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 T he
T hird C ry
To
Legba
A n d Ot h e r in v o c a tio n s

'The Selected Stories

of
M anly W ade W ellm an'
Volume 1
The Third Cry to Legba and
Other Invocations

Selected Stories of
Manly Wade Wellman
Volume 1
 The Third Cry to Legba and
Other Invocations

T he J ohn T h u n st o n e &
L e e C o b b e t t S t o r ie s

Edited by John Pelan

Selected Stories of
Manly Wade Wellman
Volume 1

Night Shade Books • San Ftancisco • 2000

 The Third Cry to Lcgba and Other Invocations:
The Selected Stories of Manly Wade Wellman, Volume I
© 2000 Night Shade Books
Contents © 2000 by Trances Wellman
Cover, cover design, and illustrations © 2000 by Kenneth Waters
Introduction €> 2000 by John Pel an
Interior design and composition by Jeremy Lassen

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, or stored in
a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the pub­
lisher except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or
reviews. Making copies of any part of this book for any purpose other than
your own personal use is a violation of United States copyright laws. For
information, please contact the publisher.

This book is sold as is, without warranty of any kind, either expressed or
implied. While every precaution has been taken in preparation of (his book,
the author and Night Shade Books assume no reponsibility for errors or
omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the
use of information or instructions contained within.

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book
are ficticious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coinci­
dental.

The publisher would like to thank the following people, without whom
none of (his would be possible.

William K. Schafer, Dan Ross,

Typhoid Matt |ohnson,
Alan Beatts, Jeremy Lassen, Liza Krpclo
and the rest of the San Francisco freak squad

ISBN 1-892389-07-X

Night Shade Books

560 Scott #304
San Francisco, CA 94117
[email protected]

Please visit us on the web at

http: / /www.mghtshadcbooks.com
 “The Third Cry to Legba,” IWeird Tales, November 1943
“The Golden G oblins” Weird Tales, January 1944
“Hoofs,” m in i Tales, March 1944
“The I .errors of Cold Fire ” Weird Tales, May 1944
“John Thun stone’s Inheritance,” Weird Tales, J uly 1944
“Sorcery From Thule,” Weird Tales, September 1944
“The Dead Man’s Hand,” Weird Tales, November 1944
“Thorne on the Threshold,” Weird 7 'ales, January 1945
“The Shonokins ” Weird Tales, March 1945
“Blood From a Stone,” Weird Tales, May 1945
“The Dai Sword,” Weird Tales. July 1945
“Twice Cursed,” Weird Tales. March 1946
“Shonokin Town,” Weird Tales, July 1946
“The Leonardo Rondache,” Weird Tales, March 1948
“The Last Grave of Till Warran,” Weird Tales, May 1951
“Rouse 1lim Not,” Kadath #5, 1982
“The Dakwa,” Whispers 1. edited by Stuart David Schiff, Doubledav, 1977
“The Beasts That Perish,” Whispers6/7, June 1975
“Willow He W alk” 1983 WTC Propram Book, edited by Robert Weinberg, 1983
“A Witch for All Seasons,” Witchcraft <&Sorcery #9, August 1973
“Chaste!,’ ’ Tfo Year’s Best HorrorStories:.Series I'll, edited by Gerald W Page, DAW 1979
 Contents
Introduction * 1

T he J ohn T h u n st o n e S t o r ie s

The Third Cry to Legba • 7

'['he Golden Goblins • 25
I fools • 39
The Letters of Cold Lire * 51
John L‘hunstone’s Inheritance * 67
Sorcery from Thule • 81
The Dead Man’s Hand * 93
Thorne on the Threshold * 109
1'he Shonokins « 123
Blood from a Stone « 135
The Dai Sword • 147
Twice Cursed • 159
Shonokin Town • 185
The Leonard Rondache • 207
The Last Grave of Lill Warren • 217
Rouse Him Not • 237

T h e L ee C o b b e t t S t o r ie s

The Dakwa • 247

The Beasts That Perish • 261
Willow He Walk • 271
A Witch for All Seasons • 281
Chasfel • 287
 A Qiant up in the Mountains
by John Pelan

HE BOOK YOU HOLD in your hands is a dream, or rather, part of a

T dream. That the supernatural fiction of Manly Wade Wellman would
be reissued after all these years didn’t seem to be a very likely occurrence in
these days o f interminable scries o f books dealing with truculent elves or
movie tie-in novels with multiple dustjaekets. Its publication may in fact be
a benchmark in the renaissance o f horror fiction that seems to be occur­
ring. That I would be fortunate enough to be involved with such a project
seemed completely out of the realm of probability. In real life, as in
Wellman’s stories, odd things, sometimes fortuitous things happen...
In the 1940s, Weird ’Yaks was fighting sagging sales and war-time paper
shortages; Lovccraft, Whitehead, and Howard had all passed away. The war
effort claimed Donald Wandrei and effectively ended his writing career.
Clark Ashton Smith had refocused his energies on art and poetry, leaving
the world of pulp fiction behind. The one time star of Weird Tales, Seabury
Quinn appeared only sporadically. Newer voices, like those of Ray Bradbury
and Henry Kuttner, helped keep the magazine going along with steady
contributions from Robert Bloch and August Derleth. What Weird Tales
really needed was a prolific writer that could seize the readers’ imaginations
and would be prolific enough to fill the rather large shoes of their earlier
mainstays.
That's what they got with Manly Wade Wellman. .A regular contributor
to the magazine since the 1930s, Wellman exploded during the forties with
a barrage of stories that have come to be considered classics today. The
decade saw his first Silver John story, the first judge Purs want tale, and m
1943, in the titular story o f this volume, he introduced John Thunstone. A
writer’s writer, Wellman kept up a steady stream o f material for Weird Tales
as well as finding time to script issues of the Cap lain Marvel comic book.
The occult detective is a tradition dating back to the early years of this
century, with characters such as Algernon Blackwood’s John Silence and
Wm, Hope Hodgson’s Carnacki striving against the forces o f darkness.
2 J ohn P ulan
Manly Wade Wellman’s John Thunstonc was cut of a slight.lv different cloth
from these earlier ghostbusters. Thunstonc was a man of action as well as
an investigator. This is a man, larger than life, who strides boldly into
encounters with the unknown brandishing a sword or grimoirc as the occa­
sion warrants. A man as likely to utilize concentration techniques learned
from “an old coon-hunter” as astral projecdon taught by a Tibetan lama.
Wellman succeeded in taking the archetype of the occult detective and
fusing it with the more raucous tone of adventurous pulp fiction. There’s
been a lot of similar work done since, novels by John Blackburn and Den­
nis Wheatley come to mind, but no one has ever done it quire as well as did
Manly Wade Wellman, Thunstonc fought against voodoo, malign spirits,
and of course, the Shonokins, Wellman’s atavistic people of the darkness
that strike a chord of familiarity with readers: Lovecraffs degenerate and
inbred townspeople of Innsmouth and the inhabitants of Herbert Gorman’s
A Place Called Dagon. Wellman’s work acknowledges the existence of rhe
Mythos stories while never allowing itself to be co-opted bv the Lovecrafdan
imitators, always remaining uniquely apart. The Necronomicon come in
for a mention, but it’s more of a nod to Lovecraft on Wellman’s part than
any attempt to tie his uniquely regional tales in with those of rhe I.ovecrafr
Circle.
Thunstonc needed a larger-than-life opponent; mere dabblers in dark
ness and malign spectres were not sufficient to test his mettle. He needed
an adversary o f equal stature. Wellman gave him one in the person of
Rowley Thorne. Characters of a completely evil nature are hard to con­
struct convincingly out of a whole cloth. For the character of Thorne,
Wellman used Aleister Crowley as a template. Indeed, there was a bit of
concern that the depiction was so close to the character of the real-life
Crowley that a lawsuit for libel might be a possibility. Wellman calmed his
editor by pointing out the quite logical argument that such a notorious an
individual as Crowlcv would have a difficult time bringing a suit for the
actions of a fictitious character that were certainlv no worse than manv of
the things that he’d claimed in print to have actually done!
The Thunstonc stories appeared on a regular basis throughout the war­
time years and beyond. The evil sorcerer Rowley Thorne returns in several
tales, each time to be thwarted by Thunstonc. Worthy adversaries, the two
men are still waging their larger-than-life battle in the 1985 novel The School
oj Darkness some fort}' years after their first appearance. Readers enthusi­
astically received Wellman’s contributions (both the pseudonymous tales as
by Cans T. Field and those under his own byline). However, the profu­
sion of other media in the post-war years took a toll on the pulps and Weird
i ales was no exception. Wellman shifted into other types o f writing, con
tinmng to write scripts for the burgeoning comic book industry and non-
supernatural regional works.
 A Giant up in the M ountains 3
In 1951, with the pulp era was drawing to a close, with the profusion of
comic books, television and other brighter, flashier diversions, audiences
dwindled and finally in 1951, “The Last Grave of Lill Warren” appeared
and no more was heard of John Thunstone for a time. Shortly thereafter
Weird Tales itself folded, leaving only the Magazine o f h mtasy &' Science ¥lo­
tion as a possible home for “unusual stories.”
The decade of the 1950s saw Wellman focus his energies on the Silver
John stories for F <cFS F and dozens of books and articles on a wide variety
of subjects. A writer’s writer, Wellman produced scores of articles, comic­
book scripts, and books, both fiction and nonfiction. As a passionate stu­
dent of Southern history, Wellman wrote a number of books that are con­
sidered regional classics today.
The John the Balladeer tales continued to appear sporadically in F
57'until finally7, in 1963, the venerable small press Arkham House announced
the publication o f Who Fears the D evilf a collection that gathered all of his
John stories together in one volume. Although Ballantine picked up the
book for mass market publication, it could not have been considered a
tremendous success. Seven years later, the book was still in print when a
thirteen-year-old boy in Seattle receded Iris first Arkham 1 louse catalog
and, recognizing the name of the author o f “ The Dcsrick on Yandro”
(published in one of those wonderful Alfred Hitchcock compilations e d ­
ited by Robert Arthur), sent in Iris hard-earned $4.00 for the book.
Having only read the one story previously, I was profoundly impacted
by an entire Wellman collection. The author’s remarkable sense of place
lent an air of authenticity to the stories that was lacking in much of the
material I was reading at the time. I’ve been a Wellman devotee ever since.
As I was later to discover, Wellman's stories contained such authenticity
due to his living among the people that he wrote about so well.
Lets revisit the very early 1970s, if you will... Arkahm House books
were (for the most part) under SI 0.00. Still in print were works by
Blackwood, Dunsany, and W hitehead. Magazine fiction in the horror genre
was limited to the occasional piece in F But there were the fanzines,
(or as they’re now called, the “small press magazines”). Whispers and
Weirdbook debuted then, to be followed shortly by Fantasy idles. Imagine
the delight of a teenage aficionado of weird fiction discovering that not
only was one of the legendary If i-ini Tales writers still alive, he was still
writing top-notch weird fiction!
I was astounded to see a new Manly Wade Wellman story in the pages
of Whispers, complete with artwork by the incomparable Lee Brown Cove.
In my youthful naivete, I’d assumed that Wellman, like Smith, Lovccrafr,
and 1Ioward, was long since deceased or at least retired from active writing.
Happily, I was mistaken. The years that followed saw a renaissance for
Wellman. The publication of two huge omnibus volumes by Karl F.dward
4 J ohn P elan
Wagner’s Carcosa House were enthusiastically received by collectors and
libraries. The two books, Worse Things Watting and 'Lonely Vigils, arc exquis­
ite examples of what the small press can and should be: profusely illus­
trated tomes that successfully capture the feel o f the old pulps. These
books arc sought after today by collectors and command huge prices on
the rare occasion that they are offered for sale. Doubleday went on to
launch a series of novels continuing the adventures of John the Balladeer
and John Thunstone. The Wellman boom was in full swing and the author
continued to churn out quality tales to the delight of a new generation of
readers.
Among the new stories were the chronicles of Lee Cobbett, a marked
contrast to the larger-than-life Thunstone. Cobbett was pretty much
Everyman with a knack for stumbling across supernatural occurrences and
being compelled to heroic action to persevere (not unlike the Civil War
soldiers that Wellman was fond of writing about).
As examples o f the ordinary man confronted by the extraordinary, the
Cobbett stories are excellent. It seems that Wellman was beginning to
follow a thematic approach in the Cobbett stories reminiscent of the work
of Algernon Blackwood wherein manifestations of the force o f nature
raise up in defense against man’s encroachments and humans survive by
luck rather than guile or skill. It would have been most interesting to see
where the cycle o f Lee Cobbett stories would have ultimately wound up.
Most of the tales were collected in the impossibly rare volume The Valley So
Low. The stories are few in number and the Everyman character of Cobbett
makes such an excellent counterpoint to the larger-than-life Thunstone that
we have included them here in this present volume.
It’s not often that a character will so capture the imagination o f readers
(and the author) that his exploits will be chronicled over a period of forty
years. John Thunstone is one of those rare literary creations like Wellman’s
better-known John the Balladeer that remains a compelling figure even to­
day. I can only imagine that there would have been more Thunstone stories
and certainly more Lee Cobbett stories had Wellman not passed away at
eighty-three, an age far too young for such an energetic storyteller. The
legacy of stories that he left is a rich one indeed. When I was first asked to
assemble a “Best of “ volume, I eagerly agreed and then almost immedi­
ately regretted the choice. After all, I’d have to leave out so many fine
stories to get the book anywhere near a manageable size... As I made and
discarded list after list o f stories that simply must be included, it became
evident that a series of books would be called for. The publishers at Night
Shade Books agreed and enthusiastically welcomed the idea o f a series that
would preserve all the weird fiction of this remarkable writer.
For those o f you that are familiar with Wellman’s stories, be assured
that this is just the first of a series; for those o f you making the author’s
 A G iant up in the M ountains 5
acquaintance for the first time, I hope you find the same magic here that I
did so many years ago.

John Pelan
Seattle, 1999
 The Third Cry to Legba
Suddenly I was aware o f great shapes moving in the rain, and heard the
sound o f voices that were not o f my city nor y e t o f any that I ever knew.
— Lord Dunsany, The Madness o f Andeisprutc

HF. GLARE AND THE clatter died at the same instant throughout
T the ( ilub Samcdi. Even the buzzing crowd-noise suspended in expecta­
tion. Behind the orchestra sounded a gong. Once. Twice. Thrice... The
master of ceremonies intoned: “Midnight. The witching hour. And Illyria!”
The gong chimed on to twelve, and stopped. A clarinetist piped cer
tain minor notes. A mixed quartet began to croon: “Ifro mahnda... thro
mahnda... ”
A spotlight, dim and brownish, bored through the smoky air. Into it
paced a black-robed figure, bowed face hidden under cascading black locks.
To the center o f the dance floor moved the silent, slow shape. “Ibro
mahnda...” breathed the quartet.
A sudden explosive gesture. 'The robe swirled away, the head lifted.
There stood a woman, a long-limbed dancer figure, clad as scantily as night
clubs permit. Her face was lovely, tense, rapt. Her eyes burned out of slant
sockets. 'The clarinet squealed louder, a tom-tom slogged into rhythm.
The dance began, grotesque, nimble, quickening.
'The dancer’s flower-mouth spewed out words, soft and solemn:

"1ypba chot-yan. choi-yan Zandor —

'Zandor Ijtgbet, m m ole’-hat! ”

Louder sang the dancer called Illyria, and louder grew the quarter’s “Ibro
mahnda, ibro mahnda... ”
Illyria spun her body. Her flying hair strained outwards in a bushy
umbrella. Her arms writhed like snakes, seeming to glide caressingly over
her body. I ler bare, rouged toes clapped out a pattern of sound in time
with the drum beat. She sang always: “7.andor\ jsgba. m m ole' h a ir
And suddenly she froze into a strange, updrawn statue, face lifted, hair
back, arms out. At the same instant all the music hushed. A tuxedoed
attendant stole into the spotlight’s brown glow, holding out a fluttering
8 M anly W ade W ellman
something — a rooster, speckled black and white. Greedily Illyria seized it,
her long, strong hands clutching. The sickening crackle of broken bones
was audible. She dropped the rooster, which flopped spasmodically. The
attendant seized it and backed away Illyria snatched her cloak and sped out
o f sight. Lights came up, the orchestra played a gay flourish.
“You’ve just seen an authentic voodoo dance-ritual,” blatted the master
of ceremonies into his microphone. “Never done before, except in a real
meeting of the cult — but it’ll be done tomorrow midnight, and the mid­
night following, and every midnight after that...”
John Thunstone’s tabic was well back from ringside. He was a man
almost too big to be reassuring, and most o f his clothes had to be tailored
especially for him. His hands and eyes were sensitive, his big nose had been
twice broken, his black hair and mustache showed a little streaking of gray.
He sat as relaxed as a big contented cat, and sipped his highball. His eyes
gazed somehow hopefully at his companion.
She was as blonde as john Thunstone was dark, of medium height and
of figure both full and fine. Above her dark velvet gown her bare shoul­
ders and arms were creamy white. Her large, level eyes shone bluer than
the sapphires at her ears and throat. Her lips smiled without parting, in the
manner associated with the Mona Lisa and the ! impress Josephine. “Was it
what you expected, John?” she asked gently.
He rocked his big, close-combed head in what might have been yes or
no. “It gave the impression of authenticity',” he temporized. “Not that I’m
well grounded in voodoo.”
“You always were sunk deep in occultism and magic,” she rallied him.
“Deeper than you’d admit to anyone. Even to me.”
He looked at her sidelong. “And you were piqued, eh? Enough to go
abroad because you thought I wasn’t telling you all I should of my studies
— to go abroad and marry Count Montcscco — ”
<rW'liich is past, and not particularly nice to bring up.”
He sipped again. “ 1 never meant to snub you, Sharon. Not then or
now. but the little 1 know of magic spells danger. And 1 don’t want to let
anyone in for it. I,east of all you. I hope you don’t still condemn me.”
Her small hand crept across to touch his big one. “I’m with you to­
night. Isn’t that enough?”
He looked as if it wasn’t, and listened to the dance music. Then: “No,
I’m not well grounded in voodoo. Don’t understand it at all. Neither, 1
suspect, do tire voodoo worshipers themselves. After all what is voodoor
African jungle worship, or modified European witchcraft, or both — or
neither?” His eyes seemed to study something unseen to any but himself.
“Did vou hear the words of that ritual?”
“French, or French patois, weren’t they?” suggested the lady He called
Sharon. “That quartet sang something like ‘ibro mahnda'. Mightn’t they
 T he T hird C ry T o L egba 9
mean ‘hereux monde' — happy world?”
“Or perhaps 'ira an monde ’ — roughly meaning, ‘it shall happen to the
world.’”
“Which I call ingenious interpretation,” said a voice beside the table, a
voice soft, deep and gently amused.
Thunstone shot up out of his chair with that abrupt transition from
relaxed ease to readv action which sometimes irritates his friends. He faced
j

someone as tall as himself, and broader, almost deformedlv deep of chest.

Above European-cut dress clothes and jeweled studs not in the best of
taste rode a huge high-craniumed head, either bald or shaven, with a grand
hooked nose and eyes as gray and cold as frozen milk.
“I am also an enthusiast for voodoo,” said the newcomer silkily. “May
I introduce myself? Rowley Thorne.”
He offered a big, over-manicured hand. Thunstone took it.
“I’m John Thunstone. Countess, may I present Mr. Thorne? The Count­
ess Montescco.”
Rowley Thorne gracefully kissed her fingers. Without waiting to be
invited, he sat down in a chair between them. “Waiter! Champagne, I think,
is best traditional usage for cementing of new friendships.”
The champagne was brought. Rowley Thorne toasted them, and his
gray eyes narrowed over the glass. “I was sitting almost back of you, and
heard your wonderings about this Illyria and her dance. I can help a little, 1
have traveled in Haiti. Yes, the ritual is authentic, an invocation o f ! ,cgba.”
“Legba?” echoed the Countess. “A voodoo god?”
“One o f them. Damballa is more important, and Erzulie perhaps more-
picturesque. But Legba is the great necessity. He’s keeper of the Cate —
must be invoked to open the way between worshiper and other-world, to
permit prayers to mightier gods. It’s Like speaking a password. Impressive,
that bit with the fowl. Other voodoo sacrifices are killed by cutting the
throat. I .egba’s sacrifices die of a broken neck.”
The Countess shivered, and Thunstone saw. “Suppose wo change the
subject,” he said.
“Suppose we don’t,” she rejoined warmly. “Mr. Thome is willing to
talk of magic, though you aren’t. And I’m fascinated. Tell us more about
1.egba, Mr. Thorne.”
“He’s said to be a shaggy or furry creature with red eyes. He’s also
called Baron Cimmiterre — master o f the graveyard, and Baron Carrefours
— master of crossroads. The prayer to him for opening the gate is always
preliminary to a prayer elsewhere.”
The Countess’ blue eyes were bluer. “And what can 1 egba, Baron
Cimmiterre, Baron Carrefours, do for a worshiper?”
“He can but open the gate,” said Rowley Thorne. “Hark, music —
Latin American. Will the Countess honor me?”
to M anly W ade W ellman
Thunstonc rose and bowed them away from the table, but did not sit
down again. As the Countess danced off with Rowley Thorne, lie swiftly
skirted the outer fringe of tables, spoke earnestly to the head waiter, offer­
ing some bills. The head waiter led him. to a side passage indicating a row
of dressing room doors. “Number two, sir,” he said and Thunstone knocked.
“Who is it?” asked a woman’s voice from within.
“Press,” said Thunstone. “After a feature story.”
The door opened. Illyria smiled there, hastily wrapped in a robe of
flowered silk. “Come in, Mr. — ”
“Thunstone.”
He entered. She gave him a cordial hand, and sat down by her dressing
table. “What paper, Mr. Thunstone?”
“ 1 write for magazines and syndicates,” he said truthfully She accepted
a cigarette from his case, and he went on: “I’m interested in your voodoo
dance.”
She chuckled. “Oh, that. I was in Martinique a year ago. My doctor
said I had to have fresh salt air and warm weather. Martinique was cheap,
and I was broke — don’t print that, though. Say I was fascinated enough to
join the voodoo cult. Because I was.”
“Many white people in it?” asked Thunstone.
“Quite a few. But I think 1 was the onlv practical one. I knew I could
make a sensation with voodoo stuff And haven’t Ir Before this season’s up,
I’ll he signed for a revue. After that, maybe stardom.”
Thunstone looked at a bright print on the wall. “ Isn’t that a saint’s
picture — John die Baptist?”
“It is and it isn’t.” Illyria smiled at his blank look. “The voodoo people
want pictures o f their gods, to use for idols. The best they can do is regular
holy pictures. For Damballa they use St. Patrick — because of die snakes.
And John the Baptist is the hairiest, so they take him for Legba. That print
was given me by the houngon, the medicine man you can call him, when he
got real pictures.”
“Real pictures?” echoed Thunstone.
“Some artist was making them, someone on Haiti. The I,cgba one
would scare a top sergeant.” She shrugged her shoulders out of the robe in
a mock shudder. “The artist’s name was Thorne.”
Thunstone stared. “Rowley Thorne?”
“Maybe. Rowley or Roland or something. I never met liim, he stayed
close to the big shots in Haiti. Now, what publicity pictures will you want?”
“Later,” he said. “May I call again? Thanks.”
He returned to His table, just as the Countess and Rowley Thorne fin­
ished their dance.
“jealous?” smiled the Countess Monteseco in the homeward taxi.
“Miffed because 1 found Mr. Thorne attractive?”
 T he T hird C ry T o L rgba »
“Should I be?” Thunstonc smiled back. “He was informative about
voodoo.”
“Wasn’t he, though? No mock-mysterious puttings off on his part. He
wants to explain all the things you’ve held out on me.” Her smile grew
wistful. “Men usually like to talk to me, about themselves and their inter­
ests. You’re different from them all.”
“Different, l hope, from Rowley Thorne.”
“Which sounds as if you know more about him than you admitted.
Here’s my apartment house. Come upstairs and tell me about him.”
“I’ll come up,” said Thunstonc, “but I’ll not talk about Rowley Thorne.
Because he’s part of the magic that the world had better not know about.”

True to his stated policy, Thunstonc did not ask the Countess to go
back with him to the Club Samedi on the following night. But as lie en­
tered, after 11 o’clock, he wished he had. For she sat at a choice table, well
forward to the floor show, with Rowley Thorne.
The lights seemed to blur, and the torch singer at the microphone —
loud though she was — faded into the back of his consciousness; hut he
was sure he betrayed nothing of being starded or disappointed as he moved
between the tables and Rowley Thorne stood up with a gentle smile of
greeting.
“Mr. Thunstonc, I was a guest at your table last night. Sit at mine
tonight. Sharon said that she was sure you would come.”
Sharon, he had said. They were at first names, she and Rowley Thorne.
He looked down at her and said, “It’s so nice to see you again. Thanks,
Thorne. But it’s my turn to buy a drink, eh? Waiter, the lady will have an
old-fashioned. You like champagne, Mr. Thorne?”
“Champagne cocktail,” ordered Thorne.
“Scotch and water,” added 'Thunstonc. As the waiter moved away, he
said to Thorne, “T his will become one of my favorite night spots.”
“Illyria is a great drawing card,” purred fhc other, his gray eyes estimat­
ing the dirong o f guests. “Not long now until her midnight act. Ever study
the importance of midnight in occult ceremonies, Thunstone? It’s exactly
midway between sunset and sunrise. Allows the supernatural force to split
the dark hours halfway — half for the summoning o f courage and strength
to come forth, half to do whatever is in hand to do.”
“That’s the kind of thing john always refuses to explain to me,” inter­
jected the Countess.
‘You know why,” he smiled to her. Then, to 'Thorne: “Last night you
borrowed my lady for a dance. May 1 borrow yours?”
The singer had finished, the orchestra played. Thunstone and the Count­
ess glided away together. Her bright hair came up to his chin. She gave
him a quick, appraising flash of blue eyes.
12 M anly W ade W ellman
“I really came here to meet you,” she said. “You wouldn’t invite me, so

“So you asked Rowley Thome to oblige?”

“Hardly He telephoned me. Enterprising gentleman, to find my ad­
dress and so on. We had dinner, a theater, and lots of fascinating talk.
About your forbidden subject. Why don’t you approve of him, John?”
“Haven’t I said that. I wouldn’t talk about him?”
“And I suppose you won’t, even to show me that T shouldn’t go out
with him any more. You’re pretty stern in your policy. Or is it too strong a
word, policy? Shouldn’t I say prejudice or obsession?”
“I’m afraid,” he said slowly, “that I’m a very old-fashioned dancer.”
“Which means that you dance only to please me. I’m really flattered,
John.”
Their dancing continued in silence. W'hen they returned to the table,
their drinks waited. Rowley Thorne was charming, exhibiting a strange
ring with a cabinet setfing, which he said had once held poison for a Borgia;
and he had begun a good-humored discussion o f thought transference,
when the lights and sounds ceased as abruptly as before. The gong tolled,
the master o f ceremonies spoke: “Midnight. The witching hour. And
Illyria!”
She was there, in the brown spotlight, throwing off her robe to dance
and chant. “Legba cboi-yan, choi-yan Zandor — ”

Thunstone felt a sudden light touch on his hand. Sharon, the Countess
Monteseco, wanted to hold hands in the dark, l or reasons of his own, he
drew his fingers away, straining his eyes to pierce the gloom. Because some­
thing was there with Illyria, who should be alone in the center o f the dance
floor — it. wasn’t time yet for the man with the speckled rooster —

‘7jipim choi-yan, cboi-yan Zatulor —

7.andor Ljegba, immole bail”

That old trick, taught him long ago by a Pennsylvania Dutch coon hunter
— Thunstone closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them
wide, ih e darkness paled ever so slightly, to a sort of bluish dusk, and he
sawr it, saw the stir of motion above Illyria’s tossing head. Branches of a
tree, with long trailing leaves or moss — branches, or their shadow; here in
the Club Samedi, far from any natural growth of any kind — and along the
branch lay and quivered something, a definite hulk of substance that moved
and lived within arm ’s reach of the dancer...
'* — immole'bail"
The speckled rooster was in her hands. She caught it. by the neck,
forced its head back and around. Crrrrrackl
Overhead something seemed to sag down for a moment, like a strand
 T he T hird C ry T o L egba 13
of fabric, or a tentacle, or an arm. Next moment Illyria was gone, the
attendant with the dead rooster was gone, the lights were blinding, and —
no branch showed waving from the ceiling.
“Tomorrow midnight will see Illyria repeat the voodoo-dance,” the
announcer was shouting, “and the midnight after that...”
Thunstone got up. “Good-night,” he said, and bowed toward Sharon.
“This is all I came to see.”
“Must you go so soon?” she pleaded, and he nodded that he must,
“Goodnight, Thorne. I’ll see you again. Later.”
He put money in the waiter’s hand and strolled away to the cloak-room.
Retrieving his hat, he turned to go. Rowley Thorne was there beside him.
“You said you’d see me later,” said Thome. “Why not see me now,
Thunstone? You know, J know all about you. You’re an exhaustive re­
searcher into certain things, to destroy them. I’m surprised diat you don’t
know me.”
“I do know all about you, Thorne, or as much as I want to know 1 just
didn’t let on. You were kicked out of two European universities for pur­
suits the faculties abhorred. The police of France, England and India have
all issued you standing dares to set foot on their territory. You’d be a known
international crook if it wasn’t for the fact that you steal or swindle only
enough to support you in luxury for your activity in the very thing I’ve been
fighting.”
Rowley Thorne bowed. “You being what you are, I wouldn’t want any
other estimate o f myself from you. We’ve been on opposite sides for years,
and now' we’re face to face. One of us will be hurt.”
“I’m sure of that,” said Thunstone. “Good-night, Thorne.”
Thorne did not move from his way. The gray eyes were pale as moon­
light. “I don’t think, Thunstone, that you can afford to play tricks with me.
For I haven’t anv vulnerable point. And vou have, sitting at my table yon­
der.”
Thunstone returned his stare. Where Thorne’s gray eyes narrowed,
Thunstone’s widened a trifle.
“The Countess is charming,” Thorne almost crooned. “You’ve thought
so for years, haven’t you? And yet you let her get away from you. Another
man got her. Perhaps that w:ill happen again.”
“ The future will tell,” 'Thunstone replied. “I recognize her appeal to
you, Thorne. Money, isn’t it? She’s rich.”
“I’ll need money for what I intend to do, for which the ground work is
rwo-thirds complete.” Thorne stepped aside and bowed. “ I mustn’t detain
you longer, Thunstone. Good-night. Sleep well. Maybe I’ll send you a
dream.”

Thunstone left the Club Samcdi, but he did not sleep. He visited three
14 M anly W ade W ellman
people, all of them among his friends and all o f them owing him favors.
hirst of these was a high official of the New York police. The man
argued vehemently but futilcly against what Thunstone demanded, and fi­
nally agreed. “I don’t know what the charge can be,” he mourned lamely.
“Find one, and thanks.”
Thunstone’s next stop was in Harlem. He entered die modest but com­
fortable home of a smiling brown man who wore the round collar and high
waistcoat of a preacher, and who shook Thunstone’s hand warmly. They
talked for a while, and the brown man’s smile vanished. He took books
from a shelf. The first of these w7as gaily striped in red and blue.
“ fell My Horse, by Zora Neale Hurston,” said the brown man. “She’s a
Barnard graduate, a Guggenheim fellow, an anthropologist, and an open-
minded truth seeker. She traveled a year in the West Indies, and wrote this
book. Lippincott published it in 1938.” His sepia tinted finger found a
place for Thunstone. “Read right there.”
Thunstone noted the page number, 171. He began to read aloud: “...for
Legba is never honored alone. He opens the gate so that die other gods
come to their worshipers.”
“Exactly,” nodded the brown man, and leafed backward in the book.
“Now Read again.”
Thunstone did so: “The wav to all things is his hands. Therefore he is
the first god in all Haiti in point of service.” The book fell shut, and the
two men looked at each other above ir.
“I’m thinking of an old legend, almost an outworn one,” said Thunstone.
“It’s about a sorcerer’s apprentice, who raised devils without thinking of
the consequences. W hat’s that next book?”
“It’s lay Montague Summers, the greatest authority7on witchcraft.” Browm
hands opened it. “ Here’s the reference. He says that those who attend the
ceremonies of evil without protesting or trying to stop them become, by
acquiescence, participants in the cult. That would hardly include you —
you attend to learn how to fight such things. The others, w7hcthcr deliber­
ately sympathetic or just unknowing, become cult-members.”
“1 hope not all,” said Thunstone, thinking o f fair hair and sapphire
eves. “And the third book there?”
“It’s by Joseph J. Williams, lik e Summers, he’s a priest, a Jesuit. A sa
resident of Jamaica, he studied and wrote of voodoo and obcah. He men­
tions the missionary-effort of the cult to spread, and how the worshipers
hope to transplant their evil spirits to other lands.”
Thunstone frowned in thought. After a moment he said: “Legba, then,
is to be invoked in conjunction with a prayer to some other spint. But here
he’s invoked alone. Twice.
“A third time in succession -- that’s pretty familiar magical routine. He
may give attention, and do something else beside open gates.”
 T he T hird C ry T o L egba 15
“ F'.xactly.” The dark man’s head nodded slowly. “And, in a new place, a
new power to profit — evil profit — will he placed in the hands of certain
cult-founders. Your acquaintance, Rowley Thorne, won’t have overlooked
the chance. It is best that the ritual be somehow prevented tills coming
midnight.”
“I think I’ve attended to that,” said Thunstone. ‘And i half guessed
these other matters. But I’m grateful for your agreement. 1 rake your word
on voodoo-fighting as better than any other man’s. Well, I shan’t keep you
up any later.”
“Heaven protect you,” said the brown man in farewell.
Thunstone grinned. “ Heaven’s supposed to protect all fools.”
“Yes, and all fighters for the right. Good-by.”
I lis third call was to a small shop in a big building in mid-town. It was
open, and a single person, a little g r ille d old fellow; in charge. He greeted
Thunstone warmly.
“I want,” said Thunstone, “protection.”
“For yourself?”
“Not for myself. A woman.”
“Come into the back room.” Thunstone followed the proprietor into a
musty workshop. From a table the little man took a black velvet case and
opened it.
“Silver,” he pronounced. “Sovereign defense against evil.”
“And set widi sapphires,” added Thunstone. “So much the better for
my purpose.”
“Observe, Mr. Thunstone, the pattern of the brooch. An interweav­
ing of crosses. That flower, too — ”
“A blossom o f St. John’s wort,” said Thunstone. 1le peered at the
brooch. “How old is it?”
l‘he grizzled head shook. “Who can say? Yet the man I got it from says
that it’s a good thousand years old, and that it was designed and made by St.
Dunstan.” Shrewd old eyes twinkled at Thunstone. “Dunstan sounds like
Thunstone, eh? li e was like you, he was. A gentleman born and bred, who
studied black magic — and caught Satan’s nose in a pair of red-hot pin-
cers!
“How much?” asked Thunstone.
“To you, nothing. Not a cent. No, sir, don’t argue. 1 owe you my life
and more. Where shall 1 send it?”
“I’ll give you the address, and a message.”
Thunstone took out one of his cards, and wrote on the back:

Sharon —
/ know you love sapphires. Won ’l you wear this for me, and take lunch with me today I
16 M anly W ade W ellman

“It’ll roach her early in the morning,” promised the jeweler. Thunstone
thanked him and departed.
The dark hours, ascribed by Rowley Thorne to supernatural agencies,
had gone, and the sun was three-quarters up when Thunstone sought his
bed.

Sharon, Countess Montcscco, was charming in tailored blue as she met

Thunstone in the lobby of the restaurant. Her one piece of jewelry was the
sapphire and silver brooch.
“Why so glum, John?” she asked as they sought their table. “Cross?
Because I gave a date to Rowley?”
“First names with you, too,” he murmured. “No, Sharon, not cross. I
haven’t a right to be, have I?”
“Rowley said that you and he quarreled about me last night.”
“We discussed you,” admitted Thunstone. “But if we had quarreled,
seriously, one or the other of us would not be on view today.”
They paused as a waiter drifted up to take their order. Over the cock­
tail, Sharon said, “You won’t object, then, if Rowley takes me to the Club
Samcdi again tonight.”
Thunstone scowled a little. “Club Samcdi? But it’s been closed. Some
little technicality about the precautions against fire. I saw a couple o f lines
in the morning paper.”
“ I know about that, hut it’ll open in a few days. Meanwhile, there’ll be
a late rehearsal of the entertainers tonight. No guests, but — ”
“If no guests, how are you and Thorne going to be present?”
She smiled a little. “You are interested, after all, even interested enough
to interrupt me. It happens that Rowley has bought an interest in the Club
Samcdi. He’Ll be present, and he said he’d call for me at 11 o’clock.” She
paused, and looked at him shyly. “ If you would care to see me earlier in the
evening...”
He shook his head. “I’d care to, hut f can’t. 1 have something that, as
Jules de Grandin would put if, demands to be done. Sharon, do you know
where Rowley Thorne lives?”
“Not exactly. I think somewhere near Gramcrcy Park — yes, on Cast
Nineteenth Street. Why, John?”
He did not answer that, but gazed at the brooch she wore. He put forth
a finger and touched it lightly. “Now-, I’Dask a favor. I don’t do that often,
do I? Sharon, wear this tonight.”
“Oh, I meant to. I love it, John. It’s a beautiful old tiring.”
The food arrived, and Thunstone had not told her why he wanted
1 hom e’s address. But, after they parted, he again called on the police offi­
cial who had, at his request, closed the Club Samedi. He asked several
 T iif. T hird C ry T o L egba 17
questions, and waited while his friend made telephone calls and checked
many papers. Finally the policeman gave him an address on Nineteenth
Street. “Don’t know what floor, John,” said the policeman. “We’ll know
tomorrow, if — ”
“Tomorrow may be too late,” Thunstone told him. “Now, one last
favor. 1f I get arrested for house-breaking, will you do what you can to get
me a light sentence?”

I'he particular block on Hast Nineteenth Street was a shabby, quiet one.
It was past ten o’clock when Rowley Thorne emerged from a building with
a yellow-brick front. He was dressed magnificently in evening clothes, with
a cape falling from his thick shoulders in dignified folds. He got into a
waiting taxi, which rolled to the corner, then uptown. After it had gone,
John Thunstone emerged from behind a basement stairway railing oppo­
site and entered the door of die building.
On the right wall of the vestibule were five mail slots, each topped w-ith
a name and a bell button. Thunstone studied the names.
None of them remotely resembled Rowley T horne’s name. On
Thunstone’s browr appeared the creasy frown that showed his descent into
deep thought. Then he approached his forefinger to the button at the rear
of the row; beside a lettered label reading BO0/1 A', >. At the last moment
he did not touch that button, but the one above the next slot, which was
marked TJiONARD, 4.
A moment of silence, then the lock of the door emitted a muffled
buzzing. Thunstone turned the knob and entered. A narrow7 hallway re­
vealed itself, with a staircase mounting upward. Thunstone started to climb,
swiftly and softly for all his size.
lie came to the top of two flights of stairs without adventure. At the
top of the third waited a stocky man in a sleeveless undershirt. “Yeah?” he
prompted.
“Mr. Bogan?” asked Thunstone.
“Nah, my name’s Leonard,” The man jerked a thumb upw7ard. “Bogan’s
on the top floor. “
“I see. Thanks.” Thunsrone’s eye caught a gleam at the center of
Leonard’s throat — a cheap, gold-plated crucifix. “Sorry to have troubled
vou, Mr. Leonard.”
“That’s all right.” The man shuffled back into his apartment. Thunstone
mentally crossed him off of a possible investigation list; no partner of
Rowley Thorne would wear a crucifix.
He went up the last flight of stairs. Halfway to the top he heard voices,
a man’s and a woman’s, in furious argument.
“I’m fed up,” the man was saying vehemently. “I’m tired of all this
constant pretending. We’re through.”
18 M anly W ade W ellman
“ That suits me fine, and double,” rejoined the woman. “Okay, get out.”
“Get out?” the man echoed scornfully. “Me get out? Listen, I pay the
rent o f this place. You’re the one that’s getting out.”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort! It’s my furniture, isn’t it? Didn’t mv
own mother give it to us? Well, I’m not walking away and leaving you in
possession of my furniture - - ”
Thunstone permitted himself to smile. Plainly there would be no room
for Rowley Thorne’s career o f strange study and experiment in such an
atmosphere as that...
He descended to the third floor. He knocked at the door. There was
no answer. After listening a moment, he produced a great bundle of keys.
The third o f them unlocked the door, and he entered. linough light came
through the windows for him to sec the interior, comfortable though dingy.
There were five rooms, and in one of these was a bed, on which lay the
drunkest man Thunstone had met in many months. Thunstoncs search
was for writings and books. There were no writings, anti only two books.
Thunstone earned them to the window. One was a cheap, worn copy of
“Gone with the Wind,” the other a New Testament. Thunstone left the
apartment without hesitation.
l'he apartment on the second floor was occupied by three working
girls. Thunstone introduced himself as a field man for a national poll, and
asked questions that brought forth the readiest of answers. Within half a
dozen exchanges he absolved tins apartment too of any Rowley Thorne
influence, but it was with difficulty he made his exit; the girls were expect
ing company, and wanted to exhibit their poll-making visitor.
Finally he tapped at the door on the first floor. A pudgy middle- aged
woman answered rhe knock. “Is this the superintendent’s apartment?” asked
Thunstone.
She shook her head. “No. He’s in the basement. That is, he was. 1
think he went out just now, all dressed up for lodge or something.”
“I’ll talk to his wife,” said Thunstone.
“Ain’t got a wife. Just him.”
“What kind of superintendent is he?”
“All right. Kind of closc-mouthcd and cross, but I’d rather have them
that way than too talkv. Why?”
“I’m thinking of moving in here,” Thunstone told her.
“You can’t. House is full up.”
Thunstone thanked her, and turned as if to leave. When her door
closed, he tiptoed down the basement stairs.
but the door was fitted with a patent lock. His keys would not open it.
Thunstone drew out a pocket knife and whittled knowingly at a panel. He
made a hole big enough to admit one hand, and unfastened the door from
within. Then he moved stealthily inside, past a furnace and coal bin, to an
 T he T hird C ry T o L egba 19
inner door.
This, too, had a strong and complicated lock, but its hinges were on the
outside, Thunstone managed to grub out the pins and lifted the door bodily
out. He walked into the silent room bevond.
It was dimly lighted, by a little lamp on a shelf. Thun stone walked to it.
There sat a small stone image o f extreme ugliness. Thunstone sniffed at
the lamp. “Ghee,” he muttered under his breath. “Indian god •• Indian
worship.” On the same shelf were several books, two of them in languages
that Thunstone could not read. The others were on occult subjects, and all
except one had been proscribed, banned and outlawed by various govern
ments.
Thunstone moved into the other room of the caretakers apartment.
Another shelf held more idols, of various makes. Before one burned a
long stick of incense. A second was of wood. I’he caretaker apparendy
observed several worships, each with its proper and esoteric ritual. On the
table were several papers.
The first was a carbon copy of an agreement, whereby Rowley Thorne
agreed to pay within thirty days the sum of fen thousand dollars for a half
interest in the fixtures and profits of the Club Samedi. The second was a
penciled scrawl, by someone of limited education but undeniable shrewd­
ness, reporting on the financial affairs of Sharon, Countess Monreseco.
The third was in ink, on scented stationery, the writing o f an educated
woman:

Thursday.
/Jke you, J feel that too many worshipers spoil a worship. If you find what you
seek, then you will he master o f a faith never before followed, and I shall he content, as
always, to be your servant. When you have miracles to show, others will briny service and
wealth. I f this is what you have always wanted, J will be glad, so glad, f wen if it must
he gained by your gallantry to that blonde fool, 1 will be glad.

Thunstone did not know the name signed to this letter, but it com­
pleted his search for knowledge. 1Ie glanced at his wrist watch — the
illuminated dial showed that it was 11:30. Quickly he unfastened the front
door o f the apartment, hurried up the outer steps, and on to the corner,
where he waved wildly for a taxi.
“Club Samedi,” he bade the driver.
“The Samedi s closed down,” the driver began to say.
“(Tub Samedi,” repeated T hunstone, “and drive like the devil.”

He reached the rear of the club by entering a restaurant, bribing a waiter,

and walking out through the kitchen. Across a courtyard was the dingy
back door. He rried the door stealthilv. It was locked, and he did not
20 M anly W ade W fxlman
attempt to pick the lock. Instead he turned to where several garbage cans
were lined against the wall. One of these he set on the other, climbed
gingerly upon them, and with a sudden leap was able to clutch the guttered
edge of the roof.
For a moment he clung, then, swaying powerfully sidewise and at the
same time flexing the muscles of his big arms, he drew' himself up, hooked
a heel into the gutter. He dragged his body up on the flat roof and stole
across it to a skylight.
Cautiously he peered in and down. The room below was dark, but he
caught a gleam from pots and pans on a rack — this would be the kitchen.
He pushed himself through feet first, lowered himself to the full length of
his arms, and dropped.
Noise he must have made, but nobody challenged him. He dared to
strike a match. On an oven-top he saw' a cardboard box, marked SALT. He
eagerly clutched it.
“Tafcadio Hearn commented on it,” he said under his breath. “So did
W. B. Scabrook. I’m set.”
He tiptoed tou'ard the sendee door to the club auditorium. As he reached
it, he heard the voice o f the master of ceremonies:
“Midnight. The witching hour. And lllvria!”
The voodoo music began, clarinet and tom-tom, and masked the slight
noise of Thunstonc s entrance.
From the kitchen threshold he could see Illyria’s dance begin in the
brown glow' of the spotlight. To one side stood Rowley Thorne, extra big
in the gloom, his hands quelling the struggles o f the sacrificial rooster.
Plainly he would substitute for the regular assistant. The only spectator
was Sharon, sitting beyond the spotlight at a ringside tabic. This much
Thunstonc saw at his first glance. His second marked the other presence in
the darkened club.
There was a swuying above Illyria, a sw'aying m tune to music. A great
fronded shadow drooped lower and lowrer, as if a heavy wwight forced it
down. The jungle foliage that Thunstonc had seen before had returned to
being inside the ceiling, and the shaggy bulk was upon it, edging stealthily
close to Illyria.

“l^egba choi-yan, choi-yan Zandor—

Zandor Ijtgba, 'mmole’-hail”

And, “Ihro mahtula! ” chanted the drummer and l horne, doing duty for
the absent quartet.
“Ihro mabnda... fhro mabnda!"
The climax of the dance was approaching. Faster and faster went the
music, then died suddenly as Illyria struck her pose, head back and arms
 T i if, T hird C ry T o L fcba 21
out. Rowlcv Thome stole forward, holding the rooster at arm s length.
And yet another pair o f arms were reaching, enormous arms from above,
Eke the distorted shadows o f arms on a lighted screen, but arms which
ended in clumsv claws and not hands, arms tufted and matted in hair...
Thunstone darted forward. Under one arm he held the salt-box. His
other hand caught T horne’s wrist, wrung it Eke a dishcloth. T horne gasped
in startled pain, and the rooster sprang free, running crookedly across the
floor.
A great streak of gloomy shadow pursued it, something like claws made
a grab at it, and missed. Thorne suddenly began to rave:
“Legba, Legba! I wasn’t at fault — a stranger — down on your knees,
all of you! Death is in this room! Death to your bodies, and your souls,
too!” '
His voice had the power to command. All of them floundered to their
knees, all save Thunstone and the shaggy bulk that was sEding down through
the shadows of foHage....
Thunstone tore open the salt package. One hand clutched as much salt
as it could hold. The other threw the box, and it struck something that,
however ill-defined in the brown Eght, certainly had soEdity. T he missile
burst Eke a shell, scattenng its contents everywhere.
Thunstone will remember to his death the prolonged wave of high
sharp sound that might have been scream or roar, and might even have had
words mixed into it — words of whatever unidentified tongue formed the
voodoo ntuals. A grip fastened upon him, a great embracing pressure that
might have been talon-like hands or coils like a huge serpent. He felt his
nbs buckle and creak, but he put out his handful of salt, swiftly but coolly
and orderly, and thrust it well at the point where a face should be.
The surface on which he spread the salt opposed his hand for hut a
moment. Then it was gone, and so was the grip on Ins body. He fell hard
and sprawling, but was up again in an instant. Overhead there were no
branches. There was nothing. But just at Thunstonc’s feet lay Illyria. T he
light was enough to show him that, at some point in the proceedings, her
neck had been broken, like the neck of a speckled fowl sacrificed to Legba.
He went to a wall, found a switch, and flicked it. The room filled with
Eght. “Get up, everybody,” he ordered, and they did so. Only Illyria lay
where she had fallen.
He walked back among them. “Salt did it. Salt will always drive away
the most evil of spirits. It was something that Mr. T horne had not planned
for, that I’d attend his rehearsal, too.”
“You’ve caused the death of Illyria,” accused Thorne. His face looked
pallid and old, and his gray eyes roved sickly in it.
“No. You doomed her when you first took an interest in this matter of
invoking Legba. It’s possible that her unthinking invocation would have
22 M anly W ade W ellman
resulted in unpleasantness, but no more. Your knowledge and deliberate
espousal of the activity made the coming of Legba dangerous.
“He’d have come at the third time, if I weren’t here to prevent him. He
would have come with other powers than the mere opening of gates, for
you prayed to no other voodoo deity. A cult could have been founded here,
and not even heaven knows how it may have developed.”
Thunstone looked around at the shivering listeners. “You others are
lucky. Thorne intended to bind you all to Legba, bv the sheer fact of your
witnessing the cult’s beginning. 1Ie’s the sort who could do it. You’d have
been made to help linn establish 1.egba worship with this club as a head­
quarters, and with money he intended to get from — ”
He felt the wide gaze of Sharon, and said no more, but walked to her.
At her side, he turned on Thorne once again.
“Whatever money you get, you must get elsewhere now. 1 don’t think
that Sharon will listen to you further. I’ll be amused to know how you are
going to meet a debt o f ten thousand dollars, when you have been living on
sheer wit, bluff and evil. But whatever vou do, Thome, do as honestly as
possible. I intend to keep watch upon you.”
Sharon caught Thunstone's arm with one hand. The other clung to the
brooch on her bosom. “I don’t exactly understand...” she breathed.
“Of course not. You weren’t supposed to. It will take time to make
itself clear. But meanwhile w e’ll go. Thorne will have his hands full and his
mind full, inventing a plausible explanation for the death of the club’s star
dancer.” Nobody moved as Thunstone conducted Sharon to the street.
“John,” she said, “1 only half-saw that something was coming into view.
What? And from where?”
“It came through die gate beyond which such tilings have life and power.
And you may call it Tegba, if you want to remember it by name.”
“I don’t,” and she put her hands to her face.
“Then I seem to have made a point. 1ivil magic isn’t to be poked into,
is it? Not unless you’re able to take both precautions and risks. Shall 1 see
you home, Sharon?”
“Please. And stay there and talk to me until the sun rises again.”
“Until rhe sun rises again,” repeated John Thunstone.
 The Qolden Qoblins

L
ONG SPF.AR’S TAILORING WAS, if anything, superior to John
Thunstone’s, and his necktie more carefully knotted. His blue-black
hair, if a trifle longer than currently fashionable, lay smooth and glossy to
his skull, swept back from a broad brow the color of a well-kept old saddle.
His eyes gleamed like wet licorice, and when he slighdy smiled his teeth
made a pure white slash in his rectangular face. Long Spear had been an
honor man at some Southern university, member of a good fraternity and
captain of a successful basketball team. But, as he sat in Thunstone’s draw­
ing room, he cuddled most prayerfully an object that looked to have come
straight out of the Stone Age.
Thunstonc, big and reposeful and hospitable, lolled in an easy chair
opposite. He puffed at the pipeful of fragrant tobacco Iaing Spear had
given him — tobacco mixed, Indian fashion, with kinickimck and red wil­
low bark — and eyed die thing that 1,ong Spear had brought into the room.
It was shaped like a smallish, compact bolster, snugly wrapped in some
kind of ancient rawhide, on which dark hair still remained. Tight-shrunk
leather thongs held that wrapping in place. In Long Spear’s hands it seemed
to have some solidity and weight.
“I want you to keep it for me, my friend.” said 1,ong Spear, “Your trail
to Those Above is different from the Indian’s; but you know and respect
die faith of my people.”
“I respect all true worships,” nodded Thunstonc. “Yet 1 know very
little of what your tribe believes. If you care to tell me, I would care to
hear.”
“We Tsichah were living on the Western Plains when the first Spaniards
came under Coronado,” Long Spear told him, and his voice shifted to a
proud, deep register. “Before that, we had lived — who knows where? The
name o f the land cannot be traced today, and perhaps it is legendary. But
the old men say drat we came from there to the plains country. When the
Tsichah made ready to migrate, their guardians — Those Above — de-
26 M anly W ade W ellman
scendcd from the Shining Lodge and walked like men to advise and help
them. To each warrior who headed a family was given a sacred bundle, to
keep in his home and to pass on in reverence to his oldest soil. This,” and
he lifted the rawhide bolster, “is one such, given to the man who fathered
my clan of the Tsichah. 1, as hereditary chief, have charge of it. When I
came Hast, for the purpose of conferring with the government, I felt 1
must bring it along.”
“For worship, or for safe keeping?” asked Thunstone.
“For both.” Long Spear spoke almost defiantly: “I have learned white
men’s ways, learned them so well that I think 1 shall defeat the warped
arguments that now threaten us. Bur T hold to my father’s belief, as a true
son should. Do you object?”
“Not in the least, because you don’t object to mine.” Thunstone leaned
forward. “Will you permit me to touch the bundle?”
1,ong Spear passed it to him, as gentlv as though it were an infant prince
asleep. As Thunstone had judged, it was compact and quite weighty. lie
examined the rawhide with a soft pressure of his long, strong forefinger.
Mis eyes were studious on either side of his big dented nose.
“Buffalo hide, I judge. But is it as old as vou seem to think?”
Long Spear smiled, quite beautifully. “Not the hide. That was put on
by mv grandfather when he was no older than 1, sav sixty vears ago. When
the outer covering o f the bundle becomes worn or damaged, we wrap it in
fresh hide. It is not permitted to open the bundle. That is, as the Tsichah
say, bad medicine.”
“Of such bundles I’ve heard,” nodded Thunstone. “Yet I’ve never
seen one, even in the museums.”
“You won’t find the Ark of the Covenant in a museum, cither,” re­
minded Long Spear. “A Tsichah would as soon sell the bones of his father.
And don’t ask me what’s at the center of the bundle. 1 do not know, and I
do not think any other living man knows. I do not think that anyone had
better find out.”
Thunstone handed the bundle back. “Wei!, you want me to keep it for
you. But why? What, makes vou hesitate to keep it yourself?”
“Someone’s after it.” said Long Spear, in a voice that suddenly grew
taut and deadly. “Someone who calls himself a reformer, who protests
against the old Tsichah worship. He knows it makes our tribe solid on its
reservation. And he wants to disrupt, so as to rob the Tsichah as other
tribes have been robbed.”
'Thunstone lighted his pipe again. “1,ct me guess, Long Spear. Might
the name be Rowley Thorne?” ,
The blue-black head shook. “No. I’ve heard a little of him. he causes
trouble and evil for trouble and evil’s sakes. You’ve met him and defeated
him, haven’t you? ...Rowley Thorne is washing dishes in a restaurant where
 T he Golden Goblins 27
I would not care to eat. This is someone else.”
“I’ve heard of Roy Bulger.”
Again a head-shake. “No. The Reverend Mr. Bulger opposes our
worship, calling it heathen — but he’s an honest, narrow missionary- He
isn’t in it for profit.”
“You Indians like to put riddles, don’t you? The man must be Barton
Siddons.”
“Yes.” Long Spear’s brown fist clenched on top of his bundle. “He’s
interested several Congressmen who know nothing about Indians. Con­
vinces them that we’re banded together in ancient warrior belief, and mav
causc trouble, even an uprising. Wants restrictions placed on our worship.
Well,” and the other fist clenched, “I’m here in the Icast to argue with cer­
tain Congressmen myself. If they don’t listen, I’ll talk to die President.
And I can finish up with the Supreme Court. There’s such a thing as free­
dom of worship.”
“And I’m to protect your sacred bundle from Siddons?”
“If you will. He told me that he’d destroy it, as a symbol of wicked­
ness. Nice apmg of the fanatic reformer style — but what he really wants
to do is shame me before my people. 1 wouldn’t dare go back to them
without the bundle, even if I gained a victory in the dispute. You under­
stand?”
“Perfectly,” said Thtinstone.
He rose, towering mightily, and crossed the room to where hung a paint­
ing of autumn trees. He pushed it aside and revealed a wall safe, which he
opened. “Will it go in here?”
Long Spear brought it, and it went in easily. Thunstonc closed his safe
and spun the dial.
“Now, my friend, they say that no Indian will refuse a drink. How
about one here, and some lunch in the grill downstairs?”

Those who understand ]ohn Thunstonc, and they are not many, sav
that he has two passions — defeat of ill-magic, and service o f the lovely
Sharon, Countess Monteseco. This does not mean that he is otherwise
cold or distant. His friends include all sorts of persons, not all of them
canny, but all o f them profitable. He likes to set lumself apart from odiers
who study occultism in that he docs not believe lumself to be psychic. If
he were asked the wish of his heart, he might say that it was the return of
honesty and good manners.
He and Long Spear had a good lunch, for they both liked excellent
food and plenty of it. At the end of it, Long Spear excused himself, prom­
ising to come later in die evening. Thunstonc remained alone at the table,
sipping a green liqueur and thinking about whatever Thunstone is apt to
think about. His reverie was broken bv a voice beside him.
28 M ani.y W ade W ellman
“Pardon me, but aren’t you John Thunstone? The author of those ar­
ticles in the Literary Review about modern witch beliefs. 1 read them —
enjoyed them a lot. Mind if I sit down? Siddons is my name.”
The speaker was narrow-bodied, tall, with hair growing to a point on
his forehead and a cleft dimple in his chin. He might be distinguished-
looking except for too shifty, greedy eyes. He dropped into the chair that
Long Spear had vacated.
“Mr. Thunstone, to judge by your writings and your looks, you’re a
civilized gentleman with a sense of spiritual rights and wrongs.”
“Thanks,” nodded Thunstone.
“Do you know that Indian you were eating writh?”
“I seldom eat with people 1 don’t know; Mr. Siddons.”
“1 mean, do you know his charaeter? Mr. Thunstone, I’ll be blunt. He’s
a dangerous barbarian.”
Thunstone sipped. “Barbarian is a hard word for Long Spear. He’s
well educated, and has profited by it. Do I understand that you and he are
enemies?”
Siddons nodded emphatically. “We arc. I’m proud to say. I know these
aboriginal intellectuals, Mr. Thunstone. Yapping for special rights and
prerogatives, on the grounds o f being here first. And planning, sir, to bite
the hand that feeds them — bite it clear off, if they get teeth enough!”
And Siddons showed lus own teeth.
Thunstone made his voice lazy as he said, “I never saw Long Spear bite
anything savagely, except perhaps a filet mignon. Suppose, Mr. Siddons,
you tell me what fault you find with him, and w'hy you seek to impress me
with it.”
“Fault? Plenty of that. 'The man’s a heathen. His tribe — the Tsichah
— believes in human sacrifice.” Again Siddons grimaced furiously. “A cap ­
tive girl, consecrated to whatever devil they worship, shot to death with
arrows and chopped to bits — ”
“The Tsichah haven’t done that for a century or so,” rem inded
Thunstone smoothly. ‘Tt’s an interesting study, that sacrifice rite. Done for
crop fertility, and suggests some relationship to the Aztecs. The Tsichah
were considerably cultured for plains Indians — lived in earth houses in­
stead of teepees, grew maize and beans and potatoes, u:cre well advanced
ill painting and carving, and had a hereditary aristocracy.”
“That’s what I’m getting at,” rejoined Siddons warmly. “Heredity aris­
tocracy. Because a copper-colored tramp is born of the old chieftain stock,
he swanks around like a grand duke. Not American.”
“Not American?” repeated Thunstone. “'The Tsichah were here well
before us. And it’s American to let them keep to their own ujays.”
“Not the ways of the Tsichah. Not when they’re dangerous. Sir, I’ve
been there to their reservation. They stick together like a secret society,
 T he Golden Goblins 29
with their scowling brown faces and maybe knives and pistols under their
shirts. It’s their clinging to old customs and worships, and obedience to
their hereditary chiefs, that makes them a menace. I’m one who wants to
stop them.”
Thunstone considered. “It seems,” he said slowly, “that twice before
white men tampered with the Indian religions. There were uprisings each
time, brutal and bloody — the Smohalla Rebellion in the ’eighties, and the
Ghost Dance War was in 1891. If the Tsichah worship is tampered with...
but why should it be?”
“A religion that advocates human sacrifice?”
“I know that it hasn’t been practiced for years. The Tsichah worship
the Shining Lodge and Those Above, quiedy and sincerely. And they credit
their gods with being kind — giving them, for instance, mineral wealth,
mines of cinnabar and some oil property.”
Siddons started violently, and licked his bps. “Well, it’s stall heathen and
barbaric, and as a non-white organization it’s dangerous. Now to answer
the second part o f your question. Why should I tell you these things, you
ask. It ties up to your friend, Long Spear.”
“A civilized American citizen,” said Thunstone.
“Suppose,” said Siddons craftily, “I was to prove that he wasn’t?”
Thunstone’s black brows lifted, and he said nothing.
“Suppose I should tell you,” went on Siddons, “that he carries a savage
talisman with him, and places his faith and sense of power in it? An ancient
fetish _ ”
“A sacred bundle of the Tsichah religion?” suggested Thunstone.
“Kxactly. You know about sacred bundles?”
“A little. Go on with what you say.”
“Well, Long Spear has one. His whole narrow Indian mind is obsessed
with how holy and mighty that thing is. 1 mentioned the possibility of
destroying it, and he said quite frankly that he’d kill me for that.”
Again Thunstone said nothing. His eyebrows came down again, his
eyes narrowed a trifle.
“You, Mr. Thunstone, have a reputation for crushing evil beliefs. And
I have in mind that you might be persuaded to help — ”
“I know that Long Spear has the bundle. I’ve seen it.”
Siddons leaned forward excitedly’. “Do you know where it is?”
“I do,” said Thunstone, still smoothly. “It’s in a safe place o f my lend­
ing, and it will stay there. Mr. Siddons, you’d better leave it alone, or I feel
sure that Long Spear’s prophecy of death will come true.”
Thunstone got up. He was always immense when he did that.
“I’d heard about your real purpose in wanting to disorganize the ’1sichah.
I made sure by mentioning their mineral wealth, and saw you start. You
want to get your hands on it, don’t you, Siddons? Well, I’m not going to
30 M anly W ade W ellman
help you. I’ll help Long Spear, because he’s a sound, honorable pagan
gentleman, and a credit to any race. Good day.”
Siddons rose in turn. His face twisted, his eyes rolled a little.
“1 might have known. You hocus-pocus birds are all alike, crackpots.
Hut don’t try to buck me, Thunstone. I might cut you down to a dwarf.”
He strutted out, like a rooster whose dignity has been offended.
Thunstone sat back in his chair.
“Waiter,” he said, “another liqueur.”

Later in the afternoon Thunstone was alone in his drawing room. On

impulse he took the sacred bundle from his safe, and sat in the armchair
with it on his lap. Long he studied it, and with true reverent attention.
He tapped the outer envelop of rawhide. Under h was what? Another
layer. Under that, another. Another beneath the third — and so on for
many layers, each representing a generation or more of time. Finally, if one
flouted ritual and peeled them all away, would come into view the original
sacred bundle, the gift that Long Spear said had come from Those Above.
And inside that — what? Nobody knew The gods had not told her chil­
dren, the ancestral Tsichah. And no man had looked.
Thunstone took it in his arms, carefully. He had seen Long Spear do
that. His constant yearning for knowledge of the unseen and unknown
was strong in him; but evidently not strong enough. He was not psychic, he
thought once again. His was not the gift of priesthood or propheev. lie
had a sense of solemnity, no more.
1-ong Spear came in. “I had lunch with you,” he greeted. “ How about
dinner with me... I see you’re looking at the bundle.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind, Long Spear.”
“I don’t. Ttrust you full with it. What do you think of it?”
Thunstone shook his head. “I was trying to find what to think, by
holding it. It should do something to me, but it doesn’t.”
“Because you’re not a priest, a medicine man. But I am. That’s heredi­
tary among the Tsichah, too, the chief is also the prophet. Shall 1 try for
-\.t>
you:'
“Why not?” said Thunstone, holding out the bundle, but Long Spear
did not take it at once. Instead lie produced from his pocket a pipe, not his
usual briar, but a stubby one with a bowl of black stone, old and polished as
jet. This he filled most carefully. Facing around so that he looked toward
the east, he lighted it. Then, without inhaling, he faced north, and emitted
a puff of smoke. Continuing his facing, he puffed on — to west, to south,
to east. Finally he observed the “two directions,” with final puffs up at the
ceiling and down at the floor.
“Give me the bundle now,” he said deeply, “and take the pipe. Keep it
lighted and smoking. You must sit there, and be the council.”
 T he Golden Goblins 31
Pipe and bundle changed hands. Thunstonc drew a lungful of the
fragrant mixed vapors and breathed it out. Through the veil of blue fog he
saw Long Spear lay the bundle in the hollow of his left arm, almost like a
lyre. His right hand, with fingers slightly bent, rested upon it. The heel of
the right hand became a fulcrum and the fingers moved slowly and rhyth­
mically. l'he old dry hide gave forth a scratching tempo, like drat evoked by
I,atm-American musicians from gourds. Long Spear began to chant, mo­
notonously and softly:

“Abkidab. tii-ee, ai-ee!

Ahkidab, ui-ee!'’

Over and over he chanted the little hymn in his own tongue, and then
began slowly to turn. His feet moved and took new positions softly as
though he wore moccasins. His brown face turned upward, his eyes sought
the ceiling as though they could pierce it to the sky above.
“Ahkidah, ai-ee!”
Now7 it seemed to Thunstonc that the smoke began to drift and eddy,
though there was no draft in the room. A little wreath swirled momentarily
around Long Spear’s head, something like a halo. And a hint of other
voices, softer than echoes, softer even than the memory of voices long
dead, became suggestible, as if they joined in the chant of the Tsichah
chief. Rapdy Long Spear sang, and prayerfully. More smoke drifted from
the pipe in Thunstone’s mouth, but the room contained some sort of radi­
ance... as if a hand held a lamp on them, not at doors or windows but at
some opening from another place, not easily discernible...
Long Spear sat down, and laid the bundle on his knees.
“Put out the pipe,” he said. “You’ve just heard a real prayer-song. We
have other stuff, more showmanlike, for tourists and scholars. Not every­
body — indeed, hardlv anybody — is of the right mind or mood to join
with us in our worship. I trust you with that, too.”
“I’m flattered, and I did get something, Long Spear. I felt that your
prayer, whatever it was, got an answer.”
“All mv prayers are answered. All o f them. 1 don’t mean that all are
granted, but I know that they arc beard, and that judgment is made on
them. Just now I prayed to know7what w7ould happen to me, as a man of
my people striving for their freedom and good. What I got wras a warning
of danger — no more.”
He was silent, and carefully touched the bundle and its lashings.
“The buffalo hide is old, it may crack soon. I know7where a new7piece
of fanned buckskin may be got, and smew to sew7it on securely. Keep it for
me again, will you? I’ll bring back the new covering, and make all snug.
Then we’ll have dinner, eh?”
32 M anly W ade W ellman
“Of course.”
Long Spear laid the bundle carefully on a center table of rubbed ma­
hogany. Thunstone saw lrim to the door, and returned to the table for the
bundle. He carried it to his safe, put out his hand to open the door.
At that moment something struck him slashingly on the head behind
the ear, struck httn with such savage force that not even his big body could
stand up under the blow. Down he went on his knees, with darkness rush­
ing over him like water. He could not see, and his eats rang. Somebody
was trying to tug the bundle out of his hands.
Thunstone fought to keep it, and another blow drove what was left of
his wits clear out of him.

He wakened to find himself in an armchair of wood, wrhere he seldom

sat. His ears still hummed, and his first opening of eyes filled his brain with
glaring lights. He tned to get up, and felt himself held back by cutting
pressure at wrists and ankles and across the chest. Shaking his big head to
dear it, he looked down, and saw that lengths of insulated electric wire
bound his arms to the arms of the chair, his feet to the front legs. More
strands encircled his body, and one loop passed under his chin. His head
ached furiously.
‘‘You’re all right, Mr. Thunstone?”
He knew that voice. It was Barton Siddons’. The gaunt man bent
down anxiously, looking at him.
“Get me out of this,” said Thunstone.
‘W h y should I,” asked Siddons airily, “when I took such trouble to
drag you to that chair and fie you?”
Thunstone said nothing else, but stared at his captor.
“I’ve been in this room for more than an hour,” went on Siddons.
“I Iiding behind those hangings. I hoped for a chance to get the bundle —
twice as much after Long Spear gave that heathen exhibition.” He glanced
toward the center table, where the bundle was lying. “I’ve been waiting for
you to wake up.”
‘W hy?” demanded Thunstone. lie wondered how strong his bonds
were, but made no exhibition of tugging and struggling.
“Because you shall witness its destruction.” Siddons licked his lips. “I
intend to discredit Long Spear with his people — and you with Long Spear.
He entrusted his treasure to you. You weren’t able to keep it safe for him.”
Thunstone again kept silent, and stared. His eyes made Siddons un­
comfortable.
“From your own lips I heard words of respect for that savage Tsichah
belief, Mr. Thunstone. I don’t despair o f showing vou its fallacy. Watch.”
Siddons went to the tabic. Something gleamed in his hand. A knife —
he slit one of the binding thongs, another and another. He pulled the
 T he Golden Goblins 33
ancient buffalo-hide wrapping open. It came away stiffly, with a dry ratde.
“Another layer,” observed Siddons, grinning briefly at Thunstonc.
“Whatever is inside, those Tsichah believed in keeping it well muffled.”
Another stiff layer of rawhide was pulled away. It adhered, and needed
force to detach it. “Now for the third — hello, what is this, nicked in be­
tween wrappings?”
He picked it up, a dangling pale tassel.
“Human scalp,” he diagnosed. “White man’s hair, quite fair. Wrapped
in there to signalize a victory, perhaps. But there weren’t enough victories.
The white man won in the end.”
Siddons slit away another hide wrapping. Another. The next broke at
his touch, into irregular flakes like old paper.
“Old and rotten,” pronounced Siddons. “Now the fifth layer — it
must be two hundred years old. And here’s something that isn’t rawhide.”
From die last swaddling he lifted a strange thing like a rectangular brick,
as large as a commercial cement block.
“It was cushioned inside the rawhide by something — perhaps leaves
or grass or herbs, all rotted to powder,” explained Siddons, as though lec­
turing amiably to a class. “Look, it’s hollow Got a little slab of baked clay
for a lid — comes off easily. Inside, another smaller hollow brick. You
may be right, Mr. Thunstone. The Tsichah must have had an ancient
history of something close to civilization to do this sort o f brickwork. In­
side the second, a third — each nested in old leafy dust. And here —we
must be at the heart of the thing.”
He held up a vase of pottery, so old that the red of the clay was dark­
ened to a mahogany brown. It was no larger than a man’s fist, and shaped
like an egg with a flattened end to stand on. Siddons poked and twisted.
“Look, the top comes off — unscrews! W ho’d have thought that Indi­
ans understood the screw principle and would apply it to pottery? I’m leav­
ing these things and you, Mr. Thunstonc, for 1.ong Spear to find.”
His grin grew wider. “Why don’t you take notes, Mr. Thunstone?
You’re sitting in on a notable event, the opening of an inviolable sacred
bundle of a heathen people. And the notes might be important — l ong
Spear may be so disappointed in you that he’d destroy you before you had
a chance to tell verbally what you saw.”
“If Long Spear destroys anyone, it will be you,” predicted Thunstone.
“Oh, he’ll try — and I’ll be prepared, and forestall him, and land him m
jail. That’s where he belongs, and all who head that Tsichah brotherhood.
Rut let’s have a final look.”
He unscrewed the top of the vase, peeped in with eyes that squinted,
then widened.
“Hello! lake a look at that!”
He thrust the open vessel under Thunstonc’s nose.
34 M ani.y W ade W ellman
] ,ight struck into the dark interior of the vase, and evoked a yellow
gleam. Thunstone had a brief impression of eyes, or something like eyes.
Then Siddons was fumbling m the vase with his fingers. He took some­
thing out and held it up.
“Tin soldier, eh? But it’s not tin — it’s gold!”
The little figure was no longer than Siddons’ thumb, its yellow body
was lizard-gaunt, and set upon brief, bandy legs with great flat feet. It had
arms, too, that held a wire-like spear shaft at an angle across the chest. And
the head, crowned with golden plumes, was tilted back and the face turned
upward. That face was human only as a grotesque Hallowe’en mask is
human — with a blob of nose, a gaping mouth from which a tiny tongue
lolled, no forehead and no chin. The eyes were tiny blue stones, probably
turquoise.
Siddons weighed the thing in his palm, turned it over and over.
“Gold,” he repeated. “A little golden goblin. The Indians weren’t met­
allurgist enough to make brass or anything like it. This is probably virgin,
and worth plenty as a nugget — worth more as an archaeological find.”
He set it upright on the table, pushing back the heap of rifled hide
wrappings. It balanced solidly on those wide flat feet. Siddons smiled
down upon it.
“Aztec influence, you suggested? Or maybe Maya or Inca, from farther
south. I think we’ll just keep that little souvenir. As for this pottery con­
tainer — ”
He poised it as if for a smashing downward throw. But then he hesi­
tated, looked inside again. “Well, well! The litde gentleman has a brother!”
He drew out another tiny figure. “A duplicate!” he crowed. “Same
size, same shape, same attitude! Same spear, same litde crumbs of turquoise
for eyes.” He set down the vase and picked up the first figurine. “Even the
same little scratches and markings, as if the carver duplicated those —
what do those Indians think of, Mr. Thunsrone?”
Siddons put the two golden goblins side by side on the table. “Cute,
eh? I low did they both fit in this vase?” lie stooped and peered in, then
straightened and scow-led. He put in a forefinger, drew it out again. “Yes,”
he said, in a lower voice. “Another o f them.”
He brought it into view- and set it by the first pair. It was exactly like
them. And Siddons, again at the vase, took out vet another with his left
hand, and a fifth u'lth his right hand.
“I don’t quite understand,” he said, and he was speaking to himself
now’, not his prisoner. “There isn’t — There doesn’t seem to be an end to
them.”
He set down the fourth and fifth little warriors, took out a sixth. A
seventh. An eighth. These, too, he set down. Now’ his hands trembled.
He drew back without fishing in the vase for more.
 T he Golden Goblins 35
“Thunstone,” he said, “ I was wrong about that bundle. It did — it docs
— have something beyond nature to it.
“It’s like that purse in the myth. Fortuna’s purse. You took out the gold
in it and more came. And,” his voice grew strong again, but with a fierce,
semi-hysterical note, “I know where I stand! Thunstone, I’ll be rich!”
He almost sprang back to the table. “Don’t you see? All these genera­
tions, nobody dared open these tabooed bundles! But inside were riches!
Riches, that is, for whoever dared come after rhem!”
He was taking more figures out of the vase, a little golden procession
of them. Kach he set on the table. Now there were ten — eleven —
twelve — fifteen.
“All alike,” gurgled Siddons. “All of gold, all of them!”
He had made a row of them, like toy soldiers, clear across the table-top.
He turned and faced Thunstone exultantly.
“You can give a message to Long Spear,” he said in a sort of whooping
quaver. “Tell him that I ruined his bundle, but that I’m not going to fight
him or the Tsichah. Thev can have their land and whatever riches it con
j

tains... Thunstone! What are you staring at?”

Thunstone s eyes were not on Siddons, but on the row of figures.
“For a moment,” he replied, “it seemed that one or two o f those fig­
ures moved.”
Siddons swiveled around and studied them. “Rot! They only shook or
quivered. Maybe I joggled the tabic.”
“You didn’t touch it,” said Thunstone. “There, Siddons; they moved
again. Almost next to your hand.”
Siddons turned away from his treasure again, and walked to Thunstone.
With the heel of his hand he slapped Thunstonc’s jowl.
“Don’t try to make me nervous,” he growled. “It won’t work,
Th unstone.”
“I’ll say no more about it,” promised Thunstone, watching the table
beyond Siddons.
Out of the vase was coming another gold figure, without waiting to be
lifted out.
Thunstone saw a ttnv fleck of radiance first — a clutching hand on the
lip of the vase, a hand no larger than a little frog’s forefoot. Then the head
came into viewy with open mouth and plumes and staring turquoise eyes.
Then a leg hooked over, then the whole gleaming yellow body was in view,
erect and balancing on the vase’s rim. The thing moved nimbly, knowingly,
lively as a sparrow; It pointed with its spear — pointed at the back of
Siddons.
The others stirred into motion, bunched like a tniv w:ar party.
Siddons was moving back toward the table, and at first glance did not
know, or did not accept, what was happening. Then he shuddered and
36 M anly W adf, W ellman
cried out, but too late.
His hand had rested for a moment on the table. The warrior that had
come last from the vase made a sort of grasshopper leap, striking with his
tiny gold-wire spear. Thunstone could not make out plainly what hap­
pened, but he saw Siddons tugging wretchedly and ineffectually to lift his
hand from where it had touched the table. A moment later the other tiny
golden bodies had charged, were leaping and scrambling upon Siddons, up
his sleeves, up the front of his coat. One dirust a spear at his eye. Another
was apparently trying to climb into his ear. Siddons cried out again, but his
voice was muffled — Thunstone could not see what was at his mouth.
There was a moving, gleaming cloud and crawling about Siddons’ face
and head, as if brilliant, venomous insects were swarming there. Siddons
dabbed at them once, with his free hand, but very feebly. He began to
totter, to buckle at the knees. He sank slowly floorward. The golden w ar­
riors receded from him in a wave, as though in disciplined retreat. They
were back on the table-top away from him, and the last to leave, their leader,
paused to free his little spear from Siddons’ hand. Released, Siddons setded
prone on the carpet.
The leader of the tiny warriors dropped lightly to the floor. Looking
down, Thunstone saw' the golden morsel scamper toward him, felt it scale
his trouser leg like a monkey on a great tree trunk. The dung came into
view upon his chest, fixing him with searching, turquoise eyes, poising a
spear calculatingly. The spear-pomt moved forward — touched a strand of
the w’ire that bound Thunstone. He felt his bonds relax. His feet and
hands were free. The golden figurine scrambled down again, retraced its
hasty progress to the table, and nimbly hopped up again. It fell into line
widi the others.
Thunstone sat where he was until Long Spear returned.

“It is all easy to interpret,” pronounced Long Spear when Thunstone

had finished his story. “Siddons desecrated a sacred object, and that object
contained the power to punish him. But you were not only spared, but
freed of your bonds. There is no reproach to you.”
He looked toward the silent form of Siddons. “I find no marks upon
him, not even a pin-prick, to show where or how those little spears wounded
him. What explanation need be given o f his death?”
“No explanation,” replied Thunstone, “because none would be believed.
It happens that I know' certain men w'ho owe me great favors, and who can
easily take this body away and dispose of it unknown to the law.”
“That is good.” Long Spear moved to the table with its discarded bundle-
wrappings and the pottery boxes, and the row of little golden warriors. “1
have brought back the buckskin sheathing for my bundle. I shall restore it
as it was before Siddons meddled.”
 T he Golden Goblins 37
For a moment be glanced upward, his lips moving soundlessly in prayer
to the gods of his tribe. Then he carefully lifted one of the figures, put it in
the vase. Another he put inside, another, another, another. One by one he
slid them out o f sight.
When the last had been put in the vase, Long Spear lifted the lid to
screw on top; then he paused, turned to Thunstone, and silently held the
vase so that his friend could see inside.
Only a single golden goblin could be seen, a tiny carven image with
bandy legs, a spear held slantwise, and upturned grotesque face. Yet —
though it may have been a trick o f the light — the turquoise eyes caught
and held Thunstone’s, and one o f them seemed to close for a brief instant.
 Hoofs

OME SUGGEST THAT THE Countess Montcseco was horn Sharon

S Hill, of American parents, and got her title by an ill-advised marriage
abroad; that the Count, her husband, was a rank bad man, and that the
world and the Countess were better for his death. Nobody knows surely,
except John Thunstone, who evinces a great talent o f reticence. Yet some
suggest...
The Countess, at the telephone in her drawing room, directed that the
caller waiting in the hotel lobby be sent up. She was compactly, blondely,
handsome, neither doll not siren, with a broad brow, an arched nose, and
eyes just darker than sapphires. Today she wore blue silk, and no jewelry
except a heart-shaped brooch o f gold.
The caller appeared, smallish and plumpish, with lips that smiled and
eyes as bright and expressionless as little lamps. At her gesture he sat in an
armchair, his pudgy fingerdps together.
“Your name is I Iengist?” prompted the ( iountess, glancing at a note on
her desk. “Yes? You sent me this message, about — certain articles I lost in
Europe.”
“About your husband,” amended Hcngist. “He loves you.”
The sapphire eyes threw' sparks. “That’s a clumsy lie or a clumsy joke.
My husband died years ago.”
“But he loves you,” murmured Hengist. “What blue eyes you have!
And your hair is like a tawny, mellow wine they make in Slavic countries.
Your husband cannot be blamed for loving you.”
She shook her head. “He hated me.”
“Death works many changes. Look at me. 1 know much about you,
and about your husband. As life is to the living, so death is to the dead.
Love can exist and thrive after a body’s death. It lives with your husband...”
His voice fell to a cadenced drone. She rose to her feet, and so did
1lengist. He was no taller than she, and strangely graceful for all his plump­
ness. I Ie cocked a questioning caterpillar eyebrow.
40 M anly W ade W ellman
“I dislike mysteries and conjuring tricks” said the Countess. “Keep
your hypnotism for morons. Good-by Mr. Hengist,”
“Your husband loves you,” repeated Hengist. “I know, and so does —
Rowley Thorne.” He smiled as she flinched. “You look pale. Rowley Thorne
once frightened and angered you, but you know that his knowledge-and
practice of enchantment is genuine. Suppose he proved that your hus­
band, who was dead — lived again?”
“Lived?” echoed the Countess. “Physically?”
“Yes. But — in another body. Rowley Thorne will show you.” He
moved a little closer. “Maybe I could show you something, too. About this
love we have been discussing.”
She slapped him. He turned and departed.
In the lobby, he entered a telephone booth and dialed a number.
“Thorne,” he said to the voice that answered, “I carried out instruc­
tions. She did as you predicted.”
“Splendid,” replied the voice, deep and triumphant. “She believes.”

Sharon, Countess Monteseco, did believe.

Alone, she called herself an idiot to accept fantasies; but Hengist had
spoken of Rowley Thorne. If Rowley Thorne could raise dread evil spirits
— and she had seen him do it — he could raise the spirit of Count
Monteseco. The Count alive, in another body of his own; if that was true,
what must she do? Would the Count claim her. Was he still selfish and
cruel? John Thunstonc had always called those traits the unforgivable sins.
If she had not had that disagreement with John Thunstonc, a disagreement
over trifles which w'ound up a quarrel... the telephone was ringing, and she
took up the receiver.
“Aren’t we being childish?” John Thunstonc’s voice asked.
She borrowed strength from her pride. “Perhaps one o f us is. You
worked hard to say painful things, John.”
“You didn’t have to w'ork hard to say them. Sharon, I’ve a plane reser­
vation to go a considerable distance and dig into unpleasant mysteries with
Judge Pursuivant, But I’d rather call it off, and take you to a pleasant din­
ner.”
“ 1 — I’ve a headache, John.” liven as she spoke, it was true. A dull
throb crawled inside her skull.
“I sec.” He sounded weary. “Good-by, Sharon. Sorry.”
He hung up. The Countess sank into a chair. John Thunstone could
have helped — would have helped. Why had she avoided seeing him, when
something strange and evil was on the way to happen to her? Had that
larval little Hengist hypnotized her enough to make her banish her friends?
For John Thunstonc was a friend. 1Ie was more than that, and she had
rebuffed him, and now he’d fly away, she did nor know where or for how
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
“Do you only suspect something, Tack,” I demanded very
seriously, “or do you actually know?”

He paused for a few seconds, then, his deep-set eyes fixed

upon mine, he replied.

“I do not suspect, sir, I know.”

 Chapter Eleven.
His Excellency General Markoff.

What Tack had told me naturally increased my

apprehension. I informed the two agents of Russian police
who in turn guarded the house in Brunswick Square.

A whole month went by, bright, delightful autumn days

beside the sea, when I often strolled with my charming little
companion across the Lawns at Hove, or sat upon the pier
at Brighton listening to the band.

Sometimes I would dine with her and Miss West, or at

others they would take tea with me in that overheated
winter garden of the “Métropole”—where half of the Hebrew
portion of the City of London assembles on Sunday
afternoons—or they would dine with me in the big
restaurant. So frequently was she in and out of the hotel
that “Miss Gottorp” soon became known to all the servants,
and by sight to most of the visitors on account of the
neatness of her mourning and the attractiveness of her pale
beauty.

Tack had returned to Petersburg to resume his agency

business, and Hartwig’s whereabouts was unknown.

The last-named had been in Brighton three weeks before,

but as he had nothing to report he had disappeared as
suddenly as he had come. He was ubiquitous—a man of a
hundred disguises, and as many subterfuges. He never
seemed to sleep, and his journeys backwards and forwards
across the face of Europe were amazingly swift and ever-
constant.
I was seated at tea with Her Highness and Miss West in the
winter garden—that place of palms and bird-cages at the
back of the “Métropole”—when a waiter handed me a
telegram which I found was from the secretary of the
Russian Embassy, at Chesham House, in London, asking me
to call there at the earliest possible moment.

What, I wondered, had occurred?

I said nothing to Natalia, but, recollecting that there was an

express just after six o’clock which would land me at
Victoria at half-past seven, I cut short her visit and duly
arrived in London, unaware of the reason why I was so
suddenly summoned.

I crossed the big, walled-in courtyard of the Embassy, and

entering the great sombre hall, where an agent of Secret
Police was idling as usual, the flunkey in green livery
showed me along to the secretary’s room, a big, gloomy,
smoke-blackened apartment on the ground floor. The huge
house was dark, sombre and ponderous, a house of grim,
mysterious shadows, where officials and servants flitted up
and down the great, wide staircase which led to His
Excellency’s room.

“His Excellency left for Paris to-day,” the footman informed

me, opening the door of the secretary’s room, and telling
me that he would send word at once of my arrival.

It was the usual cold and austere embassy room—differing

but little from my own den in Petersburg. Count Kourloff,
the secretary, was an old friend of mine. He had been
secretary in Rome when I had been stationed there, and I
had also known him in Vienna—a clever and intelligent
diplomat, but a bureaucrat like all Russians.
The evening was a warm, oppressive one, and the windows
being open, admitted the lively strains of a street piano,
played somewhere in the vicinity.

Suddenly the door opened, and instead of the Count, whom

I had expected, a stout, broad-shouldered, elderly man in
black frock-coat and grey trousers entered, and saluted me
gaily in French with the words:

“Ah, my dear Trewinnard! How are you, my friend—eh? How

are you? And how is Her Imperial Highness—eh?”

I started as I recognised him.

It was none other than Serge Markoff.

“I am very well, General,” I replied coldly. “I am awaiting

Count Kourloff.”

“He’s out. It was I who telegraphed to you. I want to have a

chat with you now that you have entered the service of
Russia, my dear friend. Pray be seated.”

“Pardon me,” I replied, annoyed, “I have not entered the

service of Russia, only the private service of her Sovereign,
the Emperor.”

“The same thing! The same thing!” he declared fussily,

stroking his long, grey moustache, and fixing his cunning
steel-blue eyes upon mine.

“I think not,” I said. “But we need not discuss that point.”

“Bien! I suppose Her Highness is perfectly comfortable and

happy in her incognito at Brighton—eh? The Emperor was
speaking of her to me only the other day.”
“His Majesty receives my report each week,” I said briefly.

“I know,” replied the brutal remorseless man who was

responsible for the great injustice and suffering of
thousands of innocent ones throughout the Russian Empire.
“I know. But I have asked you to London because I wish to
speak to you in strictest confidence. I am here, M’sieur
Trewinnard, because of a certain discovery we have recently
made—the discovery of a very desperate and ingenious
plot!”

“Another plot!” I echoed; “here, in London!”

“It is formed in London, but the coup is to be made at

Brighton,” he replied slowly and seriously, “a plot against
Her Imperial Highness!”

I looked the man straight in the face, and then burst out
laughing.

“You certainly do not appear to have any regard for the

personal safety of your charge,” he exclaimed angrily. “I
have warned you. Therefore, take every precaution.”

I paused for a few seconds, then I said:

“Forgive me for laughing. General Markoff. But it is really

too humorous—all this transparency.”

“What transparency?”

“The transparency of your attempt to terrify me,” I said. “I

know that the attempt made against the young lady and
myself failed—and that His Imperial Highness the Grand
Duke was unfortunately killed. But I do not think there will
be any second attempt.”
“You don’t think so!” he cried quickly. “Why don’t you think
so?”

“For the simple reason that Danilo Danilovitch—the man

who is a police-spy and at the same time responsible for
plots—is just now a little too well watched.”

The man’s grey face dropped when I uttered the name of

his catspaw. My statement, I saw, held him confounded and
confused.

“I—I do not understand you,” he managed to exclaim.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you surely know Danilovitch?” I said. “He is your

most trusted and useful agent-provocateur. He is at this
moment in England. I can take you now to where he is in
hiding, if you wish,” I added, with a smile of triumph.

“Danilovitch,” he repeated, as though trying to recall the

name.

“Yes,” I said defiantly, standing with my hands in my

trousers pockets and leaning against the table placed in the
centre of the room. “Danilovitch—the shoemaker of Kazan
and murderer of Marie Garine, the poor little tailoress in
Petersburg.”

His face dropped. He saw that I was aware of the man’s

identity.

“He is now staying with a compatriot in Blurton Road, Lower

Clapton,” I went on.

“I don’t see why this person should interest me,” he

interrupted.
“But he is a conspirator. General Markoff; and I am giving
you some valuable information,” I said, with sarcasm.

“You are not a police officer. What can you know?”

“I know several facts which, when placed before the

Revolutionary Committee—as they probably are by this time
—will make matters exceedingly unpleasant for Danilo
Danilovitch, and also for certain of those who have been
employing him,” was my quiet response.

“If this man is a dangerous revolutionist, as you allege, he

cannot be arrested while in England,” remarked the
General, his thick grey eyebrows contracting slightly, a sign
of apprehension. “This country of yours gives asylum to all
the most desperate characters, and half the revolutionary
plots in Europe are arranged in London.”

“I do not dispute that,” I said. “But I was discussing the

highly interesting career of this Danilo Danilovitch. If there
is any attempt upon Her Imperial Highness the Grand
Duchess Natalia, as you fear, it will be by that individual.
General. Therefore I would advise your department to keep
close observation upon him. He is lodging at Number 30B,
Blurton Road. And,” I added, “if you should require any
further particulars concerning him, I daresay I shall be in a
position to furnish them.”

“Why do you suspect him?”

“Because of information which has reached me—information

which shows that it was his hand which launched the fatal
bomb which killed the Grand Duke Nicholas. His Imperial
Highness was actually killed by an agent of Secret Police!
When that fact reaches the Emperor’s ears there will, I
expect, be searching inquiry.”
“Have you actual proof of this?” he asked in a thick, hoarse
voice, his cheeks paler than before.

“Yes. Or at least my informant has. The traitor was

recognised among the crowd; he was seen to throw the
bomb.”

General Markoff remained silent. He saw himself

checkmated. His secret was out. He had intended to raise a
false scare of a probable attempt at Brighton in order to
terrify me, but, to his amazement, I had shown myself
conversant with his methods and aware of the truth
concerning the mysterious outrage in which the Grand Duke
Nicholas had lost his life.

From his demeanour and the keen cunning look in his steely
eyes I gathered that he was all eagerness to know the exact
extent of my knowledge concerning Danilo Danilovitch.

Therefore, after some further conversation, I said boldly:

“I expect that, ere this, the Central Committee of the

People’s Will has learned the truth regarding their betrayer
—this man to whose initiative more than half of the recent
plots have been due—and how he was in the habit of
furnishing your department with the lists of suspects and
those chosen to carry out the outrage. But, of course,
General,” I added, with a bitter smile, “you would probably
not know of this manufacture of plots by one in the pay of
the Police Department.”

“Of course not,” the unscrupulous official assured me. “I

surely cannot be held responsible for the action of
underlings. I only act upon reports presented to me.”

I smiled again.
“And yet you warn me of an outrage which is to be
attempted with your connivance by this fellow Danilovitch—
the very man who killed the Grand Duke—eh?”

“With my connivance!” he cried fiercely. “What do you

insinuate?”

“I mean this, General Markoff,” I said boldly; “that the

yellow card of identity found in Danilovitch’s rooms by the
girl to whom he was engaged bore your signature. That
card is, I believe, already in the hands of the Revolutionary
Committee!”

“I have all their names. I shall telegraph to-night ordering

their immediate arrest,” he cried, white with anger.

“But that will not save your agent-provocateur—the

assassin of poor Marie Garine—from his fate. The arm of the
revolutionist is a very long one, remember.”

“But the arm of the Chief of Secret Police is longer—and

stronger,” he declared in a low, hard tone.

“The Emperor, when he learns the truth, will dispense full

justice,” I said very quietly. “His eyes will, ere long, be
opened to the base frauds practised upon him, and the
many false plots which have cost hundreds of innocent
persons their lives or their liberty.”

“You speak as though you were censor of the police,” he

exclaimed with a quick, angry look.

“I speak, General Markoff, as the friend of Russia and of her

Sovereign the Emperor,” I replied. “You warn me of a plot to
assassinate the Grand Duchess Natalia. Well, I tell you
frankly and openly I don’t believe it. But if it be true, then I,
in return, warn you that if any attempt be made by any of
your dastardly hirelings, I will myself go to the Emperor and
place before him proofs of the interesting career of Danilo
Danilovitch. Your Excellency may be all-powerful as Chief of
Secret Police,” I added; “but as surely as the sun will rise
to-morrow, justice will one day be done in Russia!”

And then I turned upon my heel and passed out of the

room, leaving him biting his nether lip in silence at my open
defiance.
 Chapter Twelve.
Watchers in the Night.

After Her Highness and Miss West had dined with me at the
“Métropole” at Brighton on the following evening, the
trusted old companion complained of headache and drove
home, leaving us alone together.

Therefore we strolled forth into the moonlit night and,

crossing the road, walked out along the pier. There were
many persons in the hall of the hotel, but though a good
many heads were turned to see “Miss Gottorp” pass in her
pretty décolleté gown of black, trimmed with narrow silver,
over which was a black satin evening cloak, probably not
one noticed the undersized, insignificant, but rather well-
dressed man who rose from one of the easy chairs where
he had been smoking to follow us out.

Who, indeed, of that crowd would have guessed that the

pretty girl by whose side I walked was an Imperial Princess,
or that the man who went out so aimlessly was Oleg Lobko,
the trusty agent of the Russian Criminal Police charged by
the Emperor with her personal protection?

With the man following at a respectable distance, we

strolled side by side upon the pier, looking back upon the
fairy-like scene, the long lines of light along King’s Road,
and the calm sea shimmering beneath the clear moon.
There were many people enjoying the cool, refreshing
breezes, as there always are upon an autumn night.

A comedy was in progress in the theatre at the pierhead,

and it being the entr’acte, many were promenading—mostly
visitors taking their late vacation by the sea.
My charming little companion had been bright and cheerful
all the evening, but had more than once, by clever
questions, endeavoured to learn what had taken me to the
Embassy on the previous night. I, however, did not deem it
exactly advisable to alarm her unduly, either by telling her
of my defiance of General Markoff, of my discovery of Danilo
Danilovitch, or of the attempt to terrify me by the
declaration that another plot was in progress.

Truth to tell, Tack, before his return to Petersburg, had run

Danilovitch to earth in Lower Clapton, and two private
detectives, engaged by me, were keeping the closest
surveillance upon him.

Twice had we circled the theatre at the pierhead, and had

twice strolled amid the seated audience around the
bandstand where military music was being played in the
moonlight, when we passed two young men in Homburg
hats, wearing overcoats over their evening clothes. One of
them, a tall, slim, dark-haired, good-looking, athletic young
fellow, of perhaps twenty-two, raised his hat and smiled at
my companion.

She nodded him a merry acknowledgment. Then, as we

passed on, I exclaimed quickly:

“Hulloa! Is that some new friend—eh?”

“Oh, it’s really all right, Uncle Colin,” she assured me. “I’ve
done nothing dreadful, now. You needn’t start lecturing me,
you know, or be horrified at all.”

“I’m not lecturing,” I laughed. “I’m only consumed by

curiosity. That’s all.”

“Ah! You’re like all men,” she declared. “And suppose I

refuse to satisfy your curiosity—eh?”
“You won’t do that, I think,” was my reply, as we halted
upon one of the long benches which ran on either side of
the pier. “Remember, I am responsible to the Emperor for
you, and I’m entitled to know who your friend is.”

“He’s an awfully nice boy,” was all she replied.

“He looks so. But who is he?”

“Somebody—well, somebody I knew at Eastbourne.”

“And you’ve met him here? How long ago?”

“Oh! nearly a month.”

“And so it is he whom you’ve met several times of late—

eh?” I said. “Let’s see—according to the report furnished to
me, you were out for half an hour on the sea-front on
Tuesday night; five minutes on Wednesday night; not at all
on Thursday night, and one whole hour on Friday night—eh?
And with a young man whose name is unknown.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you his name. He’s Dick Drury.”

“And who, pray, is this Mr Richard Drury?”

“A friend of mine, I tell you. The man with him is his friend
—Lance Ingram, a doctor.”

“And what is this Mr Drury’s profession?”

“He does nothing, I suppose,” she laughed. “I can’t well

imagine Dick doing much.”

“Except flirting—eh?” I said with a smile.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” she replied, as we again rose

and circled the bandstand, for I was anxious to get another
look at the pair.

On the evenings I had referred to, it appeared that Her

Highness, after dinner, had twisted a shawl over her head,
and ran down to the sea-front—a distance of a hundred
yards or so—to get a breath of air, as she had explained to
Miss West. But on each occasion the watchful police-agent
had seen her meet by appointment this same young man.
Therefore some flirtation was certainly in progress—and
flirtation had been most distinctly forbidden.

My efforts were rewarded, for a few minutes later the two

young men repassed us, and this time young Drury did not
raise his hat. He only smiled at her in recognition.

“Where are they staying?” I asked.

“Oh you are so horribly inquisitive, Uncle Colin,” she said.

“Well, if you really must know, they’re staying at the ‘Royal
York.’”

“How came you to know this young fellow at Eastbourne?” I

asked. “I thought you were kept in strictest seclusion from
the outside world. At least, you’ve always led me to believe
that,” I said.

She laughed heartily.

“Well, dear old uncle, surely you don’t think that any school
could exactly keep a girl a prisoner. We used to get out
sometimes alone for an hour of an evening—by judicious
bribery. I’ve had many a pleasant hour’s walk up the road
towards Beachy Head. And, moreover, I wasn’t alone,
either. Dick was usually with me.”

“Really, this is too dreadful!” I exclaimed in pious horror.

“Suppose anyone had known who you really were!”
“Well, I suppose even if they had the heavens wouldn’t have
fallen,” she laughed.

“Ah!” I said, “you are really incorrigible. Here you are flirting
with an unsuspected lover.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” she asked in protest. “Dick is better

than some chance acquaintance.”

“If you are only amusing yourself,” I said. “But if you love
him, then it would be a serious matter.”

“Oh, horribly serious, I know,” she said impatiently. “If I

were a typist, or a shopgirl, or a waitress, or any girl who
worked for her living, I should be doing quite the correct
thing; but for me—born of the great Imperial Family—to
merely look at a boy is quite unpardonable.”

I was silent for a few moments. The little madcap whom the
Emperor had placed in my charge, because her presence at
Court was a menace to the Imperial family, was surely
unconventional and utterly incorrigible.

“I fear Your Highness does not fully appreciate the heavy

responsibilities of Imperial birth,” I said in a tone of
dissatisfaction.

“Oh, bother! My birth be hanged!” she exclaimed, with more

force than politeness. “In these days it really counts for
nothing. I was reading it all in a German book last week.
Every class seems to have its own social laws, and what is
forbidden to me is quite good form with my dressmaker.
Isn’t it absurdly funny?”

“You must study your position.”

“Why should I, if I strictly preserve my incognito? That I do
this, even you, Uncle Colin, will admit!”

“Are you quite certain that this Mr Drury is unaware who

you really are?” I asked.

“Quite. He believes me to be Miss Natalia Gottorp, my

father German, my mother English, and I was born in
Germany. That is the story—does it suit?”

“I trust you will take great care not to reveal your true
identity,” I said.

“I have promised you, haven’t I?”

“You promised me that you would not flirt, and yet here you
are, having clandestine meetings with this young man every
evening!”

“Oh, that’s very different. I can’t help it if I meet an old

friend accidentally, can I?” she protested with a pretty pout.

At that moment we were strolling along the western side of

the pierhead, where it was comparatively ill-lit, on one side
being the theatre, while on the other the sea. The
photographer’s and other shops were closed at that late
hour, and the light being dim at that spot, several flirting
couples were passing up and down arm in arm.

Suddenly, as we turned the corner behind the theatre, we

came face to face with a dark-featured, middle-aged man,
with deeply-furrowed brow, narrowly set eyes and small
black moustache. He wore a dark suit and a hard felt hat,
and had something of the appearance of a middle-class
paterfamilias out for his annual vacation.
He glanced quickly in our direction, and, I thought, started,
as though recognising one or other of us.

Then next moment he was lost in the darkness.

“Do you know that man?” asked my companion suddenly.

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I fancy I’ve seen him

somewhere or other before. He looked like a Russian.”

That was just my own thought at that moment, and I

wondered if Oleg, who was lurking near, had noticed him.

“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t recollect ever having seen him

before. I wonder who he is? Let’s turn back.”

We did so, but though we hastened our steps, we did not

find him. He had, it seemed, already left the pier.
Apparently he believed that he had been recognised.

Once again we repassed Drury and his friend just as the

theatre disgorged its crowd of homeward-bound pleasure-
seekers.

We were walking in the same direction, Oleg following at a

respectable distance, and I was enabled to obtain a good
look at him, for, as though in wonder as to whom I could
be, he turned several times to eye me, with some little
indignation, I thought.

I judged him to be about twenty-five, over six feet in

height, athletic and wiry, with handsome, clear-cut, clean-
shaven features and a pair of sharp, dark, alert eyes, which
told of an active outdoor life. His face was a refined one, his
gait easy and swinging, and both in dress and manner he
betrayed the gentleman.

Truth to tell, though I did not admit it to Natalia, I became

very favourably impressed by him. By his exterior he
seemed to be a well-set-up, sportsmanlike young fellow,
who might, perhaps, belong to one of the Sussex county
families.

His friend the doctor was of quite a different type, a short,

fair-haired man in gold-rimmed spectacles, whose face was
somewhat unattractive, though it bore an expression of
studiousness and professional knowledge. He certainly had
the appearance of a doctor.

But before I went farther I resolved to make searching

inquiry unto the antecedents of this mysterious Dick Drury.

The walk in the moonlight along the broad promenade

towards Hove was delightful. I begged Her Highness to
drive, but she preferred to walk; the autumn night was so
perfect, she said.

As we strolled along, she suddenly exclaimed:

“I can’t help recalling that man we saw on the pier. I

remember now! I met him about a week ago, when I was
shopping in Western Road, and he followed me for quite a
distance. He was then much better dressed.”

“You believe, then, he is a Russian?” I asked quickly.

“I feel certain he is.”

“But you were not alone—Oleg was out with you, I

suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “He never leaves me. I only wish he
would sometimes. I hate to be spied upon like this. Either
Dmitri or Oleg is always with me.”

“It is highly necessary,” I declared. “Recollect the fate of

your poor father.”

“But why should the revolutionists wish to harm me—a

girl?” she asked. “My own idea is that they’re not half as
black as they’re painted.”

I did not reveal to her the serious facts which I had recently
learnt.

“Did you make any mention to Oleg of the man following

you?”

“No, it never occurred to me. But there, I suppose, he only

followed me, just as other men seem sometimes to follow
me—to look into my face.”

“You are used to admiration,” I said, “and therefore take no

notice of it. Pretty women so soon become blasé.”

“Oh! So you denounce me as blasé—eh, Uncle Colin?” she

cried, just as we arrived before the door in Brunswick
Square. “That is the latest! I really don’t think it fair to
criticise me so constantly,” and she pouted.

Then she gave me her little gloved hand, and I bent over it
as I wished her good-night.

I wished to question Oleg regarding the man we had seen,

but I could not do so before her.

I turned back along the promenade, and was walking

leisurely towards the “Métropole,” when suddenly from out
of the shadow of one of the glass-partitioned shelters the
dark figure of a man emerged, and I heard my name
pronounced.

It was the ubiquitous Hartwig, wearing his gold pince-nez.

As was his habit, he sprang from nowhere. I had clapped
my hand instinctively upon my revolver, but withdrew it
instantly.

“Good evening, Mr Trewinnard,” he said. “I’ve met you here

as I don’t want to be seen at the ‘Métropole’ to-night. I
have travelled straight through from Petersburg here. I
landed at Dover this afternoon, went up to Victoria, and
down here. I arrived at eight o’clock, but learning that Her
Highness was dining with you, I waited until you left her. It
is perhaps as well that I am here,” he added.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’ve been on the pier with you to-night,” was the
reply of the chief of the detective department of Russia,
“and I have seen how closely you have been watched by a
person whom even Oleg Lobko, usually so well-informed,
does not suspect—a person who is extremely dangerous. I
do not wish to alarm you, Mr Trewinnard,” he added in a low
voice, “but I heard in Petersburg that something is intended
here in Brighton, and the Emperor sent me post-haste to
you.”

“Who is this person who has been watching us?” I asked

eagerly. “I noticed him.”

“Oleg doesn’t know him, but I do. I have had certain

suspicions, and only five days ago I made a discovery in
Petersburg—an amazing discovery—which confirmed my
apprehensions. The man who has been watching you with
distinctly evil intent is a most notorious and evasive
character named Danilo Danilovitch.”

“Danilovitch!” I cried. “I know him, but I did not recognise

him to-night. His appearance has so changed.”

“Yes, it has. But I have been watching him all the evening.
He returned by the midnight train to London.”

“I can tell you where he is in hiding,” I said.

“You can!” he cried. “Excellent! Then we will both go and

pay him a surprise call to-morrow. There is danger—a grave
and imminent danger—for both Her Highness and yourself;
therefore it must be removed. There is peril in the present
situation—a distinct peril which I had never suspected. A
disaster may happen at any moment if we are not wary and
watchful. And there’s another important point, Mr
Trewinnard,” added the great detective; “do you happen to
know a tall, thin, sharp-featured young man called Richard
Drury?”
 Chapter Thirteen.
The Catspaw.

Just as the dusk had deepened into grey on the following

evening I alighted from a tram in the Lower Clapton Road,
and, accompanied by Hartwig, we turned up a long
thoroughfare of uniform houses, called Powerscroft Road,
until we reached Blurton Road, where, nearly opposite the
Mission House, we found the house of which we were in
search.

Hartwig had altered his appearance wonderfully, and looked

more like a Devonshire farmer up in London on holiday than
the shrewd, astute head of the Sûreté of the Russian
Empire. As for myself, I had assumed a very old suit and
wore a shabby hat.

The drab, dismal house, which we passed casually in order

to inspect, was dingy and forbidding, with curtains that
were faded with smoke and dirt, holland blinds once yellow,
but the ends of which were now dark and stained, and
windows which had not been cleaned for years, while the
front door was faded and blistered and some of the tops of
the iron railings in front had been broken off. The steps
leading to the front door had not been hearthstoned as
were those of its neighbour, while in the area were bits of
wastepaper, straw, and the flotsam and jetsam of the noisy,
overcrowded street.

Unkempt children were romping or playing hopscotch on the

pavement, while some were skipping and others playing
football in the centre of the road—all pupils of the great
County Council Schools in the vicinity.
At both the basement window and that of the room above—
the front parlour—were short blinds of dirty muslin, so that
to see within while passing was impossible. In that
particular it differed in no way from some of its neighbours;
for in those parts front parlours are often turned into
bedrooms, and a separate family occupies every floor. Only
one fact was apparent—that it was the dirtiest and most
neglected house in the whole of that working-class road,
bordering upon the Hackney Marsh.

To me that district was as unfamiliar as were the wilds of

the Sahara. Indeed, to the average Londoner Lower Clapton
is a mere legendary district, the existence of which is only
recorded by the name written upon tramcars and
omnibuses.

Together we strolled to the bottom of Blurton Road, to

where Glyn Road crosses it at right angles, and then we
stopped to discuss our plans.

“I shall ascend the steps, knock, and ask for Danilovitch,”

the great detective said. “The probability is that the door
will be unceremoniously slammed in my face. But you will
be behind me. I shall place my foot in the door to prevent
premature closing, and at first sign of resistance you, being
behind me, will help me to force the door, and so enter. At
word from me don’t hesitate—use all your might. I intend to
give whoever lives there a sudden and sharp surprise.”

“But if they are refugees, they are desperate. What then?”

“I expect they are,” he laughed. “This is no doubt the

hornets’ nest. Therefore it behoves us to be wary, and have
our wits well about us. You’re not afraid, Mr Trewinnard?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Where you dare go, there I will follow.”
“Good. Let’s make the attempt then,” he said, and together
we strolled leisurely back until we came to the flight of
unclean front steps, whereupon both of us turned and,
ascending, Hartwig gave a sharp postman’s knock at the
door.

An old, grey-whiskered, ill-dressed man, palpably a Polish

Jew, opened the door, whereupon Hartwig asked in Russian:

“Is our leader Danilo Danilovitch here?”

The man looked from him to me inquiringly.

“Tell him that Ivan Arapoff, from Petersburg, wishes to

speak with him.”

“I do not know, Gospodin, whether he is at home,” replied

the man with politeness. “But I will see, if you will wait,”
and he attempted to close the door in our faces.

Hartwig, however, was prepared for such manoeuvre, for he

had placed his foot in the door, so that it could not be
closed. The Polish Jew was instantly on the alert and
shouted some sharp word of warning, evidently a
preconcerted signal, to those within, whereat Hartwig and
myself made a sudden combined effort and next second
were standing within the narrow evil-smelling little hall.

I saw the dark figures of several men and women against

the stairs, and heard whispered words of alarm in Russian.
But Hartwig lost no time, for he shouted boldly:

“I wish to see Danilo Danilovitch. Let him come forward. If

he does not do so, then it is at his own peril.”

“If you are police officers you cannot touch us here in

England!” shouted a young woman with dark, tousled hair, a
revolutionist of the female-student type.

“We are here from Petersburg as friends, but you

apparently treat us as enemies,” said Hartwig.

“If you are traitors you will, neither of you, leave this house
alive,” cried a thick-set man, advancing towards me
threateningly. “So you shall see Danilovitch—and he shall
decide.”

I heard somebody bolting the front door heavily to prevent

our escape, while a voice from somewhere above, in the
gloom of the stairs, shouted:

“Comrades, they are police-spies!”

A young, black-haired Jewess of a type seen everywhere in

Poland, thin-featured and handsome, with a grey shawl over
her shoulders, emerged from a door and peered into my
face. There seemed fully fifteen persons in that dingy
house, all instantly alarmed at our arrival. Here was, no
doubt, the London centre of revolutionary activity directed
against the Russian Imperial family and Danilo Danilovitch
was in hiding there. It was fortunate, indeed, that the ever-
vigilant Tack had succeeded in running him to earth.

I had told Hartwig of the allegation which Tack had made

against Danilovitch, that, though in the service of the Secret
Police, he had arranged certain attempts against members
of the Imperial family, and how he had deliberately killed his
sweetheart, Marie Garine. But Hartwig, being chief of the
Sûreté, had no connection with the political department,
and was, therefore, unaware of any agent of Secret Police
known as Danilovitch.

“I remember quite well the case of Marie Garine,” he added.

“I thoroughly investigated it and found that she had, no
doubt, been killed by her lover. But I put it down to
jealousy, and as the culprit had left Russia I closed the
inquiry.”

“Then you could arrest him, even now,” I said.

“Not without considerable delay. Besides, in Petersburg they

are against applying for extradition in England. The
newspapers always hint at the horrors of Siberia in store for
the person arrested. And,” he added, “I agree that it is quite
useless to unnecessarily wound the susceptibilities of my
own countrymen, the English.” It was those words he had
spoken as we had come along Blurton Road.

Our position at that moment was not a very pleasant one,

surrounded as we were by a crowd of desperate refugees. If
any one of them recognised Ivan Hartwig, then I knew full
well that we should never leave the house alive. Men who
were conspiring to kill His Majesty the Emperor would not
hesitate to kill a police officer and an intruder in order to
preserve their secret, “Where is my good friend
Danilovitch?” demanded Hartwig, in Russian. “Why does he
not come forward?”

“He has not been well, and is in bed,” somebody replied.

“He is coming in a moment. He lives on the top floor.”

“Well, I’m in a hurry, comrades,” exclaimed the great

detective with a show of impatience. “Do not keep me
waiting. I am bearer of a message to you all—an important
message from our great and beloved Chief, the saviour of
Russia, whose real identity is a secret to all, but whom we
know as ‘The One’!”

“The One!” echoed two of the men in Russian. “A message

from him! What is it? Tell us,” they cried eagerly.
“No. The message from our Chief is to our comrade
Danilovitch. He will afterwards inform you,” was Hartwig’s
response.

“Who is it there who wants me?” cried an impatient voice in

Russian over the banisters.

“I have a message for Danilo Danilovitch,” my friend

shouted back.

“Then come upstairs,” he replied. “Come—both of you.”

And we followed a dark figure up to a back room on the

second floor—a shabby bed and sitting-room combined.

He struck a match, lit the gas and pulled down the blind.
Then as he faced us, a middle-aged man with deeply-
furrowed countenance and hair tinged with grey, I at once
recognised him—though he no longer wore the small black
moustache—as the man I had met on Brighton Pier on the
previous night.

“Well,” he asked roughly in Russian, “what do you want with

me?”

I was gratified that he had not recognised Ivan Hartwig. For

a moment he looked inquiringly at me, and no doubt
recognised me as the Grand Duchess’s companion of the
previous night.

His hair was unkempt, his neck was thick, and his unshaven
face was broad and coarse. He had the heavy features of a
Russian of the lower class, yet his prominent, cunning eyes
and high, deeply-furrowed forehead betokened great
intelligence. Though of the working-class, yet in his eyes
there burned a bright magnetic fire, and one could well
imagine how by his inflammatory speeches he led that
crowd of ignorant aliens into a belief that by killing His
Imperial Majesty they could free Russia of the autocratic
yoke. Those men and women, specimens of whom were
living in that house at Clapton, never sought to aim at the
root of the evil which had gripped the Empire, that brutal
camarilla who ruled Russia, but in the madness of their
blood-lust and ignorance that they were being betrayed by
their leader, and their lives made catspaws by the camarilla
itself, they plotted and conspired, and were proud to believe
themselves martyrs to what they foolishly termed The
Cause!

The face of the traitor before us was full of craft and

cunning, the countenance of a shrewd and clever man who,
it struck me, was haunted hourly by the dread of betrayal
and an ignominious end. Even though he might have been a
shoemaker, yet from his perfect self-control, and the
manner in which he greeted us, I saw that he was no
ordinary man. Indeed, few men could have done—would
have dared to do—what he had done, if all Tack had related
were true. His personal appearance, his unkempt hair, his
limp collar and loosely-tied cravat of black and greasy silk,
and his rough suit of shabby dark tweed, his whole
ensemble, indeed, was that of the political agitator, the
revolutionary firebrand.

“I am here, Danilo Danilovitch,” Hartwig said at last very

seriously, looking straight at him, “in order to speak to you
quite frankly, to put to you several questions.”

The man started, and I saw apprehension by the slight

movement in the corners of his mouth.

“For what reason?” he snapped quickly. “I thought you were

here with a message from our Chief in Russia?”
“I am here with a message, it is true,” said the renowned
chief of the Russian Sûreté. “You had, I think, better lock
that door, and also make quite certain that nobody in this
house overhears what I am about to say,” he added very
slowly and meaningly.

“Why?” inquired the other with some show of defiance.

“If you do not want these comrades of yours to know all

your private business, it will be best to lock that door and
take care that nobody is listening outside. If they are—well,
it will be you, Danilo Danilovitch, who will suffer, not
myself,” said Hartwig very coolly, his eyes fixed upon the
agent-provocateur. “I urge you to take precautions of
secrecy,” he added. “I urge you—for your own sake!”

“For my own sake!” cried the other. “What do you mean?”

Hartwig paused for a few seconds, and then, in a lower

voice, said:

“I mean this, Danilo Danilovitch. If a single word of what I

am about to say is overheard by anyone in this house you
will not go forth again alive. We have been threatened by
your comrades down below. But upon you yourself will fall
the punishment which is meted out by your comrades to all
traitors—death!” The man’s face changed in an instant. He
stood open-mouthed, staring aghast at Hartwig, haggard-
eyed and pale to the lips.
 Chapter Fourteen.
Such is the Law.

“Now,” Hartwig said, assuming a firm, determined attitude,

“I hope you entirely understand me. I am well aware of the
despicable double game you are playing, therefore if you
refuse me the information I seek I shall go downstairs and
tell them how you are employed by His Excellency General
Markoff.”

The traitor’s face was ashen grey. He was, I could see, in

wonder at the identity of his visitor. Of course he knew me,
but apparently my companion was quite unknown to him. It
was always one of Hartwig’s greatest precautions to remain
unknown to any except perhaps a dozen or so of the
detective police immediately under his direction. From the
Secret or Political Police he was always careful to hide his
identity, knowing well that by so doing he would gain a free
hand in his operations in the detection of serious crime. At
his own house, a neat, modest little bachelor abode just
outside Petersburg, in the Kulikovo quarter, he was known
as Herr Otto Schenk, a German teacher of languages, who,
possessing a small income, devoted his leisure to his garden
and his poultry. None, not even the agents of Secret Police
in the Kulikovo district, who reported upon him regularly
each month, even suspected that he was the renowned
head of the Sûreté.

Standing there presenting such a bucolic appearance, so

typically English, and yet speaking Russian perfectly, he
caused Danilovitch much curiosity and apprehension.

Suddenly he asked of the spy:

“You were at Brighton last night? With what motive? Tell
me.”

The man hesitated a moment and replied:

“I went there to visit a friend—a compatriot.”

“Yes. Quite true,” exclaimed the great police official, leaning

against the end of the narrow iron bedstead. “You went to
Brighton with an evil purpose. Shall I tell you why? Because
you were sent there by your employer General Markoff—
sent there as a paid assassin!”

The fellow started.

“What do you mean?” he gasped.

“Just this. That you followed a certain lady who

accompanied this gentleman here—followed and watched
them for two hours.” And then, fixing his big, expressive
eyes upon the man he was interrogating, he added: “You
followed them because your intention was to carry out the
plot conceived by your master—the plot to kill them both!”

“It’s a lie!” cried the traitor. “There is no plot.”

“Listen,” exclaimed Hartwig, in a low, firm voice. “It is your

intention to commit an outrage, and having done so, you
will denounce to the police certain persons living in this
house. Arrests will follow, if any return to Russia, the
General will be congratulated by the Emperor upon his
astuteness in laying hands so quickly upon the conspirators,
and half-a-dozen innocent persons will be sentenced to long
terms of imprisonment, if they dare ever go back to their
own country. You see,” he laughed, “that I am fully aware of
the remarkably ingenious programme in progress.”
The man’s face was pale as death. He saw that his secret
was out.

“And now,” Hartwig went on: “when I tell these people who
live below—your comrades and fellow-workers in the
revolutionary cause—what will they say—eh? Well, Danilo
Danilovitch, I shall, when I’ve finished with you, leave you
to their tender mercies. You remember, perhaps, the fate of
Boutakoff, the informer at Kieff, how he was attached to a
baulk of timber and placed upon a circular saw, how
Raspopoff died of slow starvation in the hands of those
whom he had betrayed at Moscow, and how Mirski, in
Odessa, was horribly tortured and killed by the three
brothers of the unfortunate girl he had given into the hands
of the police. No,” he laughed, “your friends show neither
leniency nor humanity towards those who betray them.”

“But you will not do this!” gasped the man, his eyes dilated
by fear, now that he had been brought to bay.

“I have explained my intention,” replied Hartwig slowly and

firmly.

“But you will not!” he cried. “I—I implore you to spare me!
You appear to know everything.”

“Yes,” was the reply. “I know how, by your perfidious

actions, dozens, nay hundreds, of innocent persons have
been sent into exile. To the revolutionists throughout the
whole of Russia there is one great leader known as ‘The
One’—the leader whose identity is unknown, but whose
word is law among a hundred thousand conspirators. You
are that man! Your mandates are obeyed to the letter, but
you keep your identity profoundly secret. These poor
misguided fools who follow you believe that the secrecy as
to the identity of their fearless leader whom they only know
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