“Nurturing an implacable hatred against all of the house of Dhoon, that spirit, disembodied, would frequently be drawn to the neighbourhood of Mirza’s descendants, both by hatred and by affinity. Two horrible desires of the Spirit Mirza would be gratified if a Dhoon could be made her victim—the desire for blood and the desire for vengeance! The fate of Lord Lashmore would be sealed if that spirit could secure incarnation!”
Dr. Cairn paused, glancing at his son, who was writing at furious speed. Then—
“A magician more mighty and more evil than Mirza ever was or could be,” he continued, “a master of the Black Art, expelled a woman’s spirit from its throne and temporarily installed in its place the blood-lustful spirit of Mirza!”
“My God, sir!” cried Robert Cairn, and threw down his pencil. “I begin to understand!”
“Lady Lashmore,” said Dr. Cairn, “since she was weak enough to consent to be present at a certain séance, has, from time to time, been possessed; she has been possessed by the spirit of a vampire! Obedient to the nameless cravings of that control, she has sought out Lord Lashmore, the last of the House of Dhoon. The horrible attack made, a mighty will which, throughout her temporary incarnation, has held her like a hound in leash, has dragged her from her prey, has forced her to remove, from the garments clothing her borrowed body, all traces of the deed, and has cast her out again to the pit of abomination where her headless trunk was thrown by the third Baron Lashmore!
“Lady Lashmore’s brain retains certain memories. They have been received at the moment when possession has taken place and at the moment when the control has been cast out again. They thus are memories of some secret cavern near Dhoon Castle, where that headless but deathless body lies, and memories of the poignant moment when the vampire has been dragged back, her ‘thirst unslaked,’ by the ruling Will.”
“Merciful God!” muttered Robert Cairn, “Merciful God, can such things be!”
“They can be—they are! Two ways have occurred to me of dealing with the matter,” continued Dr. Cairn quietly. “One is to find that cavern and to kill, in the occult sense, by means of a stake, the vampire who lies there; the other which, I confess, might only result in the permanent ‘possession’ of Lady Lashmore—is to get at the power which controls this disembodied spirit—kill Antony Ferrara!”
Robert Cairn went to the sideboard, and poured out brandy with a shaking hand.
“What’s his object?” he whispered.
Dr. Cairn shrugged his shoulders.
“Lady Lashmore would be the wealthiest widow in society,” he replied.
“He will know now,” continued the younger man unsteadily, “that you are up against him. Have you—”
“I have told Lord Lashmore to lock, at night, not only his outer door but also that of his dressing-room. For the rest—?” he dropped into an easy-chair—“I cannot face the facts, I—”
The telephone bell rang.
Dr. Cairn came to his feet as though he had been electrified; and as he raised the receiver to his ear, his son knew, by the expression on his face, from where the message came and something of its purport.
“Come with me,” was all that he said, when he had replaced the instrument on the table.
They went out together. It was already past midnight, but a cab was found at the corner of Half-Moon Street, and within the space of five minutes they were at Lord Lashmore’s house.
Excepting Chambers, Lord Lashmore’s valet, no servants were to be seen.
“They ran away, sir, out of the house,” explained the man, huskily, “when it happened.”
Dr. Cairn delayed for no further questions, but raced upstairs, his son close behind him. Together they burst into Lord Lashmore’s bedroom. But just within the door they both stopped, aghast.
Sitting bolt upright in bed was Lord Lashmore, his face a dingy grey and his open eyes, though filming over, yet faintly alight with a stark horror … dead. An electric torch was still gripped in his left hand.
Bending over someone who lay upon the carpet near the bedside they perceived Sir Elwin Groves. He looked up. Some little of his usual self-possession had fled.
“Ah, Cairn!” he jerked. “We’ve both come too late.”
The prostrate figure was that of Lady Lashmore, a loose kimono worn over her night-robe. She was white and still and the physician had been engaged in bathing a huge bruise upon her temple.
“She’ll be all right,” said Sir Elwin; “she has sustained a tremendous blow, as you see. But Lord Lashmore—”
Dr. Cairn stepped closer to the dead man.
“Heart,” he said. “He died of sheer horror.”
He turned to Chambers, who stood in the open doorway behind him.
“The dressing-room door is open,” he said. “I had advised Lord Lashmore to lock it.”
“Yes, sir; his lordship meant to, sir. But we found that the lock had been broken. It was to have been replaced tomorrow.”
Dr. Cairn turned to his son.
“You hear?” he said. “No doubt you have some idea respecting which of the visitors to this unhappy house took the trouble to break that lock? It was to have been replaced tomorrow; hence the tragedy of tonight.” He addressed Chambers again. “Why did the servants leave the house tonight?”
The man was shaking pitifully.
“It was the laughter, sir! the laughter! I can never forget it! I was sleeping in an adjoining room and I had the key of his lordship’s door in case of need. But when I heard his lordship cry out—quick and loud, sir—like a man that’s been stabbed—I jumped up to come to him. Then, as I was turning the doorknob—of my room, sir—someone, something, began to laugh! It was in here; it was in here, gentlemen! It wasn’t—her ladyship; it wasn’t like any woman. I can’t describe it; but it woke up every soul in the house.”
“When you came in?”
“I daren’t come in, sir! I ran downstairs and called up Sir Elwin Groves. Before he came, all the rest of the household huddled on their clothes and went away—”
“It was I who found him,” interrupted Sir Elwin—“as you see him
