“Byron’s blood?”
“Exactly. And Byron’s curse.”
I stopped in mid-stride and turned to face the judge. He smiled somewhat apologetically.
“I know, Connatt,” he said, “that modern men and women think such things impossible. They think it equally impossible that anyone of good education and normal mind should take occultism seriously. But I disprove the latter impossibility, at least—I hold degrees from three world-famous universities, and my behavior, at least, shows that I am neither morbid nor shallow.”
“Certainly not,” I assented, thinking of his hearty appetite, his record of achievement in many fields, his manifest kindness and sincerity.
“Then consent to hear my evidence out.” He resumed his walk, and I fell into step with him. “It’s only circumstantial evidence, I fear, and as such must not be entirely conclusive. Yet here it is:
“Byron was the ideal target for a curse, not only personally but racially. His forebears occupied themselves with revolution, dueling, sacrilege and lesser sins—they were the sort who attract and merit disaster. As for his immediate parents, it would be difficult to choose a more depraved father than Captain ‘Mad Jack’ Byron, or a more unnatural mother than Catherine Gordon of Gight. Brimstone was bred into the child’s very soul by those two. Follow his career, and what is there? Pride, violence, orgy, disgrace. Over his married life hangs a shocking cloud, an unmentionable accusation—rightly or not we cannot say. As for his associates, they withered at his touch. His children, lawful and natural, died untimely and unhappy. His friends found ruin or death. Even Doctor Polidori, plagiarist of the Ruthven story, committed suicide. Byron himself, when barely past his first youth, perished alone and far from home and friends. Today his bright fame is blurred and tarnished by a wealth of legend that can be called nothing less than diabolic.”
“Yet he wasn’t all unlucky,” I sought to remind my companion. “His beauty and brilliance, his success as a poet—”
“All part of the curse. When could he be thankful for a face that drew the love of Lady Caroline Lamb and precipitated one of London’s most fearful scandals? As for his poetry, did it not mark him for envy, spite and, eventually, a concerted attack? I daresay Byron would have been happier as a plain-faced mechanic or grocer.”
I felt inclined to agree, and said as much. “If a curse exists,” I added, “would it affect Varduk as a descendant of Byron?”
“I think that it would, and that his recent actions prove at once the existence of a curse and the truth of his claim to descent. A shadow lies on that man, Connatt.”
“The rest of the similarity holds,” I responded. “The charm and the genius. I have wondered why Miss Holgar agrees to this play. It is archaic, in some degree melodramatic, and her part is by no means dominant. Yet she seems delighted with the role and the production in general.”
“I have considered the same apparent lapse of her judgment,” said Pursuivant, “and came to the conclusion that you are about to suggest—that Varduk has gained some sort of influence over Miss Holgar.”
“Perhaps, then, you feel that such an influence would be dangerous to her and to others?”
“Exactly.”
“What to do, then?”
“Do nothing, gentlemen,” said someone directly behind us.
We both whirled in sudden surprise. It was Elmo Davidson.
IX
Davidson Gives a Warning
I scowled at Davidson in surprised protest at his intrusion. Judge Pursuivant did not scowl, but I saw him lift his walking-stick with his left hand, place his right upon the curved handle, and gave it a little twist and jerk, as though preparing to draw a cork from a bottle. Davidson grinned placatingly.
“Please, gentlemen! I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, or to do anything else sneaking. It was only that I went for a walk, too, saw the pair of you ahead, and hurried to catch up. I couldn’t help but hear the final words you were saying, and I couldn’t help but warn you.”
We relaxed, but Judge Pursuivant repeated “Warn?” in a tone deeply frigid.
“May I amplify? First of all, Varduk certainly does not intend to harm either of you. Second, he isn’t the sort of man to be crossed in anything.”
“I suppose not,” I rejoined, trying to be casual. “You must be pretty sure, Davidson, of his capabilities and character.”
He nodded. “We’ve been together since college.”
Pursuivant leaned on his stick and produced his well-seasoned briar pipe. “It’s comforting to hear you say that. I mean, that Mr. Varduk was once a college boy. I was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t thousands of years old.”
Davidson shook his head slowly. “See here, why don’t we sit down on the bank and talk? Maybe I’ll tell you a story.”
“Very good,” agreed Pursuivant, and sat down. I did likewise, and we both gazed expectantly at Davidson. He remained standing, with hands in pockets, until Pursuivant had kindled his pipe and I my cigarette. Then:
“I’m not trying to frighten you, and I won’t give away any real secrets about my employer. It’s just that you may understand better after you learn how I met him.
“It was more than ten years ago. Varduk came to Revere College as a freshman when I was a junior. He was much the same then as he is now—slender, quiet, self-contained, enigmatic. I got to know him better than anyone in school, and I can’t say truly that I know him, not even now.
“Revere, in case you never heard of the place, is a small school with a big reputation for grounding its students hock-deep in the classics.”
Pursuivant nodded and emitted a cloud of smoke. “I knew your Professor Dahlberg of Revere,” he interjected. “He’s one of the great minds of the age on Greek literature and history.”
Davidson continued: “The buildings at Revere are old and, you might say, swaddled in the ivy planted by a hundred graduating classes. The traditions are consistently
