“I’m afraid you won’t see them again,” I answered, “Templeton is dead. Brett is insane, and can’t live much longer. They are torturing him horribly. At least, I don’t know whether that is a fair word. He enjoys being tortured.”
Then I told them, in a confused way, with many interruptions and discursions. Frequently I saw the doubt in the eyes of one or other, and then they looked at me, and something in my appearance caused the doubt to die.
I rose, and looked in the pier-glass.
“Professor,” I said, with a moment’s bitterness, “I shouldn’t have asked for an overcoat only. I need a skullcap.”
But it was not only that I was so utterly hairless. My face was different—younger, and more virile, and there was a subtle change in the eyes, which I could not define. It was the face of a stranger.
I became conscious also of a bodily alertness and vigour, very different from the physical conditions of the earlier evening.
“It may grow,” he answered mildly. I don’t think he was hopeful. I know I wasn’t.
“I think you’ve made me a freak for this world. Perhaps I’d better go back,” I said, thoughtlessly.
“Would you go forward again?” The Professor’s voice was eager.
“I don’t know—” I began, doubtfully.
“Isn’t he the principal witness for the defence?” Bryant interpolated.
“I think,” said the Professor, “he might better be described as the sole witness for the prosecution. But I don’t think that we have any legal responsibility. They took the risk freely. Besides, they’re not dead yet.—Of course, we’re all sorry, but exploration is always hazardous. Really,” he said seriously, “we have postponed their deaths for a rather long period.”
Certainly, the legal position was somewhat complicated, but I felt that there must be a flaw in the argument somewhere. I couldn’t help the retort, “Just as you’ve prolonged the life of my hair for the same period.”
The Professor was not often disconcerted, but this silenced him for a moment. Then he said, “But you have come back, and they have not. Surely, even you can see the difference.”
“I would rather see my hair where it used to be.”
“Hair,” said the Professor, “has become a useless parasitic growth, which we are in process of discarding. You are only ahead of your time.”
“A bald head,” I replied, and felt the joke was out of place as I spoke it. The Professor ignored me, and Bryant reverted to the earlier discussion. “I don’t see how we can have any legal trouble, though it may be awkward to explain the disappearances of two guests in succession. Mrs. Brett will have something to say. But isn’t there a law that you can’t accuse anyone of murder unless you can exhibit a body?”
“I believe that is so,” said the Professor, with relief in his voice. “I suppose that is why they always dig up the garden.”
This roused young Danby. “They won’t dig up this one.—Not till the bulbs are over.”
“Oh, but they will,” I retorted. I felt that they deserved that much. Why hadn’t they gone themselves, instead of passing on the risk to others? “The police are most painstaking in these matters, especially when one of their own number is concerned. You mustn’t forget that Templeton was a retired inspector. Why not divert their minds to the cellar?—a few bricks out of place, and a little soil, and just a trace of quicklime. They’d never miss that. … They’ll dig for a week.”
I saw that the Professor thought my levity was ill-timed. There was nothing new in that. But Bryant gave a fresh turn to the discussion. “You say that Brett isn’t dead? Suppose he comes back while the investigation’s proceeding?”
We looked at one another in consternation. In the condition in which I had seen him last he would be an awkward fact to explain to the official mind. I imagined the sarcasm of the prosecuting counsel as I told my tale in the witness-box. Doubtless, the dock would follow. The Professor was the only one who was unmoved by the suggestion.
“He cannot return now. Were he doing so, he would have been back before tonight.”
“I have no doubt he is dead,” I added, “I think they had nearly finished him when I saw him.”
“Yes,” said the Professor, “he will die during the year.” He was the only one of us who was not confused in his tenses. He thought a moment, and then turned to me seriously. “I regret the capillary singularity of which you complain, but you will admit that you did not go without warning. I am about to ask you a further favour. I want you to write a careful narrative of your experiences, making it as accurate as is possible to your journalistic mind. For this narrative, if it be written promptly and clearly, I will give you £2,000. I shall publish it—as fiction, if necessary—and may recover the money.
“Afterwards, I hope that, in the interests of science, rather than for any prospective pecuniary advantage, you will consent to explore this strange world somewhat further. You have shown considerable adroitness in avoiding its dangers, and you will have a great advantage over a less experienced adventurer.”
He looked for my reply with a very real anxiety, and I answered slowly.
“I will write the book willingly, but as to going again—well, I wouldn’t do it alone. Perhaps, if Clara would come with me. …”
“Clara!” exclaimed the Professor.
“Yes,” I said, “she might. … I know her better than you do. … I’ll think it over.”
And so, here is the book. It isn’t all I saw or heard, and it leaves much unexplained. How can a year of such experiences be clearly told, or crowded into a single volume? But I have tried to be accurate.
As to adventuring once again—well, it depends on Clara. I’ll ask her now.
Colophon
The World Below
was published in by
S. Fowler Wright.
This ebook was
