wouldn't you call that a motive?" asked Braile,

oddly. Ricori half rose from his chair, stared at him with a curious intentness; then sank back, but I

noticed he was now all alert.

"I was about to discuss the possibility of a homicidal maniac," I said, somewhat testily.

"That's not exactly what I mean. You remember Longfellow's lines:

'I shot an arrow into the air.

It fell to earth I know not where.'

"I've never acquiesced in the idea that that was an inspired bit of verse meaning the sending of an argosy

to some unknown port and getting it back with a surprise cargo of ivory and peacocks, apes and

precious stones. There are some people who can't stand at a window high above a busy street, or on top

of a skyscraper, without wanting to throw something down. They get a thrill in wondering who or what

will be hit. The feeling of power. It's a bit like being God and unloosing the pestilence upon the just and

the unjust alike. Longfellow must have been one of those people. In his heart, he wanted to shoot a real

arrow and then mull over in his imagination whether it had dropped in somebody's eye, hit a heart, or just

missed someone and skewered a stray dog. Carry this on a little further. Give one of these people power

and opportunity to loose death at random, death whose cause he is sure cannot be detected. He sits in

his obscurity, in safety, a god of death. With no special malice against anyone, perhaps-impersonal, just

shooting his arrows in the air, like Longfellow's archer, for the fun of it."

"And you wouldn't call such a person a homicidal maniac?" I asked, dryly.

"Not necessarily. Merely free of inhibitions against killing. He might have no consciousness of wrongdoing

whatever. Everybody comes into this world under sentence of death-time and method of execution

unknown. Well, this killer might consider himself as natural as death itself. No one who believes that

things on earth are run by an all-wise, all-powerful God thinks of Him as a homicidal maniac. Yet He

looses wars, pestilences, misery, disease, floods, earthquakes-on believers and unbelievers alike. If you

believe things are in the hands of what is vaguely termed Fate-would you call Fate a homicidal maniac?"

"Your hypothetical archer," I said, "looses a singularly unpleasant arrow, Braile. Also, the discussion is

growing far too metaphysical for a simple scientist like me. Ricori, I can't lay this matter before the police.

They would listen politely and laugh heartily after I had gone. If I told all that is in my mind to the medical

authorities, they would deplore the decadence of a hitherto honored intellect. And I would rather not call

in any private detective agency to pursue inquiries."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"You have unusual resources," I answered. "I want you to sift every movement of Peters and Hortense

Darnley for the past two months. I want you to do all that is possible in the same way with the others-"

I hesitated.

"I want you to find that one place to which, because of their love for children, each of these unfortunates

was drawn. For though my reason tells me you and Braile have not the slightest real evidence upon which

to base your suspicions, I grudgingly admit to you that I have a feeling you may be right."

"You progress, Dr. Lowell," Ricori said, formally. "I predict that it will not be long before you will as

grudgingly admit the possibility of my witch."

"I am sufficiently abased," I replied, "by my present credulity not to deny even that."

Ricori laughed, and busied himself copying the essential information from the reports. Ten o'clock struck.

McCann came up to say that the car was waiting and we accompanied Ricori to the door. The gunman

had stepped out and was on the steps when a thought came to me.

"Where do you begin, Ricori?"

"With Peters' sister."

"Does she know Peters is dead?"

"No," he answered, reluctantly. "She thinks him away. He is often away for long, and for reasons which

she understands he is not able to communicate with her directly. At such times I keep her informed. And

the reason I have not told her of Peters' death is because she dearly loved him and would be in much

sorrow-and in a month, perhaps, there is to be another baby."

"Does she know the Darnley woman is dead, I wonder?"

"I do not know. Probably. Although McCann evidently does not."

"Well," I said, "I don't see how you're going to keep Peters' death from her now. But that's your

business."

"Exactly," he answered, and followed McCann to the car.

Braile and I had hardly gotten back to my library when the telephone rang. Braile answered it. I heard

him curse, and saw that the hand that held the transmitter was shaking. He said: "We will come at once."

He set the transmitter down slowly, then turned to me with twitching face.

"Nurse Walters has it!"

I felt a distinct shock. As I have written, Walters was a perfect nurse, and besides that a thoroughly good

and attractive young person. A pure Gaelic type-blue black hair, blue eyes with astonishingly long

lashes, milk-white skin-yes, singularly attractive. After a moment or two of silence I said:

"Well, Braile, there goes all your fine-spun reasoning. Also your murder theory. From the Darnley

woman to Peters to Walters. No doubt now that we're dealing with some infectious disease."

"Isn't there?" he asked, grimly. "I'm not prepared to admit it. I happen to know Walters spends most of

her money on a little invalid niece who lives with her-a child of eight. Ricori's thread of common interest

moves into her case."

"Nevertheless," I said as grimly, "I intend to see that every precaution is taken against an infectious

malady."

By the time we had put on our hats and coats, my car was waiting. The hospital was only two blocks

away, but I did not wish to waste a moment. I ordered Nurse Walters removed to an isolated ward used

for observation of suspicious diseases. Examining her, I found the same flaccidity as I had noted in the

case of Peters. But I observed that, unlike him, her eyes and face showed little of terror. Horror there

was, and a great loathing. Nothing of panic. She gave me the same impression of seeing both within and

without. As I studied her I distinctly saw a flash of recognition come into her eyes, and with it appeal. I

looked at Braile-he nodded; he, too, had seen it.

I went over her body inch by inch. It was unmarked except for a pinkish patch upon her right instep.

Closer examination made me think this had been some superficial injury, such as a chafing, or a light burn

or scald. If so, it had completely healed; the skin was healthy.

In all other ways her case paralleled that of Peters-and the others. She had collapsed, the nurse told me,

without warning while getting dressed to go home. My inquiry was interrupted by an exclamation from

Braile. I turned to the bed and saw that Walters' hand was slowly lifting, trembling as though its raising

was by some terrific strain of will. The index finger was half-pointing. I followed its direction to the

disclosed patch upon the foot. And then I saw her eyes, by that same tremendous effort, focus there.

The strain was too great; the hand dropped, the eyes again were pools of horror. Yet clearly she had

tried to convey to us some message, something that had to do with that healed wound.

I questioned the nurse as to whether Walters had said anything to anyone about any injury to her foot.

She replied that she had said nothing to her, nor had any of the other nurses spoken of it. Nurse Robbins,

however, shared the apartment with Harriet and Diana. I asked who Diana was, and she told me that

was the name of Walters' little niece. This was Robbins' night off, I found, and gave instructions to have

her get in touch with me the moment she returned to the apartment.

By now Hoskins was taking his samples for the blood tests. I asked him to concentrate upon the

microscopic smears and to notify me immediately if he discovered one of the luminous corpuscles.

Bartano, an outstanding expert upon tropical diseases, happened to be in the hospital, as well as Somers,

a brain specialist in whom I had strong confidence. I called them in for observation, saying nothing of the

previous cases. While they were examining Walters, Hoskins called up to say he had isolated one of the

shining corpuscles. I asked the pair to go to Hoskins and give me their opinion upon what he had to show

them. In a little while they returned, somewhat annoyed and mystified. Hoskins, they said, had spoken of

a "leucocyte containing a phosphorescent nucleus." They had looked at the slide but had been unable to

find it. Somers very seriously advised me to insist upon Hoskins having his eyes examined. Bartano said

caustically that he would have been quite as surprised to have seen such a thing as he would have been to

have observed a miniature mermaid swimming around in an artery. By these remarks, I realized afresh the

wisdom in my silence.

Nor did the expected changes in expression occur. The horror and loathing persisted, and were

commented upon by both Bartano and Somers as "unusual." They agreed that the condition must be

caused by a brain lesion of some kind. They did not think there was any evidence either of microbic

infection or of drugs or poison. Agreeing that it was a most interesting case, and asking me to let them

know its progress and outcome, they departed.

At the beginning of the fourth hour, there was a change of expression, but not what I had been expecting.

In Walters' eyes, on her face, was only loathing. Once I thought I saw a flicker of the devilish anticipation

flash over her face. If so, it was quickly mastered. About the middle of the fourth hour, we saw

recognition again return to her eyes. Also, there was a perceptible rally of the slowing heart. I sensed an

intense gathering of nervous force.

And then her eyelids began to rise and fall, slowly, as though by tremendous effort, in measured time and

purposefully. Four times they raised and lowered; there was a pause; then nine times they lifted and fell;

again the pause, then they closed and opened once. Twice she did this-

"She's trying to signal," whispered Braile. "But what?"

Again the long-lashed lids dropped and rose-four times…pause…nine times…pause…once…

"She's going," whispered Braile.

I knelt, stethoscope at ears…slower…slower beat the heart…and slower…and stopped.

"She's gone!" I said, and arose. We bent over her, waiting for that last hideous spasm,

convulsion-whatever it might be.

It did not come. Stamped upon her dead face was the loathing, and that only. Nothing of the devilish

glee. Nor was there sound from her dead lips. Beneath my hand I felt the flesh of her white arm begin to

stiffen.

The unknown death had destroyed Nurse Walters-there was no doubt of that. Yet in some obscure,

vague way I felt that it had not conquered her.

Her body, yes. But not her will!

CHAPTER IV: THE THING IN RICORI'S CAR

I returned home with Braile, profoundly depressed. It is difficult to describe the effect the sequence of

events I am relating had upon my mind from beginning to end-and beyond the end. It was as though I

walked almost constantly under the shadow of an alien world, nerves prickling as if under surveillance of

invisible things not of our life…the subconsciousness forcing itself to the threshold of the conscious

battering at the door between and calling out to be on guard…every moment to be on guard. Strange

phrases for an orthodox man of medicine? Let them stand.

Braile was pitiably shaken. So much so that I wondered whether there had been more than professional

interest between him and the dead girl. If there had been, he did not confide in me.

It was close to four o'clock when we reached my house. I insisted that he remain with me. I called the

hospital before retiring, but they had heard nothing of Nurse Robbins. I slept a few hours, very badly.

Shortly after nine, Robbins called me on the telephone. She was half hysterical with grief. I bade her

come to my office, and when she had done so Braile and I questioned her.

"About three weeks ago," she said, "Harriet brought home to Diana a very pretty doll. The child was

enraptured. I asked Harriet where she had gotten it, and she said in a queer little store way downtown.

"'Job,' she said-my name is Jobina-'There's the queerest woman down there. I'm sort of afraid of her,

Job.'

"I didn't pay much attention. Besides, Harriet wasn't ever very communicative. I had the idea she was a

bit sorry she had said what she had.

"Now I think of it though, Harriet acted rather funny after that. She'd be gay and then she'd be-well, sort

of thoughtful. About ten days ago she came home with a bandage around her foot. The right foot? Yes.

She said she'd been having tea with the woman she'd gotten Diana's doll from. The teapot upset and the

hot tea had poured down on her foot. The woman had put some salve on it right away, and now it didn't

hurt a bit.

"'But I think I'll put something on it I know something about,' she told me. Then she slipped off her

stocking and began to strip the bandage. I'd gone into the kitchen and she called to me to come and look

at her foot.

"'It's queer,' she said. 'That was a bad scald, Job. Yet it's practically healed. And that salve hasn't been

on more than an hour.'

"I looked at her foot. There was a big red patch on the instep. But it wasn't sore, and I told her the tea

couldn't have been very hot.

"'But it was really scalded, Job,' she said. 'I mean it was blistered.'

"She sat looking at the bandage and at her foot for quite a while. The salve was bluish and had a queer

shine to it. I never saw anything like it before. No, I couldn't detect any odor to it. Harriet reached down

and took the bandage and said:

"'Job, throw it in the fire.'

"I threw the bandage in the fire. I remember that it gave a queer sort of flicker. It didn't seem to burn. It

just flickered and then it wasn't there. Harriet watched it, and turned sort of white. Then she looked at

her foot again.

"'Job,' she said. 'I never saw anything heal as quick as that. She, must be a witch.'

"'What on earth are you talking about, Harriet?' I asked her.

"'Oh, nothing,' she said. 'Only I wish I had the courage to rip that place on my foot wide open and rub in

an antidote for snake-bite!'

"Then she laughed, and I thought she was fooling. But she painted it with iodine and bandaged it with an

antiseptic besides. The next morning she woke me up and said:

"'Look at that foot now. Yesterday a whole pot of scalding tea poured over it. And now it isn't even

tender. And the skin ought to be just smeared off. Job, I wish to the Lord it was!'

"That's all, Dr. Lowell. She didn't say any more about it and neither did I. And she just seemed to forget

all about it. Yes. I did ask her where the shop was and who the woman was, but she wouldn't tell me. I

don't know why.

"And after that I never knew her so gay and carefree. Happy, careless…Oh, I don't know why she

should have died…I don't…I don't!"

Braile asked:

"Do the numbers 491 mean anything to you, Robbins? Do you associate them with any address Harriet

knew?"

She thought, then shook her head. I told her of the measured closing and opening of Walters' eyes.

"She was clearly attempting to convey some message in which those numbers figured. Think again."

Suddenly she straightened, and began counting upon her fingers. She nodded.

"Could she have been trying to spell out something? If they were letters they would read d, i and a.

They're the first three letters of Diana's name."

"Well, of course that seemed the simple explanation. She might have been trying to ask us to take care of

the child." I suggested this to Braile. He shook his head.

"She knew I'd do that," he said. "No, it was something else."

A little after Robbins had gone, Ricori called up. I told him of Walters' death. He was greatly moved.

And after that came the melancholy business of the autopsy. The results were precisely the same as in

that of Peters. There was nothing whatever to show why the girl had died.

At about four o'clock the next day Ricori again called me on the telephone.

"Will you be at home between six and nine, Dr. Lowell?" There was suppressed eagerness in his voice.

"Certainly, if it is important," I answered, after consulting my appointment book. "Have you found out

anything, Ricori?"

He hesitated.

"I do not know. I think perhaps-yes."

"You mean," I did not even try to hide my own eagerness. "You mean-the hypothetical place we

discussed?"

"Perhaps. I will know later. I go now, to where it may be."

"Tell me this, Ricori-what do you expect to find?"

"Dolls!" he answered.

And as though to avoid further questions he hung up before I could speak.

Dolls!

I sat thinking. Walters had bought a doll. And in that same unknown place where she had bought it, she

had sustained the injury which had so worried her-or rather, whose unorthodox behavior had so

worried her. Nor was there doubt in my mind, after hearing Robbins' story, that it was to that injury she

had attributed her seizure, and had tried to tell us so. We had not been mistaken in our interpretation of

that first desperate effort of will I have described. She might, of course, have been in error. The scald or,

rather, the salve had had nothing whatever to do with her condition. Yet Walters had been strongly

interested in a child. Children were the common interest of all who had died as she had. And certainly the

one great common interest of children is dolls. What was it that Ricori had discovered?

I called Braile, but could not get him. I called up Robbins and told her to bring the doll to me

immediately, which she did.

The doll was a peculiarly beautiful thing. It had been cut from wood, then covered with gesso. It was

curiously life-like. A baby doll, with an elfin little face. Its dress was exquisitely embroidered, a folk-dress

of some country I could not place. It was, I thought, almost a museum piece, and one whose price Nurse

Walters could hardly have afforded. It bore no mark by which either maker or seller could be identified.

After I had examined it minutely, I laid it away in a drawer. I waited impatiently to hear from Ricori.

At seven o'clock there was a sustained, peremptory ringing of the doorbell. Opening my study door, I

heard McCann's voice in the hall, and called to him to come up. At first glance I knew something was

very wrong. His tight-mouthed tanned face was a sallow yellow, his eyes held a dazed look. He spoke

from stiff lips:

"Come down to the car. I think the boss is dead."

"Dead!" I exclaimed, and was down the stairs and out beside the car in a breath. The chauffeur was

standing beside the door. He opened it, and I saw Ricori huddled in a corner of the rear seat. I could feel

no pulse, and when I raised the lids of his eyes they stared at me sightlessly. Yet he was not cold.

"Bring him in," I ordered.

McCann and the chauffeur carried him into the house and placed him on the examination table in my

office. I bared his breast and applied the stethoscope. I could detect no sign of the heart functioning. Nor

was there, apparently, any respiration. I made a few other rapid tests. To all appearances, Ricori was

quite dead. And yet I was not satisfied. I did the things customary in doubtful cases, but without result.

McCann and the chauffeur had been standing close beside me. They read my verdict in my face. I saw a

strange glance pass between them; and obviously each of them had a touch of panic, the chauffeur more

markedly than McCann. The latter asked in a level, monotonous voice:

"Could it have been poison?"

"Yes, it could-" I stopped.

Poison! And that mysterious errand about which he had telephoned me! And the possibility of poison in

the other cases! But this death-and again I felt the doubt-had not been like those others.

"McCann," I said, "when and where did you first notice anything wrong?"

He answered, still in that monotonous voice:

"About six blocks down the street. The boss was sitting close to me. All at once he says 'Jesu!' Like he's

scared. He shoves his hands up to his chest. He gives a kind of groan an' stiffens out. I says to him:

'What's the matter, boss, you got a pain?' He don't answer me, an' then he sort of falls against me an' I

see his eyes is wide open. He looks dead to me. So I yelps to Paul to stop the car and we both look him

over. Then we beat it here like hell."

I went to a cabinet and poured them stiff drinks of brandy. They needed it. I threw a sheet over Ricori.

"Sit down," I said, "and you, McCann, tell me exactly what occurred from the time you started out with

Mr. Ricori to wherever it was he went. Don't skip a single detail."

He said:

"About two o'clock the boss goes to Mollie's-that's Peters' sister-stays an hour, comes out, goes home

and tells Paul to be back at four-thirty. But he's doing a lot of 'phoning so we don't start till five. He tells

Paul where he wants to go, a place over in a little street down off Battery Park. He says to Paul not to go

through the street, just park the car over by the Battery. And he says to me, 'McCann, I'm going in this

place myself. I don't want 'em to know I ain't by myself.' He says, 'I got reasons. You hang around an'

look in now an' then, but don't come in unless I call you.' I says, 'Boss, do you think it's wise?' An' he

says, 'I know what I'm doing an' you do what I tell you.' So there ain't any argument to that.

"We get down to this place an' Paul does like he's told, an' the boss walks up the street an' he stops at a

little joint that's got a lot of dolls in the window. I looks in the place as I go past. There ain't much light

but I see a lot of other dolls inside an' a thin gal at a counter. She looks white as a fish's belly to me, an'

after the boss has stood at the window a minute or two he goes in, an' I go by slow to look at the gal

again because she sure looks whiter than I ever saw a gal look who's on her two feet. The boss is talkin'

to the gal who's showing him some dolls. The next time I go by there's a woman in the place. She's so

big, I stand at the window a minute to look at her because I never seen anybody that looks like her.

She's got a brown face an' it looks sort of like a horse, an' a little mustache an' moles, an' she's as funny a

looking brand as the fish-white gal. Big an' fat. But I get a peep at her eyes-Geeze, what eyes! Big an'

black an' bright, an' somehow I don't like them any more than the rest of her. The next time I go by, the

boss is over in a corner with the big dame. He's got a wad of bills in his hand and I see the gal watching

sort of frightened like. The next time I do my beat, I don't see either the boss or the woman.

"So I stand looking through the window because I don't like the boss out of my sight in this joint. An' the

next thing I see is the boss coming out of a door at the back of the shop. He's madder than hell an'

carrying something an' the woman is behind him an' her eyes spitting fire. The boss is jabbering but I can't

hear what he's saying, an' the dame is jabbering too an' making funny passes at him. Funny passes? Why,

funny motions with her hands. But the boss heads for the door an' when he gets to it I see him stick what

he's carrying inside his overcoat an' button it up round it.

"It's a doll. I see its legs dangling down before he gets it under his coat. A big one, too, for it makes quite

a bulge-"

He paused, began mechanically to roll a cigarette, than glanced at the covered body and threw the

cigarette away. He went on:

"I never see the boss so mad before. He's muttering to himself in Italian an' saying something over an'

over that sounds like 'strayga-' I see it ain't no time to talk so I just walk along with him. Once he says to

me, more as if he's talking to himself than me, if you get what I mean-he says, 'The Bible says you shall

not suffer a witch to live.' Then he goes on muttering an' holding one arm fast over this doll inside his coat.

"We get to the car an' he tells Paul to beat it straight to you an' to hell with traffic-that's right, ain't it,

Paul? Yes. When we get in the car he stops muttering an' just sits there quiet, not saying anything to me

until I hear him say Jesu!' like I told you. And that's all, ain't it, Paul?"

The chauffeur did not answer. He sat staring at McCann with something of entreaty in his gaze. I

distinctly saw McCann shake his head. The chauffeur said, in a strongly marked Italian accent,

hesitatingly:

"I do not see the shop, but everything else McCann say is truth."

I got up and walked over to Ricori's body. I was about to lift the sheet when something caught my eye. A

red spot about as big as a dime-a blood stain. Holding it in place with one finger, I carefully lifted the

edge of the sheet. The blood spot was directly over Ricori's heart.

I took one of my strongest glasses and one of my finest probes. Under the glass, I could see on Ricori's

breast a minute puncture, no larger than that made by a hypodermic needle. Carefully I inserted the

probe. It slipped easily in and in until it touched the wall of the heart. I went no further.

Some needle-pointed, exceedingly fine instrument had been thrust through Ricori's breast straight into his

heart!

I looked at him, doubtfully; there was no reason why such a minute puncture should cause death. Unless,

of course, the weapon which had made it had been poisoned; or there had been some other violent

shock which had contributed to that of the wound itself. But such shock or shocks might very well bring

about in a person of Ricori's peculiar temperament some curious mental condition, producing an almost

perfect counterfeit of death. I had heard of such cases.

No, despite my tests, I was not sure Ricori was dead. But I did not tell McCann that. Alive or dead,

there was one sinister fact that McCann must explain. I turned to the pair, who had been watching me

closely.

"You say there were only the three of you in the car?"

Again I saw a glance pass between them.

"There was the doll," McCann answered, half-defiantly. I brushed the answer aside, impatiently.

"I repeat: there were only the three of you in the car?"

"Three men, yes."

"Then," I said grimly, "you two have a lot to explain. Ricori was stabbed. I'll have to call the police."

McCann arose and walked over to the body. He picked up the glass and peered through it at the tiny

puncture. He looked at the chauffeur. He said:

"I told you the doll done it, Paul!"

CHAPTER V: THE THING IN RICORI'S CAR (CONTINUED)

I said, incredulously, "McCann, you surely don't expect me to believe that?"

He did not answer, rolling another cigarette which this time he did not throw away. The chauffeur

staggered over to Ricori's body; he threw himself on his knees and began mingled prayers and

implorations. McCann, curiously enough, was now completely himself. It was as though the removal of

uncertainty as to the cause of Ricori's death had restored all his old cold confidence. He lighted the

cigarette; he said, almost cheerfully:

"I'm aiming to make you believe."

I walked over to the telephone. McCann jumped in front of me and stood with his back against the

instrument.

"Wait a minute, Doc. If I'm the kind of a rat that'll stick a knife in the heart of the man who hired me to

protect him-ain't it occurred to you the spot you're on ain't so healthy? What's to keep me an' Paul from

giving you the works an' making our getaway?"

Frankly, that had not occurred to me. Now I realized in what a truly dangerous position I was placed. I

looked at the chauffeur. He had risen from his knees and was standing, regarding McCann intently.

"I see you get it." McCann smiled, mirthlessly. He walked to the Italian. "Pass your rods, Paul."

Without a word the chauffeur dipped into his pockets and handed him a pair of automatics. McCann laid

them on my table. He reached under his left arm and placed another pistol beside them; reached into his

pocket and added a second.

"Sit there, Doc," he said, and indicated my chair at the table. "That's all our artillery. Keep the guns right

under your hands. If we make any breaks, shoot. All I ask is you don't do any calling up till you've

listened."

I sat down, drawing the automatics to me, examining them to see that they were loaded. They were.

"Doc," McCann said, "there's three things I want you to consider. First, if I'd had anything to do with

smearing the boss, would I be giving you a break like this? Second, I was sitting at his right side. He had

on a thick overcoat. How could I reach over an' run anything as thin as whatever killed him must have

been all through his coat, an' through the doll, through his clothes, an' through him without him putting up

some kind of a fight. Hell, Ricori was a strong man. Paul would have seen us-"

"What difference would that have made," I interrupted, "if Paul were an accomplice?"

"Right," he acquiesced, "that's so. Paul's as deep in the mud as I am. Ain't that so, Paul?" He looked

sharply at the chauffeur, who nodded. "All right, we'll leave that with a question mark after it. Take the

third point-if I'd killed the boss that way, an' Paul was in it with me, would we have took him to the one

man who'd be expected to know how he was killed? An' then when you'd found out as expected, hand

you an alibi like this? Christ, Doc, I ain't loco enough for that!"

His face twitched.

"Why would I want to kill him? I'd a-gone through hell an' back for him an' he knew it. So would've

Paul."

I felt the force of all this. Deep within me I was conscious of a stubborn conviction that McCann was

telling the truth-or at least the truth as he saw it. He had not stabbed Ricori. Yet to attribute the act, to a

doll was too fantastic. And there had been only the three men in the car. McCann had been reading my

thoughts with an uncanny precision.

"It might've been one of them mechanical dolls," he said. "Geared up to stick."

"McCann, go down and bring it up to me," I said sharply-he had voiced a rational explanation.

"It ain't there," he said, and grinned at me again mirthlessly. "It out!"

"Preposterous-" I began. The chauffeur broke in:

"It's true. Something out. When I open the door. I think it cat, dog, maybe. I say, 'What the hell-' Then I

see it. It run like hell. It stoop. It duck in shadow. I see it just as flash an' then no more. I say to

McCann-'What the hell!' McCann, he's feeling around bottom of car. He say-'It's the doll. It done for

the boss!' I say: 'Doll! What you mean doll?' He tell me. I know nothing of any doll before. I see the boss

carry something in his coat, si. But I don't know what. But I see one goddam thing that don't look like

cat, dog. It jump out of car, through my legs, si!"

I said ironically: "Is it your idea, McCann, that this mechanical doll was geared to run away as well as to

stab?"

He flushed, but answered quietly:

"I ain't saying it was a mechanical doll. But anything else would be-well, pretty crazy, wouldn't it?"

"McCann," I asked abruptly, "what do you want me to do?"

"Doc, when I was down Arizona way, there was a ranchero died. Died sudden. There was a feller

looked as if he had a lot to do with it. The marshal said: 'Hombre, I don't think you done it-but I'm the

lone one on the jury. What say?' The hombre say, 'Marshal, give me two weeks, an' if I don't bring in the

feller that done it, you hang me.' The marshal says, 'Fair enough. The temporary verdict is deceased died

by shock.' It was shock all right. Bullet shock. All right, before the two weeks was up, along comes this

feller with the murderer hog-tied to his saddle."

"I get your point, McCann. But this isn't Arizona."

"I know it ain't. But couldn't you certify it was heart disease? Temporarily? An' give me a week? Then if I

don't come through, shoot the works. I won't run away. It's this way, Doc. If you tell the bulls, you might

just as well pick up one of them guns an' shoot me an' Paul dead right now. If we tell the bulls about the

doll, they'll laugh themselves sick an' fry us at Sing Sing. If we don't, we fry anyway. If by a miracle the

bulls drop us-there's them in the boss's crowd that'll soon remedy that. I'm telling you, Doc, you'll be

killing two innocent men. An' worse, you'll never find out who did kill the boss, because they'll never look

any further than us. Why should they?"

A cloud of suspicion gathered around my conviction of the pair's innocence. The proposal, naive as it

seemed, was subtle. If I assented, the gunman and the chauffeur would have a whole week to get away,

if that was the plan. If McCann did not come back, and I told the truth of the matter, I would be an

accessory after the fact-in effect, co-murderer. If I pretended that my suspicions had only just been

aroused, I stood, at the best, convicted of ignorance. If they were captured, and recited the agreement,

again I could be charged as an accessory. It occurred to me that McCann's surrender of the pistols was

extraordinarily clever. I could not say that my assent had been constrained by threats. Also, it might have

been only a cunningly conceived gesture to enlist my confidence, weaken my resistance to his appeal.

How did I know that the pair did not have still other weapons, ready to use if I refused?

Striving to find a way out of the trap, I walked over to Ricori. I took the precaution of dropping the

automatics into my pockets as I went. I bent over Ricori. His flesh was cold, but not with the peculiar

chill of death. I examined him once more, minutely. And now I could detect the faintest of pulsation in the

heart a bubble began to form at the corner of his lips-Ricori lived!

I continued to bend over him, thinking faster than ever I had before. Ricori lived, yes. But it did not lift my

peril. Rather it increased it. For if McCann had stabbed him, if the pair had been in collusion, and learned

that they had been unsuccessful, would they not finish what they had thought ended? With Ricori alive,

Ricori able to speak and to accuse them-a death more certain than the processes of law confronted

them. Death at Ricori's command at the hands of his henchmen. And in finishing Ricori they would at the

same time be compelled to kill me.

Still bending, I slipped a hand into my pocket, clenched an automatic, and then whirled upon them with

the gun leveled.

"Hands up! Both of you!" I said.

Amazement flashed over McCann's face, consternation over the chauffeur's. But their hands went up.

I said, "There's no need of that clever little agreement, McCann. Ricori is not dead. When he's able to

talk he'll tell what happened to him."

I was not prepared for the effect of this announcement. If McCann was not sincere, he was an

extraordinary actor. His lanky body stiffened, I had seldom seen such glad relief as was stamped upon

his face. Tears rolled down his tanned cheeks. The chauffeur dropped to his knees, sobbing and praying.

My suspicions were swept away. I did not believe this could be acting. In some measure I was ashamed

of myself.

"You can drop your hands, McCann," I said, and slipped the automatic back in my pocket.

He said, hoarsely: "Will he live?"

I answered: "I think he has every chance. If there's no infection, I'm sure of it."

"Thank God!" whispered McCann, and over and over, "Thank God!"

And just then Braile entered, and stood staring in amazement at us.

"Ricori has been stabbed. I'll explain the whole matter later," I told him. "Small puncture over the heart

and probably penetrating it. He's suffering mainly from shock. He's coming out of it. Get him up to the

Annex and take care of him until I come."

Briefly I reviewed what I had done and suggested the immediate further treatment. And when Ricori had

been removed, I turned to the gunmen.

"McCann," I said, "I'm not going to explain. Not now. But here are your pistols, and Paul's. I'm giving

you your chance."

He took the automatics, looking at me with a curious gleam in his eyes.

"I ain't saying I wouldn't like to know what touched you off, Doc," he said. "But whatever you do is all

right by me-if only you can bring the boss around."

"Undoubtedly there are some who will have to be notified of his condition," I replied. "I'll leave that all to

you. All I know is that he was on his way to me. He had a heart attack in the car. You brought him to

me. I am now treating him-for heart attack. If he should die, McCann-well, that will be another matter."

"I'll do the notifying," he answered. "There's only a couple that you'll have to see. Then I'm going down to

that doll joint an' get the truth outa that hag."

His eyes were slits, his mouth a slit, too.

"No," I said, firmly. "Not yet. Put a watch on the place. If the woman goes out, discover where she goes.

Watch the girl as closely. If it appears as though either of them or both of them are moving away-running

off-let them. But follow them. I don't want them molested or even alarmed until Ricori can tell what

happened there."

"All right," he said, but reluctantly.

"Your doll story," I reminded him, sardonically, "would not be so convincing to the police as to my

somewhat credulous mind. Take no chance of them being injected into the matter. As long as Ricori is

alive, there is no need of them being so injected."

I took him aside.

"Can you trust the chauffeur to do no talking?"

"Paul's all right," he said.

"Well, for both your sakes, he would better be," I warned.

They took their departure. I went up to Ricori's room. His heart was stronger, his respiration weak but

encouraging. His temperature, although still dangerously subnormal, had improved. If, as I had told

McCann, there was no infection, and if there had been no poison nor drug upon the weapon with which

he had been stabbed, Ricori should live.

Later that night two thoroughly polite gentlemen called upon me, heard my explanation of Ricori's

condition, asked if they might see him, did see him, and departed. They assured me that "win or lose" I

need have no fear about my fees, nor have any hesitancy in bringing in the most expensive consultants. In

exchange, I assured them that I believed Ricori had an excellent chance to recover. They asked me to

allow no one to see him except themselves, and McCann. They thought it might save me trouble to have

a couple of men whom they would send to me, to sit at the door of the room-outside, of course, in the

hall. I answered that I would be delighted.

In an exceedingly short time two quietly watchful men were on guard at Ricori's door, just as they had

been over Peters'.

In my dreams that night dolls danced around me, pursued me, threatened me. My sleep was not pleasant.

CHAPTER VI: STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF OFFICER SHEVLIN

Morning brought a marked improvement in Ricori's condition. The deep coma was unchanged, but his

temperature was nearly normal; respiration and heart action quite satisfactory. Braile and I divided duties

so that one of us could be constantly within call of the nurses. The guards were relieved after breakfast

by two others. One of my quiet visitors of the night before made his appearance, looked at Ricori and

received with unfeigned gratification my reassuring reports.

After I had gone to bed the obvious idea had occurred to me that Ricori might have made some

memorandum concerning his quest; I had felt reluctance about going through his pockets, however. Now

seemed to be the opportunity to ascertain whether he had or had not. I suggested to my visitor that he

might wish to examine any papers Ricori had been carrying, adding that we had been interested together

in a certain matter, that he had been on his way to discuss this with me when he had undergone his

seizure; and that he might have carried some notes of interest to me. My visitor agreed; I sent for Ricori's

overcoat and suit and we went through them. There were a few papers, but nothing relating to our

investigation.

In the breast pocket of his overcoat, however, was a curious object-a piece of thin cord about eight

inches long in which had been tied nine knots, spaced at irregular intervals. They were curious knots too,

not quite like any I could recollect having observed. I studied the cord with an unaccountable but distinct

feeling of uneasiness. I glanced at my visitor and saw a puzzled look in his eyes. And then I remembered

Ricori's superstition, and reflected that the knotted cord was probably a talisman or charm of some sort.

I put it back in the pocket.

When again alone, I took it out and examined it more minutely. The cord was of human hair, tightly