J. Thorne - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920)

Flinging a small rubber blanket over the table, he lifted the vial gingerly. He placed the stopper back in it, carefully keeping it away from his face. Then he covered it with the rubber. He had become ashen colored. As though unable to speak, he motioned to Lannen to throw up the windows.

"Damn careless of me," he muttered a moment later.

He placed the bottle high up in a cabinet above him, then he locked the door of the chest. "Damn careless. It's an experiment of mine, Arthur. Dy'e feel alright?"

Lannen laughed uneasily. "I shouldn't care to remain in here long with that odor. It's heady, to say the least."

Willoughby poured some liquid from another bottle into a small glass and handed it to him; then he took a draught of it himself. "Drink this. It will overcome the effects of the other."

Suddenly he became tense. The glitter in his eyes became more pronounced.

He seemed to be listening to something. The warm salt air blowing through the window brought a hint of the distant sea — and something else.

"What is it?" Lannen gasped.

The quivering of Willoughby's wide nostrils, the sudden snapping of the glass's stem intrigued him.

"Listen!"

A long sort of growl — then a long drawn howl from a dog some place not far off was all Lannen heard. There was another howl, then silence. The color came back to the physician's face. He smiled apologetically.

Lannen stared at him in bewilderment.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"I–I thought I heard her come down the stairs. I was listening to hear if he met her!" The man's tongue seemed to be thick. He spoke with difficulty.

"Buck up, old man, buck up!" Lannen gave him a reassuring slap on the shoulder, but at the same time he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder out of the window toward the gardens beyond.

Again the long rumbling howl of the dog penetrated the night air. The older man suddenly lurched forward into a chair and began to sob in a broken hearted way. At that moment Lannen fancied he saw a face at the open window, but before he could ascertain whether it was his imagination or not, it had vanished; but to him it seemed he had seen a young pale face with smouldering dark eyes and close cropped hair.

"Whew!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong with me?"

The sudden clamor of a clock striking three startled him out of a sound sleep. At least he thought it was the striking of the hour which did it. But as he raised himself on one elbow in the darkness, the doubled beat of his heart, the damp chill of his flesh, told him it was something else which had awakened him. Stealthy footsteps outside his room; the cautious opening and closing of a door down the hall, the, rustle of garments as of someone moving in the corridor were registered with dark significance on his brain.

"Poor old Andrew," he muttered.

He sank back to his pillow. But he could not sleep; though his pulse became normal. He found himself striving to make out the objects in his room. One by one, out of the hazy grey of the blackness they became outlined and visible to his straining eyes. In an irritating fashion the drawn blind flapped forward and back with the wind which had arisen since nightfall. Unable at last to stand the sound of the flapping, he rose and went to the window to raise it.

The moon was high, unobscured by any clouds, and shone down with a dazzling white brilliance which made the grounds and surrounding territory almost as light as day. The long row of glass topped greenhouses gleamed as through covered with snow. Off in the distance, far behind the high stone wall which enclosed Dr. Willoughby's Long Island estate, shone the water, near at hand; the wind whistled in a sing-song manner through the trees.

From the darkening shelter of the stone wall emerged two figures.

The watching man knew instantly who they were; even before the moon outlined the slender figure of Willoughby's wife, and the broader silhouette of the gardener, Altering.

A feeling of nausea swept over him. He turned away from the window. Crossing to his bed he switched on a light just over it, determined to while away the time until daylight with a current magazine. But the face of the woman outside in the garden seemed to mock him from the printed page. Her dark, shadow-laden eyes seemed to plead with him between the lines of printing, as though she begged him not to judge her too harshly.

The magazine slipped from his hand. He closed his eyes and lay inert.

A moment later the cry of some one in mortal agony penetrated the night air. Then a woman shrieked in terror.

For a moment Lannen lay panic striken; then, springing out of bed, he snatched up a dressing gown and rushed into the hall.

He came face to face with Willoughby.

His host was pallid. Willoughby's hands trembled as he held a tattered silk gown about his emaciated figure. A moment later another door down the hall was thrown open, and the corpulent kimono-clad housekeeper burst into their presence.

"You heard it?" Willoughby cried in a harsh whisper, clutching Lannen's arm.

His eyes were glassy, the lids swollen as though from heavy sleep and being suddenly awakened. His chin shook.

"My Gawd! My Gawd!" wailed the woman, trying to pull the kimono about her ample bosom — "What was it, Doctor? Did you hear it?"

"A woman screamed," Lannen said grimly. "The cry came from some place near the greenhouses. Someone must be injured."

"I heard a man too," this from the butler who had joined them. Even partially clad he retained some of the dignity of his position.

"Oh, what d'ye 'spose has happened? Doctor dear, what d'ye think it is?" the housekeeper caught her master's arm, and clung desperately to him.

He did not seem conscious of her presence.

He was looking into the lighted corridor below, at his wife; as she stumbled blindly through the outer door into the illuminated passageway.

She was sobbing convulsively. She started to climb the stairs slowly, dragging herself upward with an effort. Her shimmery evening gown was torn and draggled about her, her face was grey, a death color; and her eyes terror stricken.

At the head of the stairs she collapsed in a heap. When Willoughby started to lift her, she gave a shuddering cry, and warded off his touch. Her husband gave a sucking breath. He looked at Lannen.

"Mrs. Willoughby!" cried the latter dropping on his knees beside her. Subconsciously he wondered what had become of the man who had been with her, if it were he who had given that cry of terrible torture. "Mrs. Willoughby, what is it? What has happened?"

For a moment her white lips quivered. "I–I — there's a dead man out there by the greenhouses, I — stumbled over him! I touched his cold face. I—!"

"A dead man!"

"Yes—!" she suddenly straightened and stared with a fixity into her husband's face.

A strange expression came over her own; then she allowed Lannen to assist her to rise, and in a quiet manner, though with obvious effort she requested the butler to bring her some wine.

"A dead man!"

"Come," said Lannen abruptly — his legal training coming to the foreground, — "She may be mistaken, the man may still be alive."

"He was cold," she answered.

The little procession filed out toward the greenhouses, a motley, weird looking crowd in bath robes, smoking jackets and kimonos. Louise Willoughby walked with Lannen and her husband. Her hand lightly rested on Lannen's all the way. He felt the nervous tremors that shook her as they neared the spot where she had discovered the dead man.

"There are lights in the greenhouse," Willoughby said abruptly. "I'll turn them on."