over it, and make it burst in flames. Now, if their ordinary showmen can do things like that, how much more able are their true adepts to bring forth fire at will, or on the happening of specific things? The rescue of the Hindoo girl Sarastai left the funeral pyre without a victim, and so the old priests placed a curse on her and hers, decreeing fire should take its toll of all her husband's family till kinsman had shed kinsman's blood. That was the fire that followed every generation of the Pembertons. This fire burned this house again, and yet again, burned one when he lay in safety in a fireproof room—even set a motorcar afire to kill the late proprietor of the estate.
"Tonight conditions were ideal. The sacred music of the temple sounded from the gramaphone, Madame Avis danced in Hindoo costume; danced an old, old dance, perhaps the very dance Sarastai used to dance. Our thoughts were tuned to India—indeed, there is no doubt the urge which prompted Madame Pemberton to dance a Hindoo dance in Hindoo costume came directly from the thought-waves set in motion by those old priests in the days of long ago. The very stones of this old house are saturated in malignant thought-waves—thoughts of vengeance—and Madame Avis was caught up in them and forced along the pathway toward destruction. All was prepared, conditions were ideal, the victims waited ready for the flames. Only one thing that old priest forgot to foresee."
"Jolly interestin'," murmured Pemberton. "What was it he forgot?"
"That you would ask advice of Jules de Grandin!" my little friend grinned shamelessly. "There it was he missed his trick. I am very clever. I looked the situation over and saw we were confronted by both physical and ghostly menaces. For the men we have the sword, the pistol and the fist. For the ghostly enemy we need a subtler weapon.
"Accordingly, when I go to the village to obtain the locks for doors and windows, I also stop to visit with the cure of the little church. Fortunately, he is Irish, and I do not have to waste a day convincing him. 'Mon pere,' I say, 'we are confronted with the devil of a situation. A crew of monkey-faces who give worship to the wicked ones of India are menacing a Christian family. They will undoubtlessly attempt to burn them up with fire—not ordinary fire, but fire they make by wicked, sinful, heathen incantations. Now, for ordinary fire we use the ordinary water; what should we use to put out fire that comes from hell, or hell's assistants?'
"That old priest smiles at me. He is no fool. 'My son,' he say, 'long, long ago the fathers of the Church discovered that it is hot work to fight the devil with fire. Therefore they invent holy water. How much of it will you be needing for your work?'
"He was a good and hospitable man, that priest. He had no whisky in the house, but he had beer. So we made a lunch of beer and cheese and biscuit, and when we finish, we clean a bottle out and fill him to the neck with eau bénite.
"'Bonjour, mon fils,' the old priest say, 'and when you win your fight with Satan's henchmen, remember that our church could use a new baptismal font.' You will remember that, I trust, Monsieur, when you get your inheritance?"
"By George, I'll build a new church for him, if he wants it!" promised Pemberton.
The locomotive gave a long-drawn, mournful wail as the train drew near the station and the smiling porter hurried through the car collecting luggage.
