'Heaven help us if we don't!' moaned Howard.
He had thrown off his slicker, and his seeping wet shirt clung tragically to his lean body. He moved through the blackness with long, furious strides. Far ahead we heard the shrieks of Henry Wells. Ceaselessly the foghorns moaned; ceaselessly the fog swirled and eddied about us.
And the droning continued. It seemed incredible that we should ever have found a way to the farm in the blackness. But find the farm we did, and into it we stumbled with glad cries.
'Shut the door!' shouted Howard.
I shut the door.
'We are safe here, I think,' he said. 'They haven't reached the farm yet.'
'What has happened to Wells?' I gasped, and then I saw the wet tracks leading into the kitchen. Howard saw them too. His eyes flashed with momentary relief.
'I'm glad he's safe,' he muttered. 'I feared for him.'
Then his face darkened. The kitchen was unlighted and no sound came from it.
Without a word Howard walked across the room and into the darkness beyond. I sank into a chair, flicked the moisture from my eyes, and brushed back my hair, which had fallen in soggy strands across my face. For a moment I sat, breathing heavily, and when the door creaked, I shivered. But I remembered Howard's assurance: 'They haven't reached the farm yet. We're safe here.'
Somehow, I had confidence in Howard. He realized that we were threatened by a new and unknown horror, and in some occult way he had grasped its limitations.
I confess, though, that when I heard the screams that came from the kitchen, my faith in my friend was slightly shaken. There were low growls, such as I could not believe came from any human throat, and the voice of Howard raised in wild expostulation. 'Let go, I say! Are you quite, mad? Man, man, we have saved you! Don't, I say — let go of my leg. Ah-h-h!'
As Howard staggered into the room I sprang forward and caught him in my arms. He was covered with blood from head to foot, and his face was ashen.
'He's gone raving mad,' he moaned. 'He was running about on his hands and knees like a dog. He sprang at me, and almost killed me. I fought him off, but I'm badly bitten. I hit him in the face — knocked him unconscious. I may have killed him. He's an animal — I had to protect myself.'
I laid Howard on the sofa and knelt beside him, but he scorned my aid.
'Don't bother with me!' he commanded. 'Get a rope, quickly, and tie him up. If he comes to, we'll have to fight for our lives.'
What followed was a nightmare. I remember vaguely that I went into the kitchen with a rope and tied poor Wells to a chair; then I bathed and dressed Howard's wounds, and lit a fire in the grate. I remember also that I telephoned for a doctor. But the incidents are confused in my memory, and I have no clear recollection of anything until the arrival of a tall, grave man with kindly and sympathetic eyes and a presence that was as soothing as an opiate.
He examined Howard, nodded, and explained that the wounds were not serious. He examined Wells, and did not nod. He explained slowly, 'His pupils don't respond to light,' he said. 'An immediate operation will be necessary. I tell you frankly, I don't think we can save him.'
'That wound in his head, Doctor,' I said. 'Was it made by a bullet?'
The doctor frowned. 'It puzzles me,' he said. 'Of course it was made by a bullet, but it should have partially closed up. It goes right into the brain. You say you know nothing about it. I believe you, but I think the authorities should be notified at once. Someone will be wanted for manslaughter, unless' — he paused—'unless the wound was self-inflicted. What you tell me is curious. That he should have been able to walk about for hours seems incredible. The wound has obviously been dressed, too. There is no clotted blood at all.'
He paced slowly back and forth. 'We must operate here — at once. There is a slight chance. Luckily, I brought some instruments. We must clear this table and — do you think you could hold a lamp for me?'
I nodded. 'I'll try,' I said.
'Good!'
The doctor busied himself with preparations while I debated whether or not I should phone for the police.
'I'm convinced,' I said at last, 'that the wound was self-inflicted. Wells acted very strangely. If you are willing, Doctor…'
'Yes?'
'We will remain silent about this matter until after the operation. If Wells lives, there would be no need of involving the poor chap in a police investigation.'
The doctor nodded. 'Very well,' he said. 'We will operate first and decide afterward.'
Howard was laughing silently from his couch. 'The police,' he snickered. 'Of what use would they be against the things in Mulligan Wood?'
There was an ironic and ominous quality about his mirth that disturbed me. The horrors that we had known in the fog seemed absurd and impossible in the cool, scientific presence of Dr. Smith, and I didn't want to be reminded of them.
The doctor turned from his instruments and whispered into my ear. 'Your friend has a slight fever, and apparently it has made him delirious. If you will bring me a glass of water I will mix him a sedative.'
I raced to secure a glass, and in a moment we had Howard sleeping soundly.
'Now then,' said the doctor as he handed me the lamp. 'You must hold this steady and move it about as I direct.'
The white, unconscious form of Henry Wells lay upon the table that the doctor and I had cleared, and I trembled all over when I thought of what lay before me: I should be obliged to stand and gaze into the living brain of my poor friend as the doctor relentlessly laid it bare.
With swift, experienced fingers the doctor administered an anesthetic. I was oppressed by a dreadful feeling that we were committing a crime, that Henry Wells would have violently disapproved, that he would have preferred to die. It is a dreadful thing to mutilate a man's brain. And yet I knew that the doctor's conduct was above reproach, and that the ethics of his profession demanded that he operate.
'We are ready,' said Dr. Smith. 'Lower the lamp. Carefully now!'
I saw the knife moving in his competent, swift fingers. For a moment I stared, and then I turned my head away. What I had seen in that brief glance made me sick and faint. It may have been fancy, but as I stared at the wall I had the impression that the doctor was on the verge of collapse. He made no sound, but I was almost certain that he had made some horrible discovery.
'Lower the lamp,' he said. His voice was hoarse and seemed to come from far down within his throat.
I lowered the lamp an inch without turning my head. I waited for him to reproach me, to swear at me perhaps, but he was as silent as the man on the table. I knew, though, that his fingers were still at work, for I could hear them as they moved about. I could hear his swift, agile fingers moving about the head of Henry Wells.
I suddenly became conscious that my hand was trembling. I wanted to lay down the lamp; I felt that I could no longer hold it.
'Are you nearly through?' I gasped in desperation.
'Hold that lamp steady!' The doctor screamed the command. 'If you move that lamp again — I–I won't sew him up. I don't care if they hang me! I'm not a healer of devils!'
I knew not what to do. I could scarcely hold the lamp, and the doctor's threat horrified me.
'Do everything you can,' I urged, hysterically. 'Give him a chance to fight his way back. He was kind and good — once!'
For a moment there was silence, and I feared that he would not heed me. I momentarily expected him to throw down his scalpel and sponge, and dash across the room and out into the fog. It was not until I heard his fingers moving about again that I knew he had decided to give even the damned a chance.
It was after midnight when the doctor told me that I could lay down the lamp. I turned with a cry of relief and encountered a face that I shall never forget. In three-quarters of an hour the doctor had aged ten years. There were dark hollows beneath his eyes, and his mouth twitched convulsively.
'He'll not live,' he said. 'He'll be dead in an hour. I did not touch his brain. I could do nothing. When I saw —
