SCIENTISTS and inventors have made enormous strides for—and in many ways, against—humanity, for they have discovered and invented powerful destructive materials—in that way sometimes courting their own destruction.
So many "impossible" things have been done, why is it not possible that the venture into the realms of the in- finite may sometime prove fruitful—that some day life may be implanted in unorganised matter? "The Malignant Entity" is the story of such a venture—carried to a dreadful success. This is a gripping tale, marvelously well told. Read it.
TELL you, Evans," said Dr. Dorp, banging, his fist on the arm of his chair for emphasis, "the science of psychology is in much the same stage of development today as were the material sciences in the dark ages."
"But surely," I objected, "the two centuries of investigation just past have yielded some fruit. It cannot be that the eminent men who have devoted the greater part of their lives to this fascinating subject have labored in vain."
The doctor stroked his iron-gray Van Dyke meditatively.
"With a few—a very few exceptions, I'm afraid they have," he replied, "at least so far as their own deductions from observed phenomena are concerned."
"Take Sir Oliver Lodge, for example—" I began.
"The conclusions of Sir Oliver will serve as an excellent example for my analogy," said the doctor. "No doubt you are familiar with the results of his years of painstaking psychical research as expounded in his books."
"I believe he has become a convert to spiritism," I replied.
"With all due respect to Sir Oliver," said the doctor, "I should say that he has rather singled out such facts as suited his purpose and assembled them as evidence to support the spiritistic theory. It may seem paradoxical to add that I believe he has always been thoroughly conscientious in his investigation and sincere in his deductions."
"I'm afraid I do not quite follow you,"
"There are times in the life of every man," continued the doctor, "when emotion dethrones reason. At such crisis the most keen-witted of scientists may be blinded to truth by the overpowering influence of his own desires. Sir Oliver lost a beloved son. Only those who have suffered similar losses can appreciate the keen anguish that followed his bereavement, or sympathize with his intense longing to communicate with Raymond. Most men are creatures of their desires. They believe what they want to believe. Under the circumstance it was not difficult for a clever psychic to read the mind of the scientist and tell him the things he wanted to hear."
"But what of the many investigators who have not been similarly influenced?" I inquired. "Surely they must have found some basis—"
I was interrupted by the entrance of the. doctor's housekeeper who announced—
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, a gentleman to see you, sir."
"Show him in," Dr. Dorp said rather petulantly.
His frown of annoyance changed to a welcoming smile of recognition at sight of the tall, bulky individual who strode through the doorway.
"How are you, Doc," roared the big man as they shook hands cordially. "Haven't bothered you for a long time, have I? Got a case for you now that will make you put on your thinking cap all right."
"Sounds interesting," replied the doctor. "Let me present an old friend of mine, Mr. Evans, who writes a story every now and then when the spirit moves him. Mr. Evans, Chief McGraw of the detective bureau. We were just discussing our mutual hobby, psychic phenomena, when you came in," he continued after we had acknowledged the introduction.
"No doubt Chief McGraw's communication is of a confidential nature—" I began, with the purpose of taking leave of my host.
"Nothing secret about it so far as Dr. Dorp and his friends are concerned," interrupted the chief. "It may be that if you are a psychologist you can offer some solution of the mystery. Of course, I don't exactly know whether it's a case for a psychologist or not. Damned curious thing, and ghastly too."
"Stay and listen if you are interested," said the doctor.
"If it has any smattering of psychology or the occult, you know my failing," I responded.
"Can't say as to that," said the chief. "It's queer enough, thoughand horrible. You gentlemen have heard of Professor Townsend, I presume."
"You mean Albert Townsend, the chemist and inventor?" asked the doctor, "Assuredly. Who hasn't heard of him and his queer theories about creating life from inert matter? What has he done now?"
"I don't know whether it's something he did or something that was done to him, but anyway he's dead."
"Murdered?"
"That's the point I want you to help me clear up. I don't know. His daughter 'phoned the office this morning and asked for me. When I got on the wire I could hardly understand her, she was so hysterical. Sobbed out something about her father being gone and a human skeleton lying on the floor of his laboratory. I jumped in the car and took Hirsch, the finger-print expert out there with me. We found the frightened girl weeping in the arms of a motherly neighbor, who informed us that the laboratory was on the second floor.
The whitened skeleton of Professor Townsend, fully clothed in garments that hung, like rags on a scarecrow, lay on the floor of the laboratory."
"You made sure, of course, that it really was the skeleton of the Professor."
"Beyond the least shadow of doubt. In the first place it was clothed in the professor's garments. His watch with his name in the back was ticking in the vest pocket. His monogrammed ring, a present from his daughter, circled a bony finger. On the bones of his right forearm were the marks of a fracture that had healed and the skull was slightly indented above the right temple. These marks re-
