"Well," I put in, "if you mean that it's another wild-goose chase, I'm inclined to agree."
Sir John shrugged. "I didn't mean that. In fact, Bassett, I'm suggesting just the opposite; from vague hints that I've been gathering, it's beginning to strike me that perhaps the legend hanging about the island of Vömma, to which he's gone, may be something more than superstitious clap-trap."
"What's the legend?"
"Nothing very clear, but certainly unusual, to put it mildly," replied Sir John. "The natives—good Norwegian stock, too—believe firmly in the existence of a deathless creature of some sort—some of them say it's a man; some are positive it's an animal—who is confined to the uninhabited island of Vömma."
"Deathless?" I cut in, perplexed. "What, exactly, is meant by that?"
"I don't know precisely. I gather that the thing's been seen by successive generations, through at least four centuries, and naturally the belief that the thing cannot die, grew and continues to flourish."
"They've investigated, surely?"
Sir John nodded. "But not of late years. Something happened to some of them, and since then no one will go near the island.
"I looked Vömma up on a map of the islands I had sent to me, and it appears that it is quite near the Maelstrom—and God only knows what strange flotsam the sea might spew forth on the island! I've an uncanny idea that Warwick will find out more than he's bargained for. I've never cared about his unholy fascination for ancient superstitions and legends. I'm not exactly a fool, Bassett, but I don't think it's wise to push such interests too far; I think you know what I mean. Well, I'll look for letters from him; I daresay he'll be able to manage very well for himself. Nevertheless, I wish he hadn't gone."
MORE than that Sir John would not say. We parted after some small talk and I did not see him again until Warwick's return. As a matter of fact, Jason Warwick had been in London some time before any of his friends knew of his return from the Lofotens. I was the first to see him.
The meeting was accidental, and though it was very short, it left an indelible impression on my mind. I had gone into Selfridge's, and ran into Warwick standing near the main entrance, watching the stream of people passing in and out of the building with a curiously rapt interest. He did not notice me, even when I stepped directly into his line of vision. Perhaps I would have considered this fully as strange as it actually was, for Warwick had a reputation for extraordinary alertness, had it not been for the momentary excitement of coming upon him so suddenly, when to the best of my knowledge he was far from England.
I stepped up to him, put my hand on his arm, and said, "Well, Warwick—you're back!"
His reaction was astounding. He turned slowly and looked at me. His eyes were cold, and his face was perfectly expressionless. Then abruptly a change came upon his features; his expression grew somewhat intense, as if he were seeking by great mental effort to recall something long lost to memory. And then he spoke.
"Why, it's Bassett—of course. You've changed."
I had not changed, and I knew it. It was he who had changed. He had gone away a light-hearted young man, and had returned as a cold, hard individual many years older. It was that that impressed me from the first: a baffling feeling of age emanating from the still youthful Warwick. What had happened to him in the Lofoten Islands to change him so? He was decidedly not the same man who had gone to the islands. Even his belated rec-
