“Come to my house, tonight, about nine o’clock,” he said, handing me his card, “and I’ll tell you what you want to know!”
I must have looked dazed, for he laughed hilariously, as he climbed up again. I laughed too as I reached the street—the epitaph matter having completely left my mind for the time. I had never heard so much nonsense in my life. “Like hell,” I growled, as I started my car, “will I waste an evening with that fool!”
“This writing is authentic, Bobby.”
At nine o’clock, I was at Randolph’s door … When these words are read I shall be unable to answer any queries as to my motive in going there that night. And that will be fortunate; for I have no explanation further than to say (and this will unquestionably be regarded with distrust and disappointment) that I was propelled there against my wishes. I had no thought of going; went in response to some urge over which I had no control. … I was down town to dinner, that evening; returned home at eight; went immediately to bed—quite contrary to my custom, for I never retired before midnight—and began reading a book, unable to concentrate on a line of it. I could not keep my eyes off the clock. It ticked louder and louder and my heart beat faster and faster until the two of them seemed synchronized. At length, becoming so nervous I could no longer contain myself, I rose, dressed hastily, dashed out for my car, and drove to Randolph’s address without regard to boulevard stops or angry traffic officers. My mouth was dry, my heart thumping.
“How do you like it—far as we’ve gone?” he asked.
Nancy’s elbows rested heavily on the desk, her clenched fists digging deeply into her cheeks.
“Why, Bobby—isn’t this just awful?” she whispered. “It’s tragic!”
“You’ll think so—presently. It hasn’t begun to get awful yet!”
His eyes travelled back to his copy.
“You had not intended to come, had you?” inquired Randolph, taking my hat.
“No!” I replied, sourly.
“That’s what I feared,” he said, gently, “but I felt so sure you needed to have a talk with me that I—”
“That is what I want to know!” I demanded. “What did you do?”
He grinned slyly, rubbed his hands together softly, satisfiedly, and said, “Well—I earnestly wanted you here; and, as I told you, this morning, whatever I earnestly want—it comes! I wanted you here! You came!”
He motioned me to a seat—I was glad enough to accept it for my knees were wobbly—in a living-room furnished in exquisite taste. His daughter, whom he had gracefully presented, promptly excused herself, and left us alone. Offering me a cigar, he leisurely filled a long-stemmed churchwarden pipe for himself, and drew his chair closer. In his velvet jacket, at his ease, he was all artist; quite grizzled, wore a short Van Dyke beard; had a clear, clean, grey eye that came at you a bit shyly and tentatively, but left you no way of escape.
He lost no time in preliminary manoeuvres. Reaching to a small book-table, at his elbow, he took up a limp-leather Bible. I knew then that I was in for it. Impetuously, I resolved upon an immediate, if inglorious, exit. Savagely, I put up a protesting hand and said firmly, “Now—if it’s that, I don’t care to hear about it!”
“See?” shouted Nancy. “What did I tell you?”
To my surprise, he put the book back on the table, and calmly puffed at his pipe, thoughtfully, for a while; then replied, “Well—neither am I—except as it’s really an important history of a great religious system. Quite useful, I presume; but I’m not specially interested in it—except one page—” he blew a few smoke rings, his head tilted far back against his tall chair “—and I have cut that page out … I just wanted you to see this particular copy of the Bible. I was about to say—when you plunged in with your impatient remark—that this copy of the Bible lacks the secret formula for power. I keep that one page elsewhere!”
“What’s on it?” I inquired, annoyed at my own confession of interest.
“Oh—” he replied casually, “it’s just the rules for getting whatever you want, and doing whatever you wish to do, and being whatever you would like to be. But—you’re not interested in that; so we’ll talk about something else.”
“What is on that page?” I demanded—my voice sounding rather shrill.
“Do you really want to know?” he challenged, leaning forward and fixing me intently with his gaze.
“Yes!” I barked.
His next words came slowly, incisively, single-file.
“More-than-you-have-ever-wanted-to-know-anything-before?”
“Yes!” I admitted—and meant it.
“Say it!” he commanded.
I repeated it: “More-than-I-have-ever-wanted-to-know-anything-before!”
His manner changed instantly.
“Good! Now we can talk!”
He went down into an inside pocket and produced a morocco wallet. From the wallet, he extracted a folded page. I read it, and he carefully interpreted its meaning.
Nancy’s eyes were a study, when Bobby stopped reading to search her face.
“Are you prepared now for a complete knockout?” he inquired. “If so—I’ll give you the next paragraph.”
I did not leave Randolph’s house until four o’clock, and when I finally went out into the dark, considerably shaken, I was aware that my life would never be the same again. Whatever of success has come to me in my profession dates from that hour and can be explained in terms of the mysterious potentiality which Randolph communicated to me that night.
There was a long silence between them.
“That’s almost as far as I’ve gone,” said Bobby.
“Far enough—I should say!” Nancy’s deep sigh was ominous of dejection.
“Then let’s call it a day.” He rose, and glanced at his watch. “You and I can’t help knowing that this is something Doctor Hudson must have written when he was under very heavy pressure of work; half dead on his feet; seeing things; hearing voices. Perhaps we shouldn’t be reading it at all. Maybe it isn’t fair to his memory. How about giving it up—and forgetting we ever went this far into it?”
Nancy tapped the table, thoughtfully, with her fingertips.
“I wonder what was on
