With the beam I swiftly quartered the room, probing it into every corner and shadowed nook. The creature that had attacked Gird had utterly vanished. Susan Gird now gave a soft moan, like a dreamer of dreadful things. I flashed my light her way.
It flooded her face and she quivered under the impact of the glare, but did not open her eyes. Beyond her I saw Zoberg, doubled forward in his bonds. He was staring blackly at the form of Gird, his eyes protruding and his clenched teeth showing through his beard.
“Doctor Zoberg!” I shouted at him, and his face jerked nervously toward me. It was fairly crosshatched with tense lines, and as white as fresh pipe-clay. He tried to say something, but his voice would not command itself.
Dropping the torch upon the floor, I next dug keys from my pocket and with trembling haste unlocked the irons from Susan Gird’s wrist and ankle on my side. Then, stepping hurriedly to Zoberg, I made him sit up and freed him as speedily as possible. Finally I returned, found my torch again and stepped across to Gird.
My first glance at close quarters was enough; he was stone-dead, with his throat torn brutally out. His cheeks, too, were ripped in parallel gashes, as though by the grasp of claws or nails. Radiance suddenly glowed behind me, and Zoberg moved forward, holding up the carbide lamp.
“I found this beside your chair,” he told me unsteadily. “I found a match and lighted it.” He looked down at Gird, and his lips twitched, as though he would be hysterical.
“Steady, Doctor,” I cautioned him sharply, and took the lamp from him. “See what you can do for Gird.”
He stooped slowly, as though he had grown old. I stepped to one side, putting the lamp on the table. Zoberg spoke again:
“It is absolutely no use, Wills. We can do nothing. Gird has been killed.”
I had turned my attention to the girl. She still sagged in her chair, breathing deeply and rhythmically as if in untroubled slumber.
“Susan,” I called her. “Susan!”
She did not stir, and Doctor Zoberg came back to where I bent above her. “Susan,” he whispered penetratingly, “wake up, child.”
Her eyes unveiled themselves slowly, and looked up at us. “What—” she began drowsily.
“Prepare yourself,” I cautioned her quickly. “Something has happened to your father.”
She stared across at Gird’s body, and then she screamed, tremulously and long. Zoberg caught her in his arms, and she swayed and shuddered against their supporting circle. From her own wrists my irons still dangled, and they clanked as she wrung her hands in aimless distraction.
Going to the dead man once more, I unchained him from the chair and turned him upon his back. Susan’s black cloak lay upon one of the other chairs, and I picked it up and spread it above him. Then I went to each door in turn, and to the windows.
“The seals are unbroken,” I reported. “There isn’t a space through which even a mouse could slip in or out. Yet—”
“I did it!” wailed Susan suddenly. “Oh, my God, what dreadful thing came out of me to murder my father!”
I unfastened the parlor door and opened it. Almost at the same time a loud knock sounded from the front of the house.
Zoberg lifted his head, nodding to me across Susan’s trembling shoulder. His arms were still clasped around her, and I could not help but notice that they seemed thin and ineffectual now. When I had chained them, I had wondered at their steely cording. Had this awful calamity drained him of strength?
“Go,” he said hoarsely. “See who it is.”
I went. Opening the front door, I came face to face with a tall, angular silhouette in a slouch hat with snow on the brim.
“Who are you?” I jerked out, startled.
“O’Bryant,” boomed back an organ-deep bass. “What’s the fuss here?”
“Well—” I began, then hesitated.
“Stranger in town, ain’t you?” was the next question. “I saw you when you stopped at the Luther Inn. I’m O’Bryant—the constable.”
He strode across the doorsill, peered about him in the dark, and then slouched into the lighted dining-room. Following, I made him out as a stern, roughly dressed man of forty or so, with a lean face made strong by a salient chin and a simitar nose. His light blue eyes studied the still form of John Gird, and he stooped to draw away the cloak. Susan gave another agonized cry, and I heard Zoberg gasp as if deeply shocked. The constable, too, flinched and replaced the cloak more quickly than he had taken it up.
“Who done that?” he barked at me.
Again I found it hard to answer. Constable O’Bryant sniffed suspiciously at each of us in turn, took up the lamp and herded us into the parlor. There he made us take seats.
“I want to know everything about this business,” he said harshly. “You,” he flung at me, “you seem to be the closest to sensible. Give me the story, and don’t leave out a single bit of it.”
Thus commanded, I made shift to describe the séance and what had led up to it. I was as uneasy as most innocent people are when unexpectedly questioned by peace officers. O’Bryant interrupted twice with a guttural “Huh!” and once with a credulous whistle.
“And this killing happened in the dark?” he asked when I had finished. “Well, which of you dressed up like a devil and done it?”
Susan whimpered and bowed her head. Zoberg, outraged, sprang to his feet.
“It was a creature from another world,” he protested angrily. “None of us had a reason to kill Mr. Gird.”
O’Bryant emitted a sharp, equine laugh. “Don’t go to tell me any ghost stories, Doctor Zoberg. We folks have heard a lot about the hocus-pocus you’ve pulled off here from time to time. Looks like it might have been to cover up some kind of rough stuff.”
“How could it be?” demanded Zoberg. “Look here, Constable, these handcuffs.” He held out one pair
