The ashes on the hearth were still smoking, and the glass of the table-lamp was warm. They could not have been gone long. He set off along the corridor to the great hall.
Until now he had noticed nothing unusual in the atmosphere of the place, perhaps because he was full of disdain and self-confidence, but with each step he took towards the crypt he felt his courage draining away. This place was not as it should be. The loaded gun simile, which had occurred to him before, now came back with redoubled force. But this was no gun, he thought; it was a powder-mine, and the train was already lit — he could almost see the fatal spark creeping along the fuse.
He entered the great hall and made for the open trap. Then he stopped short, his heart hammering in his throat. He could have sworn that something had moved in the yawning hole. No, there was nothing. He took another step. Yes, there was! He blinked, and it was gone. Then, as he watched, it came again, a thin coil of yellow vapour drifting up out of the depths.
H’m, more devilry, he supposed, but nothing very substantial. He looked sharply round. Was that a mocking chuckle he had heard in the shadows? God! The very shadows were moving, creeping up behind him!
He told himself that he was being foolish, but he would have given worlds for a light, as with faltering steps he went on to the trap.
He did not turn his head again, but forced himself to descend into the thick darkness, yet the last memory he bore with him of the great hall of Kestrel was of a place full of mocking whispers and creeping shadows that crowded after him.
The descent down that long spiral was an experience that Hamilton did not care to think about afterwards. More than once he felt something cold and damp brush across his face — he hoped it was a cobweb, but he feared it was not. Once he despaired of ever reaching the bottom — there was that true nightmare quality about it — but after what seemed an eternity he came down into the crypt.
It was lit, ever so faintly, with a pale light which came from somewhere in the midst of the wilderness of pillars, and he made for the radiance like a benighted traveler lost in a forest.
The light was a vapour-lamp hissing away beside the open altar. Near by lay the misshapen body of Simon Vaughan. There was a scorched smell about his clothing, and looking closer Hamilton saw the burns upon his face.
Wondering vaguely what had happened, he looked round, and his eye fell upon something which drove all speculation upon the dead Satanist out of his mind: an electric torch lying on the altar steps. He seized it thankfully and switched on the powerful beam. With this in one hand and his gun in the other he felt more of a match for creeping shadows!
There was no sign of Gaunt, but the open altar told its own story, and Hamilton remembered Tony’s description of the great cave where the curse-monstrosity dwelt. Hoping he would be able to find his way through the labyrinth, he scrambled over the altar-side and went down the steps.
Then began a bitter struggle, for no sooner had he started along the tunnel than the same feeling he had encountered with Lorrimer in the crypt above swept over him. A crushing horror that turned his limbs to water and his heart to ice; a great despair, as an inward voice whispered continually: “It’s no use going on. You can’t stop him — nothing can. The game is lost.”
And out of the darkness ahead crept great coils of thick yellow vapour, seeming actually to impede Hamilton’s progress as they writhed serpent-like about his feet and crawled clammily over his face.
Almost vomiting with disgust and terror, he beat frantically at them with his arms and broke into a shambling run. Had he not done so he must have either sunk down helpless or turned and fled. It speaks volumes for the sheer grit of the man that he ever reached the division of the passage, but reach it he did, and recalling Tony’s description took the left-hand tunnel.
From that moment the attack lessened, and he went on unhindered, but with growing conviction in his mind that he was going to fail. He could sense the frightful power which awaited him, and he went to meet it with no hope of victory but simply because it was the only thing to do. He could not have turned back now and faced the crawling mist again, so on he went, with his pitifully inadequate weapons clutched tightly in his hands.
At the turn of the passage he stepped into a blaze of greenish light, and there, facing him on the narrow platform above the great cave, his arms folded, stood Nicholas Gaunt.
Hamilton stopped. The doctor smiled sardonically.
“Good morning, Mr. Hamilton,” he announced. “We meet again. I have watched your progress with interest. May I compliment you upon your courage? Few men could have passed my sentinels and kept their reason. Now that you are here you will have the opportunity of witnessing a most interesting experiment. Please step forward.”
The mocking voice was more than Hamilton could endure. Blind rage sweeping through him, he lifted his pistol and pressed the trigger.
But the hammer never fell. Instead, a violent shock ran through Hamilton’s arm and the weapon fell with a clatter to the rock.
“You are a very rash young man,” remarked Gaunt. “I doubt if the bullet would have harmed me, but I think it best not to take any risks just now. Come here, and let us have no more foolery.”
Like a man in a dream Hamilton felt his legs move automatically, carrying him to the spot at which the doctor’s long forefinger was pointing. He struggled frantically to stand still, to disobey, but he was helpless in the grip of that awful will.
A circle had been carefully drawn on the rocky platform with some white substance, and when he was inside this Hamilton came to a standstill. The doctor nodded approvingly.
“That’s better,” he said. “You will not move again.”
Instantly Hamilton felt as if he were encased in iron bands. He could not stir so much as a finger, though the sweat broke out all over him with the effort. Dumbly he watched the Satanist continue his interrupted preparations.
Round the edge of the circle he was placing seven bronze lamps. When he had them arranged to his satisfaction he lit them and then proceeded to ignite the charcoal in a brazier which stood in the middle. He took up his wand and laid it across the glowing coals. Finally he drew out his watch and consulted it.
“Eleven-fifty-five,” he said. “Time to being. I trust we shall have no more interruptions.”
II
The first thing that met the eyes of Tony and his two companions as they emerged cautiously into the crypt was the lifeless body of Simon Vaughan. A quick glance around satisfied them that there was no one else about, and they stood bewildered, looking down at the dead man.
In spite of the terrible burns they could see that his features were as calmly set as if he were asleep, and on his lips there was the faintest hint of a smile.
Valerie caught her breath. She felt the strangest impulse to weep over this man, who in his life had stood in her mind for all the filthy wickedness of the world. Surely that pale, serene face, purged by death of all its grossness, could not be that of the monstrous Satanist she had known and hated.
The rector knelt beside the body. He too was conscious of some great mystery here.
“How did he die, I wonder,” he mused. “Not John, surely.”
“No,” said Tony, “never. Look at his clothes, his face — all burnt. He looks like a poor wretch I once saw struck by lightning. And there is but one man on Kestrel who could command the lightning. He must have resisted Gaunt, as I hoped and prayed he would, and, so doing, was destroyed. Poor fellow, he cannot have been wholly bad.”
“He was a priest,” the rector reminded them, “and that very fact made his sins infinitely more grievous, but at the same time it may have made it easier for him to turn back. If he repented, even with his last conscious thought, who knows but that the Infinite Mercy may not enfold him yet? We shall never know the truth, but I think we may, in all charity, pray for his soul.”