he told of seemed to materialize before their eyes among the crackling embers of the open fire. And then eventually conversation veered around to Tibet—that wild, desolate little country situated at the roof of the world.
"It is a land of drifting shadows," he said, "a land in the grip of a fanatical religion, ruled by a revered Lama of whom the people stand in as great awe as if he were the White God himself. In Tibet one hears many strange incidents. For example, a prognosticator once foretold a happening which irritated the Dalai Lama. In a fit of rage he summoned the man before him and ordered that his lips be sewn together by a tentmaker, proclaiming that if what the soothsayer predicted came to pass he was to be signally honored; if not, the stitches were to remain as a fitting reminder that it is unwise even for a prophet to talk too much."
As Cass Ledyard finished speaking, some unseen hand switched off the electric lights, plunging the room into a well of darkness. The fire on the hearth had burned low. Only an eery blue flame remained, which cast off no illumination. It seemed, on the contrary, to make the blackness of the room more impenetrable. There came a sudden draft, as cold and damp and dismal as if a window had been stealthily opened and the night fog was drifting in. From the distant mountain solitudes floated a dismal wail as if some animal were in distress. The treetops outside the window swayed and swished, and seemed to be murmuring plaintively to one another about the haunted horror that had broken loose once more in the mountains. Stark Laurier sat rigid in his chair, every nerve tense, listening, trying to peer through the curtains of blackness.
He felt as if some other presence were in the room besides himself and his host. Once some unseen shape passed soundlessly between him and the blue flame of the fire, hiding it for a brief moment. Cass Ledyard groaned; he was breathing heavily as if the very act of living had become a pain to him.
Then like a flash, Stark Laurier thought of Nona. She was in the kitchen, alone, unprotected, left to the mercy of the intruder.
Not hesitating for a moment, Stark Laurier sprang to his feet. He rushed blindly toward the kitchen door, but he never reached it. For he tripped over a great chair and fell with such a crash that it echoed uncannily throughout the house. The next moment he felt two bony hands creeping toward his throat, feeling their way up his coat. They were cold and damp, as the hands of a forest prowler naturally would be. Stark Laurier recoiled in horror. Then he pulled himself together and the struggle began in earnest. Each endeavored to grip the other's throat. Their sole desire was to kill.
Stark Laurier realized that at last he was face to face with the specter that haunted the mountain. It was not a wraith made of cloudlike mist, but a strong man of flesh and blood, though no less of a menace because of that fact. He wondered what had become of Nona. If he lost the fight, he shuddered to think of her possible fate. The very thought doubled his strength. With one mighty effort he broke free of the steel-like talons of fingers. The next moment his hands had closed about a scrawny though muscular throat. He emitted a little chuckle of satisfaction as he commenced to close his fingers together. Even as he did so the lights flared up again. Nona Ledyard stood in the doorway. Her face was very white and she was breathing heavily. Stark Laurier looked down at his victim and recoiled in horror. It was Cass Ledyard. In the darkness they had been fighting each other.
