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"It fell over on the horribly mutilated body of its victim."
Walter Parsons is dead. At the inquest the jury returned a verdict to the effect that the deceased came to his death by being accidentally crushed under a machine with which he was experimenting. But that is not true. It ignores several peculiar things which the panel of men could not understand and before which their matter-of-fact minds recoiled in horror. Now I do not wish to be misunderstood. Perhaps the verdict, as rendered, was the only sane one that could be returned. Nevertheless, if ever a man was murdered, that man was Walter Parsons. Let me put the incredible facts on paper. I do not expect to be believed, and yet . . .
Last February I was coming out of an employment agency in Pasadena, California, when a vigorous-looking gentleman of about fifty years accosted me.
"Pardon me, but I overheard what you said to the lady inside. You are a machinist?"
"Yes."
"And looking for work?"
"I am."
"Would you consider a hundred and fifty dollars a month and your board?"
"You've hired me."
He smiled briefly. "My name is Rowan, Captain Rowan. And yours?"
"Lester. John Lester."
