“The body of some animal?”
“Probably the head.”
“But still you saw nothing?”
“I must confess that I had a vague idea of some shape flitting away across the room; a white shape—therefore probably a figment of my imagination.”
“Your cry awakened Lady Lashmore?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Her nerves were badly shaken already, and this second shock proved too severe. Sir Elwin fears chest trouble. I am taking her abroad as soon as possible.”
“She was found insensible. Where?”
“At the door of the dressing-room—the door communicating with her own room, not that communicating with mine. She had evidently started to come to my assistance when faintness overcame her.”
“What is her own account?”
“That is her own account.”
“Who discovered her?”
“I did.”
Dr. Cairn was drumming his fingers on the table.
“You have a theory, Lord Lashmore,” he said suddenly. “Let me hear it.”
Lord Lashmore started, and glared across at the speaker with a sort of haughty surprise.
“I have a theory?”
“I think so. Am I wrong?”
Lashmore stood on the rug before the fireplace, with his hands locked behind him and his head lowered, looking out under his tufted eyebrows at Dr. Cairn. Thus seen, Lord Lashmore’s strange eyes had a sinister appearance.
“If I had had a theory—” he began.
“You would have come to me to seek confirmation?” suggested Dr. Cairn.
“Ah! yes, you may be right. Sir Elwin Groves, to whom I hinted something, mentioned your name. I am not quite clear upon one point, Dr. Cairn. Did he send me to you because he thought—in a word, are you a mental specialist?”
“I am not. Sir Elwin has no doubts respecting your brain, Lord Lashmore. He has sent you here because I have made some study of what I may term psychical ailments. There is a chapter in your family history”—he fixed his searching gaze upon the other’s face—“which latterly has been occupying your mind?”
At that, Lashmore started in good earnest.
“To what do you refer?”
“Lord Lashmore, you have come to me for advice. A rare ailment—happily very rare in England—has assailed you. Circumstances have been in your favour thus far, but a recurrence is to be anticipated at any time. Be good enough to look upon me as a specialist, and give me all your confidence.”
Lashmore cleared his throat.
“What do you wish to know, Dr. Cairn?” he asked, with a queer intermingling of respect and hauteur in his tones.
“I wish to know about Mirza, wife of the third Baron Lashmore.”
Lord Lashmore took a stride forward. His large hands clenched, and his eyes were blazing.
“What do you know about her?”
Surprise was in his voice, and anger.
“I have seen her portrait in Dhoon Castle; you were not in residence at the time. Mirza, Lady Lashmore, was evidently a very beautiful woman. What was the date of the marriage?”
“1615.”
“The third Baron brought her to England from?—”
“Poland.”
“She was a Pole?”
“A Polish Jewess.”
“There was no issue of the marriage, but the Baron outlived her and married again?”
Lord Lashmore shifted his feet nervously, and gnawed his fingernails.
“There was issue of the marriage,” he snapped. “She was—my ancestress.”
“Ah!” Dr. Cairn’s grey eyes lighted up momentarily. “We get to the facts! Why was this birth kept secret?”
“Dhoon Castle has kept many secrets!” It was a grim noble of the Middle Ages who was speaking. “For a Lashmore, there was no difficulty in suppressing the facts, arranging a hasty second marriage and representing the boy as the child of the later union. Had the second marriage proved fruitful, this had been unnecessary; but an heir to Dhoon was—essential.”
“I see. Had the second marriage proved fruitful, the child of Mirza would have been—what shall we say?—smothered?”
“Damn it! What do you mean?”
“He was the rightful heir.”
“Dr. Cairn,” said Lashmore slowly, “you are probing an open wound. The fourth Baron Lashmore represents what the world calls ‘The Curse of the House of Dhoon.’ At Dhoon Castle there is a secret chamber, which has engaged the pens of many so-called occultists, but which no man, save every heir, has entered for generations. It’s very location is a secret. Measurements do not avail to find it. You would appear to know much of my family’s black secret; perhaps you know where that room lies at Dhoon?”
“Certainly, I do,” replied Dr. Cairn calmly; “it is under the moat, some thirty yards west of the former drawbridge.”
Lord Lashmore changed colour. When he spoke again his voice had lost its timbre.
“Perhaps you know—what it contains.”
“I do. It contains Paul, fourth Baron Lashmore, son of Mirza, the Polish Jewess!”
Lord Lashmore reseated himself in the big armchair, staring at the speaker, aghast.
“I thought no other in the world knew that!” he said, hollowly. “Your studies have been extensive indeed. For three years—three whole years from the night of my twenty-first birthday—the horror hung over me, Dr. Cairn. It ultimately brought my grandfather to the madhouse, but my father was of sterner stuff, and so, it seems, was I. After those three years of horror I threw off the memories of Paul Dhoon, the third baron—”
“It was on the night of your twenty-first birthday that you were admitted to the subterranean room?”
“You know so much, Dr. Cairn, that you may as well know all.” Lashmore’s face was twitching. “But you are about to hear what no man has ever heard from the lips of one of my family before.”
He stood up again, restlessly.
“Nearly thirty-five years have elapsed,” he resumed, “since that December night; but my very soul trembles now, when I recall it! There was a big house-party at Dhoon, but I had been prepared, for some weeks, by my father, for the ordeal that awaited me. Our family mystery is historical, and there were many fearful glances bestowed upon me, when, at midnight, my father took me aside from the company and led me to the old library. By God! Dr. Cairn—fearful as these reminiscences are, it is a relief to relate them—to someone!”
A sort of suppressed excitement was upon Lashmore, but his voice remained low and hollow.
“He asked me,” he continued, “the traditional question: if I had prayed for
