pulses, unknown to the most brutal progenitors of man, have been implanted in his nature, unless through some ulterior agency?"
"You believe, then, in the existence of an evil force or entity—a Satan or an Ahriman?"
"I believe in evil—how can I do otherwise when I see its manifestations everywhere? I regard it as an all-controlling power; but I do not think that the power is personal, in the sense of what we know as personality. A Satan? No. What I conceive is a sort of dark vibration, the radiation of a black sun, of a center of malignant eons—a radiation that can penetrate like any other ray—and perhaps more deeply. But probably I don't make my meaning clear at all."
I protested that I understood him; but, after his burst of communicativeness, he seemed oddly disinclined to pursue the conversation. Evidently he had been prompted to address me; and no less evidently, he regretted having spoken with so much freedom. He arose; but before leaving, he said:
"I am Jean Averaud—perhaps you have heard of me. You are Philip Hastane, the novelist I have read your books and I admire them. Come and see me sometime—we may have certain tastes and ideas in common."
Averaud's personality, the conceptions he had avowed, and the intense interest and value which he so obviously attached to these conceptions, made a singular impression on my mind, and I could not forget him. When, a few days later, I met him on the street and he repeated his invitation with a cordialness that was unfeignedly sincere, I could do no less than accept I was interested, though not altogether attracted, by his bizarre, well-nigh morbid individuality, and was impelled by a desire to learn more concerning him. I sensed a mystery of no common order—a mystery with elements of the abnormal and the uncanny.
The grounds of the old Larcom
place were precisely as I remembered
them, though I had not found
occasion to pass them for some time.
They were a veritable tangle of Cherokee
rose-vines, arbutus, lilac, ivy
and crepe-myrtle, half overshadowed
by the great cypresses and somber
evergreen oaks. There was a wild,
half-sinister charm about them—the
charm of rampancy and ruin.
Nothing had been done to put the
place in order, and there were no
outward repairs in the house itself,
where the white paint of bygone
years was being slowly replaced by
mosses and lichens that flourished
beneath the eternal umbrage of the
trees. There were signs of decay in
the roof and pillars of the front
porch; and I wondered why the new
owner, who was reputed to be so
rich, had not already made the necessary
restorations.
I raised the gargoyle-shaped knocker and let it fall with a dull, lugubrious clang. The house remained silent; and I was about to knock again, when the door opened slowly and I saw for the first time the mulatress of whom so many village rumors had reached me.
The woman was more exotic than beautiful, with fine, mournful eyes and bronze-colored features of a semi-negroid irregularity. Her figure, though, was truly perfect, with the curving lines of a lyre and the supple grace of some feline animal. When I asked for Jean Averaud, she merely smiled and made signs for me
