only in obscure places in the world, but right here in our civilized islands,—think of it! He said that he could not tell so much as the name of the fever that had taken Dubois away. But he said the most puzzling of the symptoms was, that just at midnight Dubois had fallen into a state of coma,—unconsciousness, you know,—which had lasted only a minute or two; quite extraordinary, the doctor said, and that a little later, soon after 1 o'clock, he had shut his eyes, and quieted down,—he had been raving, muttering and tossing about, as fever patients do, you know, and that there had come over his face the most wicked and dreadful grimace, and that he had drummed with his fingers against his own forehead, an irregular kind of drumming, a beat, the doctor said, not unlike the scampering footfalls of some small, four-footed animal. . . .
He died, as I told you, at 5, quite suddenly, and Dr. Duchesne said that just as he was going there came over his face the most horrible, the most malignant expression that he had ever seen. He said it caused him to shudder, although he knew, of course, that it was only the muscles of the man's face contracting,—rigor mortis, it is called, I think, Mr. Canev-in. . . .
Dr. Duchesne said, too, that there was a scientific word which described the situation,—that is, the possible connection between Dubois as he lay dying with that queer fever, and the appearances to me. It was not "telepathy," Mr. Canevin, of that I am certain. I wish I could remember the word, but I fear it has escaped my poor old memory!
"Was it 'projection?'" I asked Mrs. Du Chaillu.
"I think that was it, Mr. Canevin," said Mrs. Du Chaillu, and nodded her head at me, wisely.
Note.—"The Shadows," another of Henry S. Whitehead's stories of the West Indies, will be published soon.
The Coffin of Lissa
By August W. Derleth
The horror of the sentence overwhelmed me; it fell upon me as the black cloak of night descending on the earth absorbed the light—so it heralded the expiration of my life. I was dazed, speechless with the portent of the verdict. The black-robed judges seemed blurred to my sight as I rose and was taken from the chamber to make room for another poor wretch. Outside, night had fallen, and the murk of the darkness still further depressed my sunken spirits. Through the pall of gloom I eould discern no ray of hope. I was doomed! Doomed to die by torture, the slow torture of the iron coffin! The final words of the inquisitors reverberated hollowly in the chambers of my benumbed mind.
Slowly the first shock passed, and slowly I became conscious of my surroundings. My captors were leading me through a long passageway. A few candles glimmered feebly in their brackets at the end of the ill-lighted corridor. In a few moments I faced the iron door of the torture chamber. As the heavy door creaked backward on its rusty hinges, the gleam of the flickering candles cast fitful, menacing shadows on the dreaded coffin in the center of the chamber. The sight filled me with renewed horror and I
