After his observation of what for want of a better name will have to be called the psuedomoon, a curious mental apathy fell over Pethwick. Not that he failed to think of the extraordinary series of events that had befallen the expedition. He did think of them all the time. But he thought weakly, hopelessly. He picked up the problem in his brain without the slightest hope of finding the solution. He exhausted himself on the enigma, and yet he could not let it go.
He tried to forget it and center himself on his work. But little mysteries cropped out in his everyday toil. His principal duty with the expedition was map-making, the determination of the altitudes of the various observed peaks, and a mapping of the outcrops of the black micas, limonites, serpentines, pitchblendes, obsidians, and hornblendes. It was these dark-colored stones, he found, that gave the great chasm its look of incineration.
And this is what he did not understand. Here and there he found places where streams of lava sprang, apparently, out of the solid escarpment of the cliffs.
Now the whole Peruvian sierras are volcanic and these lava pockets did not surprise Pethwick. The inexplicable part was that no volcanic vent connected these little fumaroles with the interior of the mountain. They seemed to have burned from the outside. They looked as if some object of intense heat had branded the mountain-side.
Ordinarily Pethwick's mind would have sprung like a terrier at such a problem; now, through sheer brain fag, he jotted the descriptions without comment. In this dull, soulless way he made the following extraordinary entry in his journal one morning:
This morning, close to one of those burned pockets, or fumaroles, which I have before described, I found a roasted rabbit. The little animal w a s some twelve feet from the fumarole, sitting upright on its haunches and roasted. I t looked as if its curiosity had been aroused, and it had been cooked instantly. A s decomposition had not set in, it could not have been dead for more than a week. I wonder if this is a tab on the date of these fumaroles? If so, they must have been burned a few days ago, instead of being of geologic antiquity, as I at first assumed. If recent, they must be of artificial origin. Since they roast a rabbit before frightening it, they must occur with the abruptness of an explosion. Can these splotches be connected with the evil mystery surrounding this expedition? I cannot say, I have n o theory whatever.
That evening at dinner Pethwick showed this entry to M. Demetriovich. The old Rumanian read it, and his only comment was a nod and a brief ——
“Yes, I had discovered they were of recent origin myself.”
Presently he suggested a game of chess to take their minds off the matter before they retired. “You look strained, Pethwick,” the old man said. The engineer laughed briefly.
“I am strained. I'm jumpy every minute of the day and night.”
The old savant considered his friend with concern.
“Wouldn't you better get out of here for a while, Herbert?”
“What's the use? I could think of nothing else.”
“You would feel out of danger.”
“I don't feel in danger.”
“Yes, you do—all mystery connotes danger. It suggests it to us. That is why mystery is so stimulating and fascinating.”
“Do you think we are in danger?”
“I am sure the man who killed Cesare would not hesitate over us.”
Standifer, who was seated at the table began to smile in a superior manner at their fears.
Owing to the engineer's nervous condition this irritated Pethwick acutely. However, he said nothing about it, but remarked to M. Demetriovich—
“Tomorrow I am through with my work right around here.”
“Then you'll take a rest, as I suggest.”
“No, I'll take a pack, walk straight down this valley and find out what is making these fumaroles—and what became of Cesare.”
At that moment, in the gathering blue of night, the eastern sky was lighted by the glare of the pseudo-moon. Its pallor poured in through the tent flaps and the shadows of the men's legs streaked the floor.
The mystery brought both the old men to the outside. They stared at the illumination in silence. The light was as noiseless as the aurora. As they watched it, Pethwick heard Standifer laughing inside the tent.
The secretary's idiocy almost snapped the engineer's control. He wanted to knock his empty head. At last the phenomenon died away and left its usual glimmer on the surrounding heights. In a few minutes this vanished and it was full night.
When the men reentered the tent, Standifer still smiled as if he enjoyed some immunity from their mystification and nervousness.
“Well, what's the joke?” asked Pethwick at last.
“The way you fellows go up in the air about this thing.”
“You, I suppose, are on solid ground!” exploded Pethwick.
The author said nothing but continued his idiotic smile.
“I admit there are points here and there I don't understand,” continued Pethwick after a moment. “No doubt we fail to understand it as thoroughly as you do.”
“You do,” agreed Standifer with such matter-of-factness the engineer was really surprised.
“What in the devil have you found out?” he asked irritably.
“Oh, the facts, the facts,” said Standifer nonchalantly. “I'm a writer, you know, a trained observer; I dive to the bottom of things.”
Pethwick stared, then laughed in a chattery fashion ———
“Y-Yes, I see you diving to the bottom of this——”
The old professor, who had been studying the secretary, quietly interrupted—
“What do you know, James?”
The literary light hesitated a moment, then drew a handful of glittering metal out of his pocket and plunked it down on the table.
