FOURTH MYSTERY—FLOWERING OF THE LOTUS
TO Robert Cairn it seemed that the boat train would never reach Charing Cross. His restlessness was appalling. He perpetually glanced from his father, with whom he shared the compartment, to the flying Kentish landscape with its vistas of hop poles. Dr. Cairn, although he exhibited less anxiety, was, nevertheless, strung to highest tension.
That dash from Cairo homeward had been something of a fevered dream to both men. To learn, while one is searching for a malign and implacable enemy in Egypt, that that enemy, having secretly returned to London, is weaving his evil spells around “some we loved, the loveliest and the best,” is to know the meaning of an ordeal.
In pursuit of Antony Ferrara—the incarnation of an awful evil—Dr. Cairn had deserted his practice and had left England for Egypt. Now he was hurrying back again; for while he had sought in strange and dark places of that land of mystery for Antony Ferrara, the latter had been darkly active in London!
Again and again Robert Cairn read the letter which, surely as a royal command, had recalled them. It was from Myra Duquesne. One line in it had fallen upon them like a bomb, had altered all their plans, had shattered the one fragment of peace remaining to them.
In the eyes of Robert Cairn, the whole universe centered around Myra Duquesne. She was the one being in the world of whom he could not bear to think in conjunction with Antony Ferrara. Now he knew that Antony Ferrara was beside her, was, doubtless at this very moment, directing those black arts of which he was master, to the destruction of her mind and body—perhaps of her very soul.
Again he drew the worn envelope from his pocket and read that ominous sentence, which, when his eyes had first fallen upon it, had blotted out the sunlight of Egypt:
- You will be surprised to hear that Antony is back in London, and is a frequent visitor here, It is quite like old times.
“Keep calm, my boy,” urged the doctor. “It can profit us nothing, it can profit Myra nothing, for you to shatter your nerves at a time when real trials are before you. You are inviting another breakdown. Oh, I know it is hard; but for everybody's sake try to keep yourself in hand.”
“I am trying my best, sir,” replied Robert hollowly.
Dr. Cairn nodded.
“We must be diplomatic,” he continued. “That James Saunderson proposed to return to London, I had no idea. I thought that Myra would be far outside the black maelstrom in Scotland. Had I suspected that Saunderson would. come to London, I should have made other arrangements.”
“Of course, sir, I know that; but even so we could never have foreseen this.”
Dr. Cairn shook his head.
“To think that while we have been scouring Egypt from Port Said to Assuan, he has been laughing at us in London!” he said. “Directly after the affair at Meydum he must have left the country—how, Heaven only knows. That letter is three weeks old, isn't it?”
Robert Cairn nodded.
“What may have happened since—what may have happened!”
“You take too gloomy a view. James Saunderson is a Roman guardian. Even Antony Ferrara could make little headway there.”
“But Myra says that—Ferrara is—a frequent visitor.”
“And Saunderson,” replied Dr. Cairn, with a grim smile, “is a Scotsman! Rely upon his diplomacy, Rob. Myra will be safe enough.”
“God grant that she is!”
At that, silence fell between them, until, punctually to time, the train slowed into Charing Cross. Inspired by a common anxiety, Dr. Cairn and his son were first among the passengers to pass the barrier. The car was waiting for them; and within five minutes of the arrival of the train they were whirling through London's traffic to the house of James Saunderson.
It stood on Dulwich Common—a quaint backwater remote from motor bus highways. It was a rambling, red-tiled building which at one time had been a farmhouse. As the big car pulled up at the gate, Saunderson, a large-boned Scotsman, tawny-eyed, and with his gray hair worn long and untidily, came out to meet them. Myra Duquesne stood beside him. A quick blush colored her face momentarily, then left it pale again.
Indeed, her pallor was alarming. As Robert Cairn, leaping from the car, seized both her hands and looked into her eyes, it seemed to him that the girl had almost an ethereal appearance.
Something clutched at his heart and iced his blood; for Myra Duquesne seemed a creature scarcely belonging to the world of humanity—seemed already half a spirit. The light in her sweet eyes was good to see; but her fragility, and a certain transparency of complexion, horrified him.
Yet he knew that he must hide these fears from her. Turning to Mr. Saunderson, he shook him warmly by the hand, and the party of four passed by the low porch into the house.
In the hallway Miss Saunderson, a typical Scottish housekeeper, stood beaming welcome; but suddenly, in the very instant of greeting her, Robert Cairn stopped as if transfixed. Dr. Cairn also pulled up just within the door, his nostrils quivering and his clear gray eyes turning right and left, searching the shadows.
Miss Saunderson could not help noticing this sudden restraint.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked anxiously.
Myra, standing beside Mr. Saunderson, began to look frightened; but Dr. Cairn, shaking off the incubus which had descended upon him, forced a laugh, and, clapping a hand upon Robert's shoulder, cried:
“Wake up, my boy! I know it is good to be back in England again, but keep your daydreaming for after lunch!”
Robert Cairn forced a ghostly smile in return, and the odd incident promised soon to be forgotten.
“How good of you,” said Myra, as the party entered the dining room, “to come right from the station to see us! And you must be expected in Half Moon Street, Dr. Cairn?”
“Of course we came to see you first,” replied Robert Cairn significantly.
Myra lowered her face and pursued that subject no further.
No mention was made of Antony Ferrara, and neither Dr. Cairn nor Robert cared to broach the subject. The lunch passed off without any reference to the very matter which had brought them there that day.
It was not until nearly an hour later that Dr. Cairn and his son found themselves alone for a moment. Then, with a furtive glance about him, the doctor spoke of that which had occupied his mind, to the exclusion of all else, since first they had entered the house of James Saunderson.
“You noticed it, Rob?” he whispered.
“My God! It nearly choked me!”
Dr. Cairn nodded grimly.
“It is all over the house,” he continued, “in every room that I have entered. They are used to it, and evidently do not notice it, but coming in from the clean air, it is—”
“Abominable, unclean—unholy!”
“We know that smell of unholiness,” continued Dr. Cairn softly. “We have good reason to know it. It heralded the death of Sir Michael Ferrara. It heralded the death of another.”
“With a just God in heaven, can such things be?”
“It is the secret incense of ancient Egypt,” whispered Dr. Cairn, glancing toward the open door. “It is the odor of that black magic which, by all natural law, should be buried and lost forever in the tombs of the ancient wizards. Only two living men within my knowledge know the use and the hidden meaning of that perfume. Only one living man has ever dared to make it and use it.”
“Antony Ferrara!”
“We knew he was here, boy; now we know that he is using his powers here. Something tells me that we come to the end of the fight. May victory be with the just!”
II
Half Moon Street was bathed in tropical sunlight. Dr. Cairn, with his hands behind him, stood looking out of the window. He turned to his son, who leaned against a corner of the bookcase in the shadow of the big room.
“Hot enough for Egypt, Rob,” he said.
Robert Cairn nodded.
“Antony Ferrara,” he replied, “seemingly travels his own atmosphere with him. I first became acquainted with his hellish activities during a phenomenal thunderstorm. In Egypt his movements apparently corresponded with those of the khamsin. Now”—he waved his hand vaguely toward the window—“this is Egypt in London.”
“Egypt is in London, indeed,” muttered Dr. Cairn. “Jermyn has decided that our fears are well founded.”
“You mean, sir, that the will—”
“Antony Ferrara would have an almost unassailable case in the event of—of Myra—”
“You mean that her share of the legacy would fall to that fiend, if she—”
“If she died? Exactly.”
Robert Cairn began to stride up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was a shadow of his former self, but now his cheeks were flushed and his eyes feverishly bright.
“Before Heaven,” he cried suddenly, “the situation is becoming unbearable! A thing more deadly than the plague is abroad here in London. Apart from the personal aspect of the matter—of which I dare not think—what do we know of Ferrara's activities? His record is damnable. To our certain knowledge, his victims are many. If the murder of his adoptive father, Sir Michael, was actually the first of his crimes, we know of three other poor souls who beyond any shadow of doubt were launched into eternity by the black arts of this ghastly villain.”
“We do indeed, Rob,” replied Dr. Cairn sternly.
“He has made attempts upon you; he has made attempts upon me. We owe our survival”—he pointed to a row of books upon a corner shelf—“to the knowledge which you have accumulated in half a lifetime of research. In the face of science, in the face of modern skepticism, in the face of our belief in a benign God, this creature, Antony Ferrara, has proved himself conclusively to be—”
“He is what the benighted ancients called a magician,” interrupted Dr. Cairn quietly. “He is what was known in the Middle Ages as a wizard. What that means, exactly, few modern thinkers know; but I know, and one day others will know. Meanwhile his shadow lies upon a certain house.”
Robert Cairn shook his clenched fists in the air. In some men the gesture would have seemed melodramatic; in him it was the expression of a soul's agony.
“But, sir,” he cried, “are we to wait, inert, helpless? Whatever he is, he has a human body, and there are bullets, there are knives, there a hundred drugs in the pharmacopœia!”
“Quite so,” answered Dr. Cairn, watching his son closely, and, by his own collected manner, endeavoring to check the other's growing excitement. “I am prepared at any personal risk to crush Antony Ferrara as I would crush a venomous scorpion; but where is he?”
Robert Cairn groaned, dropping into the big leathern armchair, and burying his face in his hands.
“Our position is maddening,” continued the elder man. “We know that Ferrara visits Mr. Saunderson's house; we know that he is laughing at our vain attempts to trap him. Crowning comedy of all, Saunderson does not know the truth, and is not the type of man who could ever understand. In fact, we dare not tell him, and we dare not tell Myra. The result is that those whom we would protect are unwittingly working against us, and against themselves.”
“That perfume!” burst out Robert Cairn. “That hell's incense which loads the atmosphere of Saunderson's house! To think that we know what it means!”
“Perhaps I know even better than you do, Rob. The hidden secrets of perfume are not understood nowadays; but you, from your experience, know that certain perfumes have occult uses. At the Pyramid of Meydum, in Egypt, Antony Ferrara dared—and the just God did not strike him dead—to make a certain incense. It was often made in the remote past, and a portion of it, probably in a jar hermetically sealed, had come into his possession. I once detected its dreadful odor in his rooms in London. Had you asked me, before that, if any of the hellish stuff had survived to the present day, I should emphatically have said no; but I should have been wrong. Ferrara had some. He used it all, and went to the Meydum pyramid to renew his stock.”
Robert Cairn was listening intently.
“All this brings me back to a point which I have touched upon before, sir,” he said. “To my certain knowledge, the late Sir Michael and yourself have delved into the black mysteries of Egypt more deeply than any men of the present century; yet Antony Ferrara, little more than a boy, has mastered secrets which you, after years of research, have failed to grasp. What does this mean, sir?”
Dr. Cairn, again locking his hands behind him, stared out of the window.
“He is not an ordinary mortal,” continued his son. “He is supernormal, and supernaturally wicked. You have admitted—indeed, it was evident—that he is merely the adopted son of the late Sir Michael. Now that we have entered upon the final struggle—for I feel that this is so—I will ask you once again, who is Antony Ferrara?”
Dr. Cairn spun around upon the speak-
His gray eyes were very bright. “There is one little obstacle,” he answered, “which has kept me from telling you what you have asked so often. Although you will find it hard to believe—and you have had dreadful opportunities to peer behind the veil—I hope very shortly to be able to answer that question, and to tell you who Antony Ferrara really is.”
Robert Cairn beat his fist upon the arm of the chair.
“I sometimes wonder,” he said, “that either of us has remained sane. Oh, what does it mean? What can we do? What can we do?”
“We must watch, Rob. To enlist the services of Saunderson would be almost impossible. He lives in his orchid houses; they are his world. In matters of ordinary life I can trust him above most men, but in this—”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Could we suggest to him a reason—any reason but the real one—why he should refuse to receive Ferrara?”
“It might destroy our last chance.”
“But, sir,” cried Robert wildly, “it amounts to this—-we are using poor Myra as a lure!”
“In order to save her, Rob—simply in order to save her,” retorted Dr. Cairn.
“How ill she looks!” groaned the other. “How pale and worn! There are great shadows under her eyes. I cannot bear to think about her!”
“When was he last there?”
“Apparently some ten days ago. You may depend upon him to be aware of our return! He will not come there again, sir; but there are other ways in which he might reach her. Does he not command a whole shadow army? Mr. Saunderson is entirely unsuspicious. Myra thinks of the fiend as a brother; and yet she has never once spoken of him. I wonder—”
Dr. Cairn sat deep in reflection. Suddenly he took out his watch.
“Go there now,” he said. “You will be in time for lunch. Remain there until I come. From to-day onward, although you should not have to bear such a strain, we must watch—watch night and day!”
III
Myra Duquesne came under an arch of roses to the wooden seat where Robert Cairn awaited her. In her plain white linen frock, with the sun in her hair and her eyes looking unnaturally large, owing to the pallor of her beautiful face, she seemed to the man who rose to greet her an ethereal creature, but lightly linked to the flesh and blood world.
An impulse which had possessed him often enough before, but which hitherto he had suppressed, suddenly possessed him anew. It set his heart beating and filled his veins with fire. As a soft blush spread over the girl's pale cheeks, and, with a sort of timidity, she held out her hand, he leaped to his feet, threw his arms around her, and kissed her—kissed her eyes, her hair, her lips.
There was a moment of frightened hesitancy. Then she resigned herself to this savage tenderness, which was more delicious in its very brutality than any caress she had ever known. It thrilled her with a glorious joy such as, she realized now, she had dreamed of, and lacked, and desired. It was a harborage to which she came, blushing, confused—but glad, conquered, and happy in the thrall of that exquisite slavery.
“Myra!” Robert whispered. “Dear Myra! Have I frightened you? Will you forgive me?”
She nodded her head quickly, and nestled upon his shoulder.
“I could wait no longer,” he murmured in her ear. “Words seemed unnecessary. I just wanted you. You are everything in the world, and,” he concluded simply, “I took you!”
She whispered his name very softly. What a serenity there is in such a moment, what a glow of secure happiness, of immunity from the pains and sorrows of the world!
Robert Cairn, his arms about this girl, who, from his early boyhood, had been his ideal of womanhood, of love, and of all that love meant, forgot the terrible things which had shaken his life and brought him to the threshold of death. He forgot the evidence of illness which marred the once glorious beauty of the girl, forgot the black menace of the future, forgot the wizard enemy whose hand was stretched over that house and that garden—and was merely happy.
But this paroxysm of gladness—which Eliphas Levi, last of the adepts, has so marvelously analyzed in one of his works—is of short duration, as are all joys. It is needless to recount here the disjointed sentences, punctuated with those first kisses which sweeten the memory of old age, that now passed for conversation—broken words which lovers have believed to be conversation since the world began. As dusk creeps over a glorious landscape, so the shadow of Antony Ferrara crept over the happiness of these two.
Gradually that shadow fell between them and the sun. The grim thing which loomed big in the lives of them both, refused any longer to be ignored. Robert Cairn, his arm about the girl's waist, broached the hated subject.
“When did you last see—Ferrara?”
Myra looked up suddenly.
“Over a week—nearly a fortnight ago.”
“Ah!”
Cairn noted that the girl spoke of Ferrara with an odd sort of restraint, for which he was at a loss to account. Myra had always regarded her guardian's adopted son in the light of a brother. Her present attitude, therefore, was all the more singular.
“You did not expect him to return to England so soon?” he asked.
“I had no idea that he was in England,” said Myra, “until he walked in here one day. I was glad to see him—then.”
“And would you not be glad to see him now?” inquired Cairn eagerly.
Myra, her head lowered, deliberately pressed out a crease in her white skirt.
“One day, last week,” she replied slowly, “he—came here and—acted strangely.”
“In what way?” jerked Cairn.
“He pointed out to me that actually we—he and I—were in no way related.”
“Well?”
“You know how I have always liked Antony. I have always thought of him as my brother.”
Again she hesitated, and a troubled expression crept over her pale face. Cairn raised his arm and clasped it about her shoulders.
“Tell me all about it,” he whispered reassuringly.
“Well,” continued Myra, in evident confusion, “his behavior became—embarrassing. Suddenly he asked me if I could love him, not as a brother, but—”
“I understand!” said Cairn grimly. “And you replied?”
“For some time I could not reply at all. I was so much surprised, and so much—horrified. I cannot explain just how I felt about it, but it seemed horrible—it seemed horrible!”
“Of course you told him so?”
“I told him that I could never be fond of him in any different way—that I could never think of it. Although I endeavored to avoid hurting his feelings, he—took it badly. He said, in such a queer, choking voice, that he was going away—”
“Away from England?”
“Yes; and he made a strange request.”
“What was it?”
“In the circumstances—you see, I felt sorry for him—I did not like to refuse him. It was only a trifling thing. He asked for a lock of my hair.”
“A lock of your hair! And you—”
“I told you that I did not like to refuse. I let him snip off a tiny piece, with a pair of pocket scissors which he had. Are you angry?”
“Of course not! You were almost brought up together. You—”
“Then”—she paused—“he seemed to change. Suddenly I found myself afraid—dreadfully afraid!”
“Of Ferrara?”
“Not of Antony, exactly; but how can I explain? A most awful dread seized me. His face was no longer the face that I have always known. Something—” Her voice trembled, and she seemed disposed to leave the sentence unfinished. '“Something evil—sinister—had come into it,” she concluded with some difficulty.
“And since then,” said Cairn, “you have not seen him?”
“He has not been here since then—no.” Cairn, his hands resting upon the girl's shoulders, leaned back in the seat, and looked into her troubled eyes with a sad scrutiny.
“You have not been fretting about him?”
Myra shook her head.
“Yet you look as if something was troubling you. This house”—he indicated the low-lying garden with a certain irritation—“is not healthily situated. It lies in a valley. Look at the rank grass—and there are mosquitoes everywhere. You do not look well, Myra.”
The girl smiled a little wistful smile.
“But I was so tired of Scotland!” she said. “You do not know how I looked forward to London again. I must admit, though, that I was in better health there. I was quite ashamed of my dairymaid appearance.”
“You have nothing to amuse you here,” said Cairn tenderly. “You have no company, for Mr. Saunderson only lives for his orchids.”
“They are very fascinating,” said Myra dreamily. “I, too, have felt their glamour. I am the only member of the household whom he allows among his orchids.”
“Perhaps you spend too much time there,” interrupted Cairn. “That superheated, artificial atmosphere—”
Myra shook her head playfully.
“There is nothing in the world the matter with me, now that you are back!” she said, almost in her old bright manner.
“I do not approve of orchids,” Cairn went on doggedly. “They are parodies of what a flower should be. Place an odontoglossum beside a rose, and what a distorted, unholy thing it looks!”
“Unholy?” laughed Myra.
“Unholy—yes! They are products of feverish swamps and deathly jungles. I hate orchids. The atmosphere of an orchid house cannot possibly be clear and healthy. One might as well spend one's time in a bacteriological laboratory.”
Myra shook her head with a pretended air of seriousness.
“You must not let Mr. Saunderson hear you,” she said. “His orchids are his children. Their very mystery enthralls him. Really, Robert, they are most fascinating. To look at one of those shapeless bulbs, and to speculate upon what kind of bloom it will produce, is almost as thrilling as reading a sensational novel. He has one growing now—it will probably bloom some time this week—about which he is frantically excited.”
“Where did he get it?” asked Cairn, without interest.
“He bought it from a man who had almost certainly stolen it. There were six bulbs in the parcel; only two have lived, and one of these is much more advanced than the other. It is so high.”
She held out her hand, indicating a height of some three feet from the ground.
“It has not flowered yet?”
“No, but the buds—huge, smooth, egg-shaped things—seem on the point of bursting at any moment. We call it the Mystery, and it is my special care. Mr. Saunderson has shown me how to attend to its simple needs. If it proves to be a new species—which is almost certain—he is going to exhibit it, and name it after me. Would you be proud of having an orchid named after—”
“After my wife?” Cairn concluded, seizing her hands. “I could never be more proud of you than I am already!”
IV
Dr. Cairn walked to the window, with its old-fashioned leaded panes. A lamp stood by the bedside, and he had tilted the shade so that it shone upon the pale face of the patient—Myra Duquesne.
Two days had wrought a dreadful change in her. She lay with closed eyes, and with ominous shadows playing upon her sunken face. Her respiration was imperceptible.
The reputation of Dr. Bruce Cairn was a well deserved one, but this case puzzled him. He knew that Myra Duquesne was dying before his eyes. He could still see the agonized face of his son, who at that moment was waiting, filled with intolerable suspense, downstairs in Mr. Saunderson's study; but, withal, he was helpless.
He looked out from the rose-entwined casement, across the shrubbery, to where the moonlight glittered among the trees. Those were the orchid houses. With his back to the bed, Dr. Cairn stood for long, thoughtfully watching the distant gleams of reflected light.
Craig Fenton and Sir Elwin Groves, with whom he had been consulting, had just gone. The nature of Myra Duquesne's illness had utterly puzzled them, and they had left, mystified.
Downstairs, Robert Cairn was pacing the study, wondering if his reason would survive this final blow which threatened. He knew, and his father knew, that a sinister something underlay this strange illness—an illness which had commenced on the day when Antony Ferrara had last visited the house.
The evening was insufferably hot. Not a breeze stirred in the leaves; and, despite open windows, the air of the room was heavy and lifeless. A faint perfume, having a sort of sweetness, but yet unutterably revolting, made itself perceptible to the nostrils. Apparently it had pervaded the house by slow degrees. The occupants were so used to it that they did not notice it at all.
Dr. Cairn had busied himself that evening in the sick room, burning some pungent preparation, to the amazement of the nurse and of the consultants. Now the biting fumes of his pastilles had all been wafted out of the window, and the faint, sweet smell was as noticeable as ever.
Not a sound broke the silence of the house. When the nurse quietly opened the door and entered, Dr. Cairn was still standing at the window, staring thoughtfully in the direction of the orchid houses. He turned, and, walking back to the bedside, bent over the patient.
Her face was like a white mask, and she was quite unconscious. So far as he could see, she showed no change either for better or worse; but her pulse was slightly more feeble. The doctor suppressed a groan of despair, for this mysterious progressive weakness could only have one end. All his experience told him that unless something could be done—and every expedient thus far attempted had proved futile—Myra Duquesne would die about dawn.
He turned on his heel and strode from the room, whispering a few words of instruction to the nurse. Descending the stairs, he passed the closed study door, not daring to think of his son who waited within, and entered the dining room.
A single lamp burned there, and the gaunt figure of Mr. Saunderson was outlined dimly where he sat in the window seat. Crombie, the gardener, stood by the table.
“Now, Crombie,” said Dr. Cairn quietly, closing the door behind him, “what is this story about the orchid houses, and why did you not mention it before?”
The man stared persistently into the shadows of the room, avoiding Dr. Cairn's glance.
“Since he has had the courage to own up,” interrupted Mr. Saunderson, “I have overlooked the matter. He was afraid to speak before, because he had no business to be in the orchid houses.” His Scotsman's voice grew suddenly fierce. “He knows it well enough!”
“I know, sir, that you don't want me to interfere with the orchids,” replied the man; “but I only ventured in because I thought I saw a light moving there.”
“Rubbish!” snapped Mr. Saunderson.
“Pardon me, Saunderson,” said Dr. Cairn; “but a matter of more importance than the welfare of all the orchids in the world is under consideration now.”
Saunderson coughed dryly.
“You are right, Cairn,” he said. “I shouldn't have lost my temper for such a trifle, at a time like this. Tell your own tale, Crombie. I won't interrupt.”
“It was last night, then,” continued the man. “I was standing at the door of my cottage, smoking a pipe before turning in, when I saw a faint light moving over by the orchid houses.”
“Reflection of the moon, no doubt,” muttered Saunderson. “I am sorry. Go on, Crombie!”
“I knew that some of the orchids were very valuable, and I thought there would not be time to call you. Also I did not want to worry you, knowing you had worry enough already, so I knocked out my pipe, put it in my pocket, and went through the shrubbery. I saw the light again. It seemed to move from the first house into the second. I couldn't see what it was.”
“Was it like a candle, or a pocket lamp?” jerked Dr. Cairn.
“Nothing like that, sir; a softer light, more like a glowworm, but much brighter. I went around and tried the door, and it was locked. Then I remembered the door at the other end, and I cut around by the path between the houses and the wall, so that I had no chance to see the light again, until I got to the other door. I found this unlocked. There was a close kind of smell in there, sir, and the air was very hot.”
“Naturally, it was hot,” interrupted Saunderson.
“I mean much hotter than it should have been. It was like an oven, and the smell was stifling.”
“What smell?” asked Dr. Cairn. “Can you describe it?”
“Excuse me, sir, but I seem to notice it here in this room to-night. I think I noticed it about the place before, but never so strong as in the orchid houses.”
“Go on!” said Dr. Cairn.
“I went through the first house, and saw nothing. The shadow of the wall prevented the moonlight from shining in there; but just as I was about to enter the middle house, I thought I saw—a face.”
“What do you mean by saying that you thought you saw a face?” snapped Mr. Saunderson.
“I mean, sir, that it was so horrible and so strange that I could not believe it was real—which is one of the reasons why I did not speak before. It reminded me of the face of a gentleman I have seen here—Mr. Ferrara.”
Dr. Cairn stifled an exclamation.
“But in other ways it was quite unlike the gentleman. In some ways it was more like the face of a woman—a very bad woman. It had a sort of bluish light on it, but where any light could have come from I don't know. It seemed to be smiling, and two bright eyes looked straight out at me.”
Crombie stopped, raising his hand to his head confusedly.
“I could see nothing but just this face—low down, as if the person it belonged to was crouching on the floor. There was a tall plant of some kind just beside it.”
“Well,” said Dr. Cairn, “go on! What did you do?”
“I turned to run,” confessed the man. “If you had seen that horrible face, you would understand how frightened I was. Then, when I got to the door, I looked back.”
“I hope you had closed the door behind you,” snapped Saunderson.
“Never mind that, never mind that!” interrupted Dr. Cairn.
“I had closed the door behind me—yes, sir; but just as I was going to open it again, I took a quick glance back, and the face had gone. I came out, and I was walking over the lawn, wondering whether I should tell you, when it occurred to me that I hadn't noticed whether the key had been left in or not.”
“Did you go back to see?” asked Dr. Cairn.
“I didn't want to,” admitted Crombie, “but I did, and—”
“Well?”
“The door was locked, sir.”
“So you concluded that your imagination had been playing you tricks!” said Saunderson grimly. “In my opinion you were right.”
Dr. Cairn dropped into an armchair.
“All right, Crombie; that will do.”
Crombie, with a mumbled “Good night, gentlemen,” turned and left the room.
“Why are you worrying about such a thing as this,” inquired Saunderson, when the door had closed, “at a time like the present?”
“Never mind,” replied Dr. Cairn wearily. “I must return to Half Moon Street now, but I shall be back within an hour.”
With no other word to Saunderson, he stood up and walked out to the hall. He rapped at the study door, and it was instantly opened by Robert Cairn. No spoken word was necessary; the burning question could be read in the young man's burning eyes. Dr. Cairn laid his hand upon his son's shoulder.
“I won't excite false hopes, Rob,” he said huskily. “I am going back to the house, and I want you to come with me.”
Robert Cairn turned his head aside, groaning aloud; but his father grasped him by the arm, and together they left that house of shadows, entered the car which waited at the gate, and, without exchanging a word en route, came to Half Moon Street.
Dr. Cairn led the way into the library, switching on the reading lamp upon the large table. His son stood just within the doorway, his arms folded and his chin upon his breast. The doctor sat down at the table, watching the other.
Suddenly Robert spoke.
“Is it possible, sir, is it possible”—his voice was barely audible—“that her illness can in any way be due to the orchids?”
Dr. Cairn frowned thoughtfully.
“What do you mean, exactly?” he asked.
“Orchids are mysterious things. They come from places where there are strange and dreadful diseases. Is it not possible that they may convey—”
“Some sort of contagion?” concluded Dr. Cairn. “It is a point that I have seen raised, certainly; but nothing of the sort has ever been established. I have heard something, to-night, though, which—”
“What have you heard, sir?” asked his son eagerly, stepping forward to the table.
“Never mind at the moment, Rob. Let me think.”
He rested his elbow upon the table and his chin in his hand. His professional instincts had told him that unless something could be done—something which the highest medical skill in London had thus far been unable to devise——Myra Duquesne had only four or five hours to live.
Somewhere in his mind a memory lurked, evasive, taunting him. This wild suggestion of his son's, that the girl's illness might be due in some way to her contact with the orchids, was in part responsible for his confused recollection; but it seemed to be associated, too, with the story of Crombie, the gardener, and with Antony Ferrara. He felt that somewhere in the darkness surrounding him there was a speck of light, if he could but turn in the right direction to see it.
So, while Robert Cairn walked restlessly about the big room, the doctor sat with his chin resting in the palm of his hand, seeking to concentrate his mind upon that vague memory, which defied him. The hand of the library clock crept from twelve toward one, and he knew that the faint life in Myra Duquesne was slowly ebbing away in response to some mysterious condition, utterly outside his experience.
Distant clocks struck a single stroke—one o'clock!
Robert Cairn began to beat his fist into the palm of his left hand convulsively. His father did not stir, but sat there, a black-shadowed wrinkle between his brows.
“By God!”
The doctor sprang to his feet, and with feverish haste began to fumble among a bunch of keys.
“What is it, sir? What is it?”
The doctor unlocked the drawer of the big table, and drew out a thick manuscript written in small and exquisitely neat characters. He placed it under the lamp, and rapidly began to turn the pages.
“It is hope, Rob!” he said, with quiet self-possession.
Robert Cairn came around the table and leaned over his father's shoulder.
“Sir Michael Ferrara's writing!”
“His unpublished book, Rob. We were to have completed it together, but death claimed him, and, in view of the contents, I—perhaps superstitiously—decided to suppress it. Ah!”
He placed the point of his finger upon a carefully drawn sketch, designed to illustrate the text. It was evidently a careful copy from an ancient Egyptian original. It represented a row of priestesses, each having her hair plaited in a thick cue, standing before a priest armed with a pair of scissors. In the center of the drawing was an altar, upon which stood vases of flowers; and upon the right ranked a row of mummies, corresponding in number with the priestesses upon the left.
“By God!” repeated Dr. Cairn. “We were both wrong, we were both wrong!”
“What do you mean, sir? For Heaven's sake, what do you mean?”
“This drawing,” replied Dr. Cairn, “was copied from the wall of a certain tomb, now reclosed. Since we knew that the tomb was that of one of the greatest wizards who ever lived in Egypt, we also knew that the inscription had some magical significance. We knew that the flowers represented here were a species of the extinct sacred lotus. All our researches did not avail us to discover for what purpose, or by what means, these flowers were cultivated. Nor could we determine the meaning of the cutting off”—he ran his fingers over the sketch—“of the priestesses' hair by the high priest of the goddess.”
“What goddess, sir?”
“A goddess, Rob, of whom Egyptology knows nothing. Hers, apparently, was a mystical religion, the existence of which has been vaguely suspected by a living French savant; but this is no time—”
Dr. Cairn closed the manuscript, replaced it, and relocked the drawer. He glanced at the clock.
“A quarter past one,” he said. “Come, Rob!”
Without hesitation, his son followed him from the house. The car was waiting, and shortly they were speeding through the deserted streets back to the house where death in a strange guise was beckoning to Myra Duquesne.
“Do you know,” asked Dr. Cairn, “if Saunderson has bought any orchids—quite recently, I mean?”
“Yes,” replied his son dully. “He bought a small parcel only a fortnight ago.”
“A fortnight!” cried Dr. Cairn excitedly. “You are quite sure of that? You mean that the purchase was made since Ferrara—”
“Ceased to visit the house? Yes. Why, it must have been the very day after!”
Dr. Cairn was evidently laboring under tremendous excitement.
“Where did he buy these orchids?” he asked evenly.
“From some one who came to the house—some one with whom he had never dealt before.”
The doctor, his hands resting upon his knees, was rapidly drumming with his finger tips.
“And did he cultivate them?”
“Two only proved successful. One is on the point of blooming—if it is not blooming already. He calls it the Mystery.”
At that, the doctor's excitement overcame him. Suddenly leaning out of the window, he shouted to the chauffeur:
“Quicker! Quicker! Never mind risks! Keep on top speed!”
“What is it, sir?” cried his son. “Heavens, what is it?”
“Did you say that it might have bloomed, Rob?”
“Myra”—Robert Cairn swallowed noisily—“told me three days ago that it was expected to bloom before the end of the week.”
“What is it like?”
“A thing four feet high, with huge egg-shaped buds.”
“Merciful God grant that we are in time!” whispered Dr. Cairn. “I could believe once more in the justice of Heaven, if the great knowledge of Sir Michael Ferrara should prove to be the weapon to destroy the fiend whom we raised—he and I—may we be forgiven!”
Robert Cairn's excitement was dreadful.
“Can you tell me nothing?” he cried. “What do you hope? What do you fear?”
“Don't ask me, Rob,” replied his father. “You will know within five minutes.”
The car was leaping along the dark suburban roads at a speed little below that of an express train. Corners the chauffeur negotiated in racing fashion, so that at times two wheels thrashed the empty air. Once or twice the big car swung around as upon a pivot, only to recover again in response to the skilled tactics of the driver.
They roared down the sloping, narrow lane to the gate of Mr. Saunderson's house with a noise like the coming of a great storm, and they were nearly hurled from their seats when the brakes were applied and the car was brought to a standstill.
Dr. Cairn leaped out, pushed open the gate, and ran up to the house, his son closely following. There was a light in the hall, and Miss Saunderson, who had expected them, and had heard their stormy approach, already held the door open.
“Wait here one moment,” said Dr. Cairn, in the hall.
Ignoring Saunderson, who had come out from the library, he ran upstairs. A minute later, his face very pale, he came running down again.
“Is she worse?” began Saunderson. “But—”
“Give me the key of the orchid house!” said Dr. Cairn peremptorily.
“Orchid house!”
“Don't hesitate. Don't waste a second. Give me the key!”
Saunderson's expression showed that he thought Dr. Cairn to be mad, but nevertheless he plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a key ring. Dr. Cairn snatched it in a flash.
“Which key?” he snapped.
“The Chubb, but—”
“Follow me, Rob!”
Down the hall raced the physician, his son beside him, and Mr. Saunderson followed more slowly. Out into the garden he went and swiftly over the lawn toward the shrubbery.
The orchid houses lay in dense shadow, but the doctor almost threw himself against the door.
“Strike a match!” he panted. “Never mind—I have it!”
The door flew open with a bang. A sickly perfume swept out to them.
“Matches! Matches, Rob! This way!”
They went stumbling in. Robert Cairn took out a box of matches, and struck one. His father was farther along, in the center building.
“Your knife, boy—quick, quick!”
As the dim light crept along the aisle between the orchids, Robert Cairn saw his father's horror-stricken face, and saw a strange green plant growing in a sort of tub, before which the doctor stood. Four huge, smooth, egg-shaped buds grew upon the leafless stems. Two of them were on the point of opening, and one already showed a vivid rosy flush about its apex.
Dr. Cairn grasped the knife which Robert tremblingly offered him. The match went out. There followed a sound of hacking, a soft swishing, and a dull thud upon the tiled floor.
As another match fluttered into brief life, the mysterious orchid, severed just above the soil, fell from the tub. Dr. Cairn stamped the swelling buds under his feet. A profusion of colorless sap was pouring out upon the floor.
Above the intoxicating odor of the place, a smell like that of blood made itself perceptible.
The second match went out.
“Another!”
Dr. Cairn's voice barely rose above a whisper. With fingers quivering, Robert Cairn managed to light a third match. His father tore out a smaller plant from a second tub, and ground its soft tentacles beneath his feet. The place smelled like an operating theater.
As the third match went out, the doctor swayed dizzily, clutching at his son for support.
“Her life was in it, boy!” he whispered. “She would have died in the hour that it bloomed! The priestesses were consecrated to this. Let me get into the air!”
Mr. Saunderson, silent with amazement met them.
“Don't speak,” said. Dr. Cairn to him. “Look at the dead stems of your Mystery. You will find a thread of bright hair in the heart of each!”
Dr. Cairn opened the door of the sick room and beckoned to his son, who, haggard, trembling, waited upon the landing.
“Come in, boy,” he said softly, “and thank God!”
Robert Cairn, on tiptoe, entered. Myra Duquesne, pathetically pale but with that ominous shadow gone from her face, turned her wistful eyes toward the door; and their wistfulness became gladness.
“Rob!” she sighed—and stretched out her arms.
(This series will be concluded in the November number of Munsey's Magazine)