“Quite so,” answered Dr. Cairn, watching his son closely, and, by his own collected manner, endeavouring to check the other’s growing excitement. “I am prepared at any personal risk to crush Antony Ferrara as I would crush a scorpion; but where is he?”
Robert Cairn groaned, dropping into the big red-leathern armchair, and burying his face in his hands.
“Our position is maddening,” continued the elder man. “We know that Antony Ferrara visits Mr. Saunderson’s house; we know that he is laughing at our vain attempts to trap him. Crowning comedy of all, Saunderson does not know the truth; he is not the type of man who could ever understand; in fact we dare not tell him—and we dare not tell Myra. The result is that those whom we would protect, unwittingly are working against us, and against themselves.”
“That perfume!” burst out Robert Cairn; “that hell’s incense which loads the atmosphere of Saunderson’s house! To think that we know what it means—that we know what it means!”
“Perhaps I know even better than you do, Rob. The occult uses of perfume are not understood nowadays; but you, from experience, know that certain perfumes have occult uses. At the Pyramid of Méydûm in Egypt, Antony Ferrara dared—and the just God did not strike him dead—to make a certain incense. It was often made in the remote past, and a portion of it, probably in a jar hermetically sealed, had come into his possession. I once detected its dreadful odour in his rooms in London. Had you asked me prior to that occasion if any of the hellish stuff had survived to the present day, I should most emphatically have said no; I should have been wrong. Ferrara had some. He used it all—and went to the Méydûm pyramid to renew his stock.”
Robert Cairn was listening intently.
“All this brings me back to a point which I have touched upon before, sir,” he said: “To my certain knowledge, the late Sir Michael and yourself have delved into the black mysteries of Egypt more deeply than any men of the present century. Yet Antony Ferrara, little more than a boy, has mastered secrets which you, after years of research, have failed to grasp. What does this mean, sir?”
Dr. Cairn, again locking his hands behind him, stared out of the window.
“He is not an ordinary mortal,” continued his son. “He is supernormal—and supernaturally wicked. You have admitted—indeed it was evident—that he is merely the adopted son of the late Sir Michael. Now that we have entered upon the final struggle—for I feel that this is so—I will ask you again: Who is Antony Ferrara?”
Dr. Cairn spun around upon the speaker; his grey eyes were very bright.
“There is one little obstacle,” he answered, “which has deterred me from telling you what you have asked so often. Although—and you have had dreadful opportunities to peer behind the veil—you will find it hard to believe, I hope very shortly to be able to answer that question, and to tell you who Antony Ferrara really is.”
Robert Cairn beat his fist upon the arm of the chair.
“I sometimes wonder,” he said, “that either of us has remained sane. Oh! what does it mean? What can we do? What can we do?”
“We must watch, Rob. To enlist the services of Saunderson, would be almost impossible; he lives in his orchid houses; they are his world. In matters of ordinary life I can trust him above most men, but in this—”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Could we suggest to him a reason—any reason but the real one—why he should refuse to receive Ferrara?”
“It might destroy our last chance.”
“But sir,” cried Robert wildly, “it amounts to this: we are using Myra as a lure!”
“In order to save her, Rob—simply in order to save her,” retorted Dr. Cairn sternly.
“How ill she looks,” groaned the other; “how pale and worn. There are great shadows under her eyes—oh! I cannot bear to think about her!”
“When was he last there?”
“Apparently some ten days ago. You may depend upon him to be aware of our return! He will not come there again, sir. But there are other ways in which he might reach her—does he not command a whole shadow army! And Mr. Saunderson is entirely unsuspicious—and Myra thinks of the fiend as a brother! Yet—she has never once spoken of him. I wonder. …”
Dr. Cairn sat deep in reflection. Suddenly he took out his watch.
“Go around now,” he said—“you will be in time for lunch—and remain there until I come. From today onward, although actually your health does not permit of the strain, we must watch, watch night and day.”
XXII
Myra
Myra Duquesne came under an arch of roses to the wooden seat where Robert Cairn awaited her. In her plain white linen frock, with the sun in her hair and her eyes looking unnaturally large, owing to the pallor of her beautiful face, she seemed to the man who rose to greet her an ethereal creature, but lightly linked to the flesh and blood world.
An impulse, which had possessed him often enough before, but which hitherto he had suppressed, suddenly possessed him anew, set his heart beating, and filled his veins with fire. As a soft blush spread over the girl’s pale cheeks, and, with a sort of timidity, she held out her hand, he leapt to his feet, threw his arms around her, and kissed her; kissed her eyes, her hair, her lips!
There was a moment of frightened hesitancy … and then she had resigned herself to this sort of savage tenderness which was better in its very brutality than any caress she had ever known, which thrilled her with a glorious joy such as, she realised now, she had dreamt of and lacked, and wanted; which was a harbourage to which she came, blushing, confused—but glad, conquered, and happy in the thrall of that exquisite slavery.
“Myra,” he whispered, “Myra! have I frightened you? Will you forgive me?—”
She nodded her head quickly and nestled upon his shoulder.
“I could wait
