“The ring,” interrupted Dr. Cairn—“she would recognise it again?”
“She says so.”
“Anything else?”
“Only that if some of your books are to be believed, sir, Trois Echelle, D’Ancre and others have gone to the stake for such things in a less enlightened age!”
“Less enlightened, boy!” Dr. Cairn turned his blazing eyes upon him. “More enlightened where the powers of hell were concerned!”
“Then you think—”
“Think! Have I spent half my life in such studies in vain? Did I labour with poor Michael Ferrara in Egypt and learn nothing? Just God! what an end to his labour! What a reward for mine!”
He buried his face in quivering hands.
“I cannot tell exactly what you mean by that, sir,” said Robert Cairn; “but it brings me to my question.”
Dr. Cairn did not speak, did not move.
“Who is Antony Ferrara?”
The doctor looked up at that; and it was a haggard face he raised from his hands.
“You have tried to ask me that before.”
“I ask now, sir, with better prospect of receiving an answer.”
“Yet I can give you none, Rob.”
“Why, sir? Are you bound to secrecy?”
“In a degree, yes. But the real reason is this—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!”
“I have said so.”
“Good God, sir, you amaze me! I have always felt certain that he was really no Ferrara, but an adopted son; yet it had never entered my mind that you were ignorant of his origin.”
“You have not studied the subjects which I have studied; nor do I wish that you should; therefore it is impossible, at any rate now, to pursue that matter further. But I may perhaps supplement your researches into the history of Trois Echelles and Concini Concini. I believe you told me that you were looking in my library for some work which you failed to find?”
“I was looking for M. Chabas’ translation of the Papyrus Harris.”
“What do you know of it?”
“I once saw a copy in Antony Ferrara’s rooms.”
Dr. Cairn started slightly.
“Indeed. It happens that my copy is here; I lent it quite recently to—Sir Michael. It is probably somewhere on the shelves.”
He turned on more lights and began to scan the rows of books. Presently—
“Here it is,” he said, and took down and opened the book on the table. “This passage may interest you.” He laid his finger upon it.
His son bent over the book and read the following:—
“Hai, the evil man, was a shepherd. He had said: ‘O, that I might have a book of spells that would give me resistless power!’ He obtained a book of the Formulas. … By the divine powers of these he enchanted men. He obtained a deep vault furnished with implements. He made waxen images of men, and love-charms. And then he perpetrated all the horrors that his heart conceived.”
“Flinders Petrie,” said Dr. Cairn, “mentions the Book of Thoth as another magical work conferring similar powers.”
“But surely, sir—after all, it’s the twentieth century—this is mere superstition!”
“I thought so—once!” replied Dr. Cairn. “But I have lived to know that Egyptian magic was a real and a potent force. A great part of it was no more than a kind of hypnotism, but there were other branches. Our most learned modern works are as children’s nursery rhymes beside such a writing as the Egyptian Ritual of the Dead! God forgive me! What have I done!”
“You cannot reproach yourself in any way, sir!”
“Can I not?” said Dr. Cairn hoarsely. “Ah, Rob, you don’t know!”
There came a rap on the door, and a local practitioner entered.
“This is a singular case, Dr. Cairn,” he began diffidently. “An autopsy—”
“Nonsense!” cried Dr. Cairn. “Sir Elwin Groves had foreseen it—so had I!”
“But there are distinct marks of pressure on either side of the windpipe—”
“Certainly. These marks are not uncommon in such cases. Sir Michael had resided in the East and had contracted a form of plague. Virtually he died from it. The thing is highly contagious, and it is almost impossible to rid the system of it. A girl died in one of the hospitals this week, having identical marks on the throat.” He turned to his son. “You saw her, Rob?”
Robert Cairn nodded, and finally the local man withdrew, highly mystified, but unable to contradict so celebrated a physician as Dr. Bruce Cairn.
The latter seated himself in an armchair, and rested his chin in the palm of his left hand. Robert Cairn paced restlessly about the library. Both were waiting, expectantly. At half-past two Felton brought in a tray of refreshments, but neither of the men attempted to avail themselves of the hospitality.
“Miss Duquesne?” asked the younger.
“She has just gone to sleep, sir.”
“Good,” muttered Dr. Cairn. “Blessed is youth.”
Silence fell again, upon the man’s departure, to be broken but rarely, despite the tumultuous thoughts of those two minds, until, at about a quarter to three, the faint sound of a throbbing motor brought Dr. Cairn sharply to his feet. He looked towards the window. Dawn was breaking. The car came roaring along the avenue and stopped outside the house.
Dr. Cairn and his son glanced at one another. A brief tumult and hurried exchange of words sounded in the hall; footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, then came silence. The two stood side by side in front of the empty hearth, a haggard pair, fitly set in that desolate room, with the yellowing rays of the lamps shrinking before the first spears of dawn.
Then, without warning, the door opened slowly and deliberately, and Antony Ferrara came in.
His face was expressionless, ivory; his red lips were firm, and he drooped his head. But the long black eyes glinted and gleamed as if they reflected the glow from a furnace. He wore a motor coat lined with leopard skin and he was pulling off his heavy gloves.
“It is good of you to have waited, Doctor,” he said in his huskily musical voice—“you too, Cairn.”
He advanced a few steps into the room. Cairn was conscious of
