Distant clocks chimed One! Three hours only!
Robert Cairn began to beat his fist into the palm of his left hand convulsively. Yet his father did not stir, but sat there, a black-shadowed wrinkle between his brows. …
“By God!”
The doctor sprang to his feet, and with feverish haste began to fumble amongst a bunch of keys.
“What is it, sir! What is it?”
The doctor unlocked the drawer of the big table, and drew out a thick manuscript written in small and exquisitely neat characters. He placed it under the lamp, and rapidly began to turn the pages.
“It is hope, Rob!” he said with quiet self-possession.
Robert Cairn came round the table, and leant over his father’s shoulder.
“Sir Michael Ferrara’s writing!”
“His unpublished book, Rob. We were to have completed it, together, but death claimed him, and in view of the contents, I—perhaps superstitiously—decided to suppress it. … Ah!”
He placed the point of his finger upon a carefully drawn sketch, designed to illustrate the text. It was evidently a careful copy from the Ancient Egyptian. It represented a row of priestesses, each having her hair plaited in a thick queue, standing before a priest armed with a pair of scissors. In the centre of the drawing was an altar, upon which stood vases of flowers; and upon the right ranked a row of mummies, corresponding in number with the priestesses upon the left.
“By God!” repeated Dr. Cairn, “we were both wrong, we were both wrong!”
“What do you mean, sir? for Heaven’s sake, what do you mean?”
“This drawing,” replied Dr. Cairn, “was copied from the wall of a certain tomb—now reclosed. Since we knew that the tomb was that of one of the greatest wizards who ever lived in Egypt, we knew also that the inscription had some magical significance. We knew that the flowers represented here, were a species of the extinct sacred Lotus. All our researches did not avail us to discover for what purpose or by what means these flowers were cultivated. Nor could we determine the meaning of the cutting off,”—he ran his fingers over the sketch—“of the priestesses’ hair by the high priest of the goddess—”
“What goddess, sir?”
“A goddess, Rob, of which Egyptology knows nothing!—a mystical religion the existence of which has been vaguely suspected by a living French savant … but this is no time—”
Dr. Cairn closed the manuscript, replaced it and relocked the drawer. He glanced at the clock.
“A quarter past one,” he said. “Come, Rob!”
Without hesitation, his son followed him from the house. The car was waiting, and shortly they were speeding through the deserted streets, back to the house where death in a strange guise was beckoning to Myra Duquesne. As the car started—
“Do you know,” asked Dr. Cairn, “if Saunderson has bought any orchids—quite recently, I mean?”
“Yes,” replied his son dully; “he bought a small parcel only a fortnight ago.”
“A fortnight!” cried Dr. Cairn excitedly—“you are sure of that? You mean that the purchase was made since Ferrara—”
“Ceased to visit the house? Yes. Why!—it must have been the very day after!”
Dr. Cairn clearly was labouring under tremendous excitement.
“Where did he buy these orchids?” he asked, evenly.
“From someone who came to the house—someone he had never dealt with before.”
The doctor, his hands resting upon his knees, was rapidly drumming with his fingers.
“And—did he cultivate them?”
“Two only proved successful. One is on the point of blooming—if it is not blooming already. He calls it the ‘Mystery.’ ”
At that, the doctor’s excitement overcame him. Suddenly leaning out of the window, he shouted to the chauffeur:
“Quicker! Quicker! Never mind risks. Keep on top speed!”
“What is it, sir?” cried his son. “Heavens! what is it?”
“Did you say that it might have bloomed, Rob?”
“Myra”—Robert Cairn swallowed noisily—“told me three days ago that it was expected to bloom before the end of the week.”
“What is it like?”
“A thing four feet high, with huge egg-shaped buds.”
“Merciful God grant that we are in time,” whispered Dr. Cairn. “I could believe once more in the justice of Heaven, if the great knowledge of Sir Michael Ferrara should prove to be the weapon to destroy the fiend whom we raised!—he and I—may we be forgiven!”
Robert Cairn’s excitement was dreadful.
“Can you tell me nothing?” he cried. “What do you hope? What do you fear?”
“Don’t ask me, Rob,” replied his father; “you will know within five minutes.”
The car indeed was leaping along the dark suburban roads at a speed little below that of an express train. Corners the chauffeur negotiated in racing fashion, so that at times two wheels thrashed the empty air; and once or twice the big car swung round as upon a pivot only to recover again in response to the skilled tactics of the driver.
They roared down the sloping narrow lane to the gate of Mr. Saunderson’s house with a noise like the coming of a great storm, and were nearly hurled from their seats when the brakes were applied, and the car brought to a standstill.
Dr. Cairn leapt out, pushed open the gate and ran up to the house, his son closely following. There was a light in the hall and Miss Saunderson who had expected them, and had heard their stormy approach, already held the door open. In the hall—
“Wait here one moment,” said Dr. Cairn.
Ignoring Saunderson, who had come out from the library, he ran upstairs. A minute later, his face very pale, he came running down again.
“She is worse?” began Saunderson, “but—”
“Give me the key of the orchid-house!” said Dr. Cairn tersely.
“Orchid-house!—”
“Don’t hesitate. Don’t waste a second. Give me the key.”
Saunderson’s expression showed that he thought Dr. Cairn to be mad, but nevertheless he plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a key-ring. Dr. Cairn snatched it in a flash.
“Which key?” he snapped.
“The Chubb, but—”
“Follow me, Rob!”
Down the hall he raced, his son beside him, and Mr. Saunderson following more slowly. Out
