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Owing to the special passes held by Norman, we got through everywhere in record time. In London, a large police car was waiting for us, with some plain-clothes men, one of whom handed a typewritten sheet of paper to my friend. He answered my inquiring glance.

often like that—flaring out all of a sudden like a madman. You wouldn’t imagine it, would you, with that quiet way of his? She says she thinks it’s his old wound.”




He put up his hand to his head which was burning and throbbing with fever, and tried to control his wandering senses. He wanted to speak and tell Trixie not to be frightened. He was vaguely aware that she feared his reproaches, his anger; on her arrival her face and her voice had betrayed it, and she had trembled, poor child, as he helped her out of the dog-cart. He wanted to ask her easily, gently, where she had been, what had happened, with natural intonation, to make her believe that whatever she told him, of course he should quite understand. Instead he knew he was saying something entirely different, and he found himself powerless to prevent it. Trixie looked dim, indistinct, and her voice sounded far away, at the other end of the compound.


Aboard the grotesque mount again, he groaned. To mask the misery of his unaccustomed pounding he paid scientific attention to the landscape, the gait of the camelopards, the leather of the saddles, and the posture and person of Takeko—this last by far the most effective of his analgesic thoughts.


did the work of digging, but the mere drudgery of carrying the earth from the bottom of the excavation to the surface was performed by these boys. It was not simply the fact that mere children were engaged in this heavy work which impressed me. It was the slow, dragging steps, the fixed and unalterable expression of weariness that showed in every line of their bodies. Later I learned to recognize this as the habitual manner and expression of the carusi, which is the name that the Italians give to those boys who are employed in the sulphur mines to carry the crude ore up from the mines where it is dug and to load it into the cars by which it is conveyed to the surface.

"Very well," she said, and gave him her hand.



Hatcher's people were creatures of thought. Man was the wielder of physical forces—"paranormal" to Hatcher, as teleportation and mind-seeing were "paranormal" to McCray. The Old Ones had mastered both.

which Colonel Baskerville never wore for five consecutive minutes in his life. Then there were portraits of George and Marmaduke, both handsome lads, both as alike as two peas, and, besides, a portrait of little Amy. She was about sixteen when it was painted. It was so sweet, so sad! There was not a trace of weakness in the half-womanish, half-childish mouth and chin. In the delicate, well-poised head one could see more will power, more intellect, than in the portly colonel and both of the handsome, frank-faced boys put together. This was not Amy's only picture. There was an old daguerreotype on the drawing-room table which revealed her in a white dress, and half a dozen faded photographs of her in her riding-habit, in fancy dress, in numerous other costumes and attitudes, sometimes with one, sometimes with another, of her brothers; and a whole bookful of sketches, scribbled all over, "The Book of Amy. Life and Adventures of Amy Baskerville. By G. B., Esq.," in which G. B., who had considerable skill, pictured Amy in numberless grotesque and humiliating circumstances, and once or twice as she must truly have been, graceful and picturesque.




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