Title: Out Of The Silence
Author: Erle Cox
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0604821.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006

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Out Of The Silence
Erle Cox




PROLOGUE.

There was a man seated at a table in what appeared to be a vast
physical laboratory. On the table, which was littered with instruments
and apparatus, stood a large glass tank in which a fish could be seen
swimming. The silence was broken only by occasional movements of the
man utterly absorbed in the work he was doing.

Of the many striking features of the room, the man himself was the
most remarkable. Even seated, his unusual height was apparent. It was
the face however that marked him as one apart. His hair was sparse,
and beneath the high wide forehead were set cold grey penetrating eyes
from which human emotion seemed absent. Beneath the thin straight nose
was a mouth that formed a straight lipless line. Every feature down to
the strong chin was clear cut and regular. It was a face that inspired
a feeling of awe. Even in repose he seemed to radiate power.

Behind him, the further wall of the room was formed of one great
window, set in a wall so thick that its low sill formed a seat.
Through it could be seen a broad valley through which a river flowed.
Beyond in the distant background stood a vast structure in the shape
of a sphere, set on a cubical base.

Intent on his work, with his long slender fingers moving with delicate
precision among the instruments before him, the man seemed oblivious
to the entrance of a woman, who paused with an expression of surprise
on her face when she saw him. For a moment she seemed about to speak,
but with a faint smile and shrug of her shoulders she crossed the room
and took her place at another table.

Any other but the man with the fish might well have been aroused by
the presence of the newcomer. She was as exquisitely lovely and
feminine as he was forbidding and masculine. Her long simple gown,
caught at the waist by a pliant metal band made her appear taller than
she was. As she crossed the room the grace of her movement seemed
floating rather than walking. She was a figure of radiant youth and
glorious beauty that could hold mankind spellbound.

For a few moments after she seated herself she looked speculatively at
the man with the fish, then turning to her work, her hands moved among
some mechanism before her. As she did so a large dark disc standing in
front of the table glowed with a yellow light across which strange
characters in rows began to move. Occasionally with a touch of her
hand, she halted them to make a note, but for an hour she sat, with
her eyes intent on the disc--until suddenly the silence was broken by
the clear note of a bell. In response to a swift movement of her hand,
the colour of the disc changed from yellow to blue, and was again
covered with moving characters. Eagerly she watched until, on the
second sound of the bell, she shut off the light.

Leaning back in her chair, a slow smile of amusement crossed her face
as she looked over at the other table.

"How long will it take you to discover the utmost capabilities of that
fish's brain, Andax?" she asked.

If the man heard, he gave no sign. The smile broke into a light laugh,
and the woman turned slightly to a large screen beside her, beneath
which, on its frame were several rows of light bulbs. Then she pulled
over a small switch on the table.

Then her clear voice rang through the room with a note of command.

"General Call! By order of the High Council."

As she spoke the bulbs along the frame began to glow until all
responded but one. She watched the dull bulb impatiently and repeated
more emphatically.

"General Call! By order of the High Council." As she spoke the last
bulb responded.

As it did so her voice rang out again, "General Call, Earani, director
of the central geophysical station reports on behalf of the Council.
Polar observation stations announce steady and progressive deflection
from terrestrial stability. Last observation, 2.33 a.m., shows variation
of 2,000 feet. Vast fissures are growing over both polar ice caps.
Estimated duration of life on the planet, 43 days. First audible
indications of disruption detected at general Station No. 7 at
midnight last night. Council orders that until further instructions
all work on the planet will go forward as usual. No exceptions will be
granted."

"High Council Order No. 2. Volunteers are called to fill mortality
wastage at polar stations at the probable rate of 100 per day.
Volunteers will report at station No. 16 with full polar equipment.
Order and report closes."

As the lights on the frame faded the woman pulled over another switch
and spoke sharply--"Special call Station 11." As she spoke the screen
glowed and on it appeared the figure of a young man.

"Name?" she demanded.

"Bardon," came the answer.

"Bardon the poet?"

"Yes."

"Explain 30 seconds' delay in answering a general call."

"I was writing a poem."

"You know the regulations, you are in charge of a station. You know
the penalty?"

"Yes!"

"Report to your district executive committee at midday tomorrow. They
will deal with you. I will send a relief."

She switched off the light as she spoke and the figure vanished.

From across the room came a cold ironical voice--"Flat dereliction of
duty, Earani. You should have turned the ray on him."

Earant laughed lightly. "If anyone deserves the ray it is the man or
woman who put a poet in charge of a general call station. Besides,
since we will all be dead in 43 days I see no object in official
executions."

"Still," Andax persisted, "the council's order said all work must go
forward as usual."

There was a touch of hauteur in her voice as she replied. "I exercise
my official right of discretion. Anyone but one of your breed would
know that one of Bardon's poems is worth the 43 days of life left to
the planet."

There was a contemptuous "Humph!" from the fish table.

Earani laughed and imitated the "Humph!" perfectly. "If it comes to
dereliction of duty, Andax, how is it that I find you in my department
and not in your own?"

"Those audible indications of disruption. Your department is
insulated--mine is not."

Earani left her table and walked quietly to the window where she sat
looking over the landscape. "If I used my authority of the ray, does
it occur to you, that you too, have made yourself liable to its
application?"

"As always, you are right," Andax answered without looking around.
"Don't allow my feelings to violate your strict sense of duty."

"Get back to your fish, Andax," she retorted. "You and it make a fine
cold blooded pair."

The grating voice came back. "I hold a theory that all of the ills
that have beset humanity arise from a feminine influence that
distracted the Creator when He was making the Universe."

"Judging by what women have suffered from men ever since, I should not
be surprised if you were right."

"My fish has one charm, at any rate, that is denied your suffering
sex."

"Flatterer!" she laughed, "Don't be shy and spoil the compliment by
leaving it incomplete."

"The fish, dear lady, has the virtue of being inarticulate."

Earant looked at the bent figure and said slowly and with conviction.
"Somewhere in the world, my dear Andax, there must be a woman who does
not realise the happiness she enjoys through your being a bachelor.
You can see our world end with the comforting thought that you have
made at least one woman happy."

"Stars in heaven! How can a man work?" He stood up and walked over to
her. Earani gazed out over the landscape disregarding his approach.

Andax towered over her. "Listen Earani," he spoke abruptly and
emphatically. "There are 43 days left. More than time for the
operation and recovery."

Without turning her head, Earani uttered a decisive "No."

As she spoke Marnia entered the laboratory, without speaking to the
others she seated herself at Earani's table and read through the notes
that Earani had made.

Andax took up the tale. "But the whole thing is so simple. It could be
done tonight."

She turned and looked up at him defiantly. "When you first asked me
two years ago to allow you to graft one lobe of your precious
brother's brain onto mine, I refused, I have refused twenty times
since. Do you imagine with but 43 days left I would submit to such an
infliction. I don't wish to end life with a mind like yours or your
brother's."

"You women!" he sniffed impatiently, "can't you see that what before
was merely an experiment is now an imperative necessity."

"I can see no imperative necessity to gratify your wish to convert me
into a feminine semi-Andax," she said derisively.

"Can't you realise that you will be chosen to occupy the third
sphere?" he demanded.

"I?" Earani stood abruptly, facing him with amazement.

"Yes! You!" he retorted impatiently. "Since one of the three must be a
woman, the Council is left with no option."

"But," she exclaimed. "The selectors recommended Marnia to the High
Council."

Andax shrugged his shoulders. "True! but the fool is in love. Do you
imagine the council will allow one of the three to carry a sentimental
complication into the new world?"

"But Marnia--" began Earani.

Marnia rose from the table, and walking towards them interrupted--
"What about Marnia?"

Earani took her hand--"Andax says that you are not to be one of the
three."

The girl smiled and said gently. "He is right, Earani. I could not bear
to stay behind and leave Davos. I petitioned the Council. It is not
officially announced, but I know they have agreed. Do you mind very
much?"

"But I have heard nothing," protested Earani.

"I have only just heard myself," explained Marnia. "I came to warn
you, but Andax has forestalled me. How he knew, I don't know. The
decision was made less than an hour ago."

There was a thin smile on Andax's lips as he said, "I knew nothing
officially. But the fact was obvious."

"Pure Andaxian speculative philosophy," laughed Marnia.

"Well," sneered Andax, "seeing that you and Davos have done everything
but announce your insensate infatuation by a general call, the
deduction did not impose a great strain on my pure Andaxian
speculative philosophy."

"But why me?" asked Earani helplessly.

"Because," Andax threw his arms wide, "the Creator and the Council in
its wisdom only know why, they have insisted on choosing a woman to be
one of the three."

"To clip your wings in the bright new world if there ever be one,"
taunted Marnia.

"But there are others!" exclaimed Earani. "There must be others!"

There was a scarcely veiled sneer in the voice of Andax. "A becoming
modesty Earani. However, since you have done biology, geophysics, law,
engineering and domestic science, you will do as well as another.
Besides the selectors placed your name second on the list--drew them
by lot I suppose."

Marnia put her arm fondly round Earani's waist. "What a delightful
companion he will be for you in the new world," she laughed merrily.

"You poor, gland-ridden automaton," his thin smile took the sting from
the words. Then he turned abruptly to Earani. "Well what about the
operation now?"

"Now less than ever," she answered in a tone that closed the
discussion. As she spoke she resumed her seat on the window ledge.

There was blistering contempt in Andax's voice. "A woman and a fool, a
useful fool I admit, but never anything else than a woman."

He turned and walked towards her table, as he did so Davos entered.

Marnia uttered a joyful "Davos!" and ran to meet him. "You have heard?
I am reprieved."

"Yes, I know, I know." Davos put his arm across her shoulder. "We go
together." Then turning to Andax he went on. "I would not settle down
to work, Andax, you and your fish will be parted almost immediately."

Earani who had been watching them from the window, broke in. "What
dreadful partings this calamity will cause. You had better kiss it,
Andax."

Disregarding the taunt, Andax turned to Davos. "You mean?"

Davos nodded his head. "The High Council is in session. You and Earani
are bound to be summoned almost at once. Your partner in the spheres,
Mardon, has already been notified. His speed ship is due almost at any
moment."

Davos, his arm still about Marnia's shoulders, walked with her towards
Earani's table where they stood whispering together; Earani turned
away gazing through the window at the distant sphere. Andax looked
from one to the other with an expression between boredom and
amusement.

Then with a gesture of impatience he barked at Davos. "Perhaps, Davos,
you can spare me a moment from the contemplation of the delights of an
impending violent death with Marnia to supply me with some official
information."

The three broke into laughter.

"One thing I admire in your breed," said Earani, "is its unfailing
tact and consideration for the feelings of others."

Davos bowed to him ironically. "Surely there is no information that a
Davos can give an Andax?"

"Spare my humility," snapped Andax. "Perhaps you can tell me if the
allocation of the spheres has been decided."

Davos waved his hand in the direction of the sphere in the window.
"Yes, Earani goes to number one, you take number two, and Mardon will
have number three."

"Hump!" Andax turned to Earani. "This means that we will be sealed up
almost immediately. The council will take no risks now that the time
is so short." Then to Davos, "Have you heard anything?"

Davos paused before replying and looked speculatively at Earani.

She understood his hesitation. "Don't worry about my feelings, Davos,"
she smiled. "I am very interested and not very anxious."

"Well," replied Davos, "number one will be sealed tomorrow at midday.
You go north tomorrow night, and Mardon leaves for number three this
evening."

"Not losing any time now, are they?" commented Andax. Then abruptly to
Davos. "What is the estimate of you and your committee of geniuses.
Have you finished wrangling and guessing yet?"

Davos shrugged his shoulders. "The only wrangling in the committee was
done by that delightful brother of yours, Andax. I sometimes feel
convinced that his manners are worse than yours."

Andax snorted--"I'm not asking for fulsome flattery, but for
information."

"Well, since you ask so nicely," replied Davos, "the committee is of
the opinion after weighing every factor, that at least twenty seven
million years must elapse before the planet is fit for intelligent
human civilisation again."

Andax smiled across to the window. "It seems, Earani, that we are
about to enjoy quite a long rest."

"Yes," said the girl quietly, "but if we come through it will be worth
it."

"Yes," Andax murmured. "If!" For the moment he shed his arrogance.
"Scientifically, mathematically and theoretically, the plan is
perfect."

"Well," broke in Marnia, "I don't envy either of you even if it does
succeed."

"The only flaw is that the spheres may not stand the strain of the
final smash," put in Davos.

"Stars in heaven," Andax exclaimed, his grey eyes flashing enthusiasm.
"It is worth a thousand times the risk. Think of the glory of having a
new world to play with, and to mould how we wish."

Davos laughed as he replied. "Anyway we have one advantage you two
will not enjoy. It will be a unique experience to witness the final
smash."

"A pity to miss it," Andax agreed grudgingly. "But we cannot have
both."

From the window Earani spoke. "A flying courier has just landed at the
door. The summons, I expect."

A moment later a courier in tight-fitting flying kit entered. He
included the four in a general salute. "By command of the High
Council. Andax and Earani will wait on the Council without delay."

He bowed and retired.

Earani arose from her seat. "Come with us, Marnia--to the door of the
chamber, at least," and the four followed the courier.

It was a vast majestic hall in which the High Council sat on a raised
dais at its further end. Down its centre from the entrance ran a wide
carpeted passage. From this passage on either side rose galleries
crowded with silent spectators. The President who occupied the central
seat on the platform was a tall stately man with a calm and benevolent
appearance. The four councillors who sat on either side of him were
all advanced in years. Two of them were women.

There was an atmosphere of strained expectancy over the whole
assemblage as the wide doors of the great chamber slowly unfolded. All
eyes were turned on the little group they revealed that waited on the
threshold.

The voice of the official rang through the Hall. "Surrendering to the
command of the High Council. I have the honour to present Andax,
Earani and Mardon."

From an official at the foot of the dais came the command. "Enter,
Andax, Earani and Mardon and learn the will of the most honourable
High Council."

As the three walked slowly down the long passage all of the spectators
rose and remained standing until they paused, bowing before the dais.
Not until the murmur and rustle of the great gathering ceased after
they had resumed their seats, did the President stand and come to the
edge of the dais.

Looking down on the three, he spoke slowly and with profound
earnestness. "My children, it has pleased the creator of our planet to
permit the destruction of all who dwell upon its surface. That moment,
long foretold, is upon us. But in the hope that all of the
achievements of our race for the happiness of humanity may not vanish
utterly with them, we have resolved on an expedient whereby they may
hand down the wisdom of our race to that, which, in the fullness of
time, may follow us."

"On you three, my children, has fallen that grave and terrible trust.
It may be, for our eyes are blinded to the outcome, that you face
events beside which the death that shadows the planet will be a very
small thing. We know none among us fears death. But, what the future
holds for you, none may say. Therefore I charge you, if your hearts be
not firm in their purpose, you may now retire from it in peace and
honour, and with the goodwill of your fellows--none hindering or none
blaming.

"Speak now, each one of you."

The voice of Andax echoed through the chamber. "I take the trust upon
me for the honour of the race."

Earani's clear sweet voice followed. "And I for the love of humanity."

From Mardon came. "I gladly and willingly accept the trust with which
I am honoured."

A low whispering murmur that swept over the assembled throng was
stilled by a motion of the President's hand.

Again he spoke. "In the name of our race the High Council commends you
and accepts the sacrifice.

"My children, from this moment you surrender yourselves to the will of
the High Council. I charge you in the knowledge that any deviation
from the way of honour will call down upon you its own penalty of
atonement, that you will carry out in all things the plans of our race
in which you have been instructed. In the discharge of the trust you
have assumed there must be no thought of self, and should the time
come, there will be no swerving from the course laid down, nor any
shrinking from the tasks, however terrible, to bring peace, wisdom and
happiness to those who may follow us."

He paused. "Kneel, my children!"

Quietly the three sank to their knees.

Looking down on them the President went on. "Raise your hands and
repeat after me my words.--I swear on the faith of my creator--upon
the honour of my name--and by my loyalty to my fellowship of the race
that is about to die--that I will never, by word or deed--betray the
trust that is imposed upon me. I swear unwavering loyalty to my
ideals, and to the two partners who share my trust--and for them, if
need be, I will lay down my life."

So still was the hushed hall as the three voices followed that of the
President, that it might have been empty.

The old man raised his hands in benediction over them. "The blessing
and love and the hopes of the dying race be upon you; may they make
strong your hearts and purposes; and may you be guided in wisdom
justice and honour in the days of your trust."

As he returned to his seat the three stood up, still facing the
Council.

A woman councillor on the right of the President stood and addressed
them, her voice trembling a little as she began.

"Earani, it is the will of the High Council that at noon tomorrow you
surrender yourself at the sphere known as number one, and there you
will be given oblivion.

"Andax, by sunset tomorrow night you will leave for your post at
number two sphere, and there surrender yourself to the district
council.

"Mardon, within the hour you will depart for number three sphere where
the Western Council awaits you--and may grace and strength go with you
all," she added solemnly.

The three bowed to the Council, and turning passed down the passage
between the silent throng that rose in their honour.

Outside the hall as the doors closed behind them Davos and Marnia
hurried to meet the three in the hope that they would pass the evening
with them. Mardon excused himself, pleading the order for his
immediate departure.

"But you will come with us, Andax," begged Marnia.

He shook his head and came as near to laughter as Andax ever came.
"No, Marnia, No. You three go and indulge in an orgy of sentiment.
I would spoil it.

"But what will you do?" she asked anxiously. "Go back to my fish, dear
lady," and he went.




CHAPTER I


BRYCE brought his car to a stop in front of the deep verandah of the
homestead, and, before getting out, let his eyes search the vivid
green of the vines for the owner. The day was savagely hot, and the
sun, striking down from the cloudless blue-white sky, seemed to have
brought all life and motion to a standstill. There was no sign of
Dundas amongst the green sea of foliage. Now and then a dust devil
whirled up a handful of dried grass and leaves, but seemed too tired
to do more.

Bryce strolled to the end of the verandah and peered through the
leaves of the trellised vine that shaded it. Some 200 yards away, in a
slight hollow, he noticed a large pile of dusty red clay that added a
new note to the yellow colour scheme. Even as he watched he caught a
momentary flash of steel above the clay, and at the same instant there
was a fleeting glimpse of the crown of a Panama hat. "Great Scott!" he
murmured. "Mad--mad as a hatter." He turned rapidly off the verandah,
and approached the spot unheard and unseen, and watched for a few
moments without a word. The man in the trench had his back turned to
Bryce. He was stripped to singlet and blue dungaree trousers, which
clung to the figure dripping with perspiration.

"Alan, old chap, what is it? Gentle exercise on an empty stomach, eh?"
The pick came down with an extra thump, and the worker turned with a
smile. "Bryce! By the powers!" Then with a laugh: "I'll own up to the
empty stomach," and, holding out a strong brown hand, he said: "You'll
stop to lunch, old man?" Bryce nodded. "Might take the cheek out of
you if I say that was partly my reason for calling in." Dundas only
grinned; he knew just how much of the remark was in earnest. "I am
very sorry, Hector, but I am 'batching' it again, so it's only a
scratch feed."

"You unfortunate young beggar; what's become of the last housekeeper?
Thought she was a fixture. Not eloped, I hope?" They had turned
towards the house. "Wish to glory she had," was Alan's heartfelt
comment. "Upon my word, Bryce, I'm sick of women. I mean the
housekeeping ones. When they are cold enough to be suitable for young
unattached bachelors, and have settled characters, those characters
are devilish bad. The last beauty went on a gorgeous jamboree for four
days. I don't even know now where she got the joy-producer."

"Well?" queried Bryce, with some interest, as Dundas paused.

"Oh, nothing much. I just waited until she was pretty sober. Loaded
her and her outfit into the dogcart, and by Jove," with a reminiscent
chuckle, "she was properly sober when I got to the township and
consigned her to Melbourne. Billy B.B. was in topping good form, and
tried to climb trees on the way in."

"But, Dun, this is all very well," said Bryce, laughing. "You can't go
on 'batching'. You must get another."

"No, I'm hanged if I do. The old 'uns are rotters, and, save me,
Hector, what meat for the cats in the district if I took a young one."

"I'm afraid it would take more than me to save you if you did," said
Bryce, laughing at the idea.

They had reached the house. Dundas ushered his friend in. "You make
yourself comfy here while I straighten myself, and look after the
tucker."

Bryce stretched himself on the cane lounge, and glanced round the room.
It was a room he knew well. The largest of four that had formed the
homestead that had originally been built as an out-station, when the
township of Glen Cairn had got its name from the original holding, long
since cut up. It was essentially a man's room, without a single feminine
touch. Over the high wooden mantel were racked a fine double-barrelled
breechloader and a light sporting rifle, and the care with which they
were kept showed that they were not there as ornaments.

The walls held only three pictures. Over the cupboard that acted as a
sideboard hung a fine photogravure of Delaroche's "Napoleon,"
meditating on his abdication, and the other two were landscapes that
had come from Alan's old home. From the same source, too, had come the
curious array of Oriental knives that filled the space between the
door and the window. What, however, attracted most attention was the
collection of books that filled the greater part of two sides of the
room, their shelves reaching almost to the low ceiling.

The furniture was simplicity itself. Besides the sideboard, there were
a table and three chairs, with an armchair on each side of the
fireplace. The cane lounge on which Bryce was seated completed the
inventory. Above the lounge on a special shelf by itself was a violin
in its case. To a woman, the uncurtained windows and bare floor would
have been intolerable, but the housekeeping man had discovered that
bare essentials meant the least work.

Presently a voice came from the kitchen. "Hector, old man, there's a
domestic calamity. Flies have established a protectorate over the
mutton, so it's got to be bacon and eggs, and fried potatoes. How many
eggs can you manage?"

"Make it two, Dun; I'm hungry," answered Bryce.

"Man, you don't know the meaning of the word if two will be enough."
Five minutes later he appeared with a cloth over his shoulder and his
arms full of crockery.

A thought of his wife's horror at such simplicity flashed through
Bryce's mind. "You're a luxurious animal, Alan, using a table cloth.
Why, I don't know any of the other fellows who indulge in such
elegance. Or am I to feel specially honoured?"

"No, Bryce; the fact is that I know that a man is apt to become slack
living bachelor fashion," returned Dundas seriously, "so I make it a
rule always to use a table cloth, and, moreover," he went on, as if
recounting the magnificent ceremonial of a regal menage, "I never sit
down to a meal in my shirt sleeves. Oh, Lord! the potatoes!"

With two dishes nicely balanced, Dundas arrived back again, and after
another journey for a mighty teapot, he called Bryce up to the table.
To an epicure, bacon and eggs backed by fried potatoes, for a midday
meal with the thermometer at 112 deg. in the shade, may sound a little
startling, but then, epicures rarely work, and the matter is beyond
their comprehension. Bryce stared at the large dish with upraised
hands. "Man, what have you done? I asked for two."

"Dinna fash yersel', laddie," answered Dundas mildly. "I've been
heaving the pick in that hole since 7 o'clock this morning, and it
makes one peckish. The other six are for my noble self. Does it occur
to you, Bryce, that had I not scrapped an unpromising career at the
bar, I might also have regarded this meal as a carefully studied
attempt at suicide?"

"Humph! perhaps--I believe you did the best thing though, and I own up
that I thought you demented then."

"Lord! How the heathen did rage."

"True. But don't you ever regret or feel lonely?"

"Nary a regret, and as far as for the loneliness, I rather like it.
That reminds me. I had George MacArthur out here for a week lately. He
said he wanted the simple life, so I put him hoeing vines. More tea?
No? Then, gentlemen, you may smoke." Dundas reached for a pipe from
beneath the mantel, and then swung himself into an armchair, while
Bryce returned to the comfort of the creaking lounge.

"By the way, Alan," said Bryce, pricking his cigar with scientific
care, "you haven't told me the object of your insane energy in that
condemned clayhole." Dundas was eyeing the cigar with disfavour. "I
can't understand a man smoking those things when he can get a good
honest pipe. Oh, all right, I don't want to start a wrangle. About the
condemned clayhole. Well, the fool who built this mansion of mine
built it half a mile from the river, and that means that in summer I
must either take the water to the horses or the horses to the water,
and both operations are a dashed nuisance. Now observe. That condemned
clayhole is to be ultimately an excellent waterhole that will save me
a deuce of a lot of trouble. Therefore, as Miss Carilona Wilhelmina
Amelia Skeggs so elegantly puts it, you found me 'all a muck of
sweat.'"

"Yes, but my dear chap, you can afford to get it done for you."

"In a way you are right, Hec, but then I can't afford to pay a man to
do work that I can do myself."

"Don't blame you, Alan." Then, after a pause, and watching him keenly:
"Why don't you get married?"

Dundas jerked himself straight in his chair, the lighted match still
in his fingers. "Great Scott, Bryce! What's that got to do with
waterholes?" The utter irrelevance of the question made Bryce laugh.
"Nothing, old chap--nothing. Only it just came to my mind as I was
lying here." Lying was a good word, had Dundas only known. "You know,"
he went on, "there are plenty of nice girls in the district."

"You are not suggesting polygamy, by any chance?" countered Alan
serenely from his chair, having recovered from the shock of the
unexpected question.

"Don't be an ass, Alan. I only suggested a good thing for yourself."

"Can't you see the force of your argument, Hector, that because there
are plenty of nice girls in the district (I'll admit that) I should
marry one of them."

"You might do a dashed sight worse."

"You mean I mightn't marry her?"

"You Rabelaisian young devil! I'll shy something at you in a minute if
you don't talk sense."

"Well, look. If you want reasons I'll give you some. First, for the
same reason that I cannot afford a pumping plant. Now do shut up and
let me speak. I know the gag about what will keep one keeping two.
It's all tosh. Secondly, I wouldn't ask any nice girl to live in this
solitude, even if she were willing. Third--do you want any more? Well,
if I got married I would have to extend and rebuild this place." Then
he quietened down, and said seriously, "I know what you mean, Hector;
but those," pointing to the books, "are all the wife I want just now."

Bryce smiled. "By jove, Alan, who's talking polygamy now? There are
about six hundred of them."

"Oh!" answered Alan serenely. "I'm only really married to about six of
them. All the rest are merely 'porcupines,' as the Sunday school kid
said."

"Alan, my son, I'll really have to consult the Reverend John Harvey
Pook about your morals, and get him to come and discourse with you."

"Lord forbid!" said Dundas piously. "That reminds me. I told you I had
George MacArthur here for a week, living the simple life. Well, he was
never out of his pyjamas from the day he arrived till the day he left.
However, one afternoon while I was taking the horses to water, who
should arrive but the Reverend John Harvey and Mamma and Bella Pook,
hunting for a subscription for a tea-fight of some sort. Anyhow when I
got back the noble George was giving them afternoon tea on the
verandah. Just apologised for being found in evening dress in the day
time."

"Humph!" commented Bryce, "did Pook get anything?"

"Well, I paid a guinea just to get rid of them. George was making the
pace too hot," replied Dundas. "Pook nearly fell over himself when
George came to light with a tenner."

Bryce smoked a few minutes, watching Alan through the cloud. "Why did
you get MacArthur down here?" Dundas, who had been gazing off through
the window, spoke without turning his head. "Oh, various reasons. You
know I like him immensely in spite of his idiosyncrasies. He's no end
of a good sort. It's not his fault that he has more thousands a year
than most men have fifties. He lived a godly, upright, and sober life
the week he was here. Pity he doesn't take up a hobby of some sort--
books or art collecting or something of the kind."

"I'm afraid an old master is less in his line than a young mistress,"
said Bryce sourly.

Dundas looked around, wide-eyed. "Jove, Hector, that remark sounds
almost feminine."

Bryce chuckled. "You must have a queer set of lady friends if that's
the way they talk."

"Oh, you owl! I meant the spirit and not the letter. Anyhow, what's
MacArthur been doing to get on your nerves? You are not usually nasty
for nothing."

"You've not seen him since he left?"

"No, I've not been near Glen Cairn or the delights of the club. Been
too busy. Anyhow, you don't usually take notice of the district
scandal either."

Bryce stared thoughtfully at the ash of the cigar he turned in his
fingers. "Well, if you will have it. Here are the facts, the alleged
facts, club gossip, tennis-court gossip, also information collected by
Doris. The night after he left you, George MacArthur filled himself
with assorted liquors. Went down with a few friends to the Star and
Garter (why the deuce he didn't stay at the club I don't know). He
made a throne in one of the sitting-rooms, by placing a chair on the
table. On the throne he seated a barmaid--I'm told it was the fat one
(Perhaps you can recognise her from the description). Then he removed
a leg from another chair and gave it to her as a sceptre. I believe,
although statements differ, he made them hail her as the chaste
goddess Diana. Rickardson tells me that, as a temporary revival of
paganism, it was a huge success."

Alan's frown deepened as the recital went on. "Bryce, how much of the
yarn is true? You know the value of the confounded gossip of the
town."

"I've given you the accepted version," said Bryce slowly.

Alan, still staring through the window, said, a little bitterly, "I
suppose the verdict is Guilty? No trial, as usual."

"The evidence is fairly conclusive in this case," answered Bryce. He
was watching Dundas keenly. Then he went on, in a slow, even voice, "I
saw Marian Seymour cut him dead yesterday." Then only he turned his
eyes away as Alan swung round. For a moment he made as if to speak,
but thought better of it.

Bryce heaved himself out of his lounge. "Well, Alan, we won't mend the
morals of the community by talking about them. You'll come over to
dinner on Sunday, of course?"

Alan stood up. "Jove, Hector, that will be something to look forward
to. Tell Mistress Doris I'll bring along my best appetite."

Bryce laughed. "If I tell of your performance on the eggs to-day I'd
better forget that part of the message. You had better break the news
of the calamity yourself. Phew! What a devil of a day! Surely you
won't go back to that infernal work?"

"You bet I do! I've taken twice my usual lunch time in your honour.
Aren't you afraid some of the gilded youths on your staff will do a
bunk with the bank's reserve cash if you are not there to sit on it?"

"Not one of 'em has as the bowels to do a bunk, as you so prettily put
it, with a stale bun. You can thank your neighbour, Denis McCarthy,
for this infliction. I had to pay him a visit."

"Humph! It's about the only thing I've ever had occasion to feel
genuinely thankful to him for. You found him beastly sober, as usual?"

"Well," said Bryce grimly, "I found him beastly and I left him sober.
Yes, very sober. Thank goodness that finishes the last of my
predecessor's errors in judgment." He stooped to crank up his car.
"Goodbye, Alan; don't overdo it." He backed and turned in the narrow
drive before the verandah, while Dundas stood and made caustic
comments on the steering in particular and motor cars in general. The
last he heard was a wild threat of "having the law agin' him" if he
broke so much as a single vine-cane.




CHAPTER II


IN a long white robe before the mirror of her dressing table Doris
Bryce stood flashing a silver-backed brush through her long, thick
hair. Her lord and alleged master had already reached the stage of
peace and pyjamas, and was lying with his head already pillowed. There
was rather more than the shadow of a frown on the comely face of
Doris, which, Bryce, wise in his knowledge of his wife, affected not
to see. There had been a few minute's silence, during which Doris had
tried to decide for herself whether she had heard aright or not.

At last! "You really said that, Hec?"

"Yes. What difference does it make?"

"You mean to tell me you asked Alan why he didn't get married?"

"Well, I didn't ask any questions. I merely suggested that he ought
to."

"Well!" said his wife, pulling a fresh handful of hair over her
shoulders. "All I've got to say is that you are an absolute donkey."

"My dear girl!"

"Suppose you were fishing, and I came and threw stones beside your
line?"

Said Hector soothingly: "I might say, dear, that your action was
ill-advised." A slight shrug of her shoulders showed him that his
correction was not being received in a spirit of wifely submission.
"You must remember," he went on, "that I stand 'in loco parentis.'"
"'In loco grandmother.'" Doris had put down her brush, and commenced
to plait one side of her hair. "Well, if you like it better, 'in loco
grand-parentis.' My Latin has got a bit rusty; anyhow, I can't see for
the life of me what difference it makes."

Doris disdained to answer. "Perhaps," she asked coldly, "you can
remember what he said to your beautiful suggestion?"

Bryce eyed her in silence for some moments, calculating how far he
might risk a jest. From experience he knew the cost of miscalculation.
"I must confess," he ventured, "that his answer came as a shock. Alan
owned up that he was already married." His voice had a nicely-toned
seriousness.

"Hector!" Her arms dropped. "You don't mean to say--" Words failed
her.

"Yes, my dear. About six wives, he was not quite sure, and several
hundred porcupines. A regular young Solomon."

There was a look in Doris's eyes as she turned away that made Bryce
feel that he had rather overdone it. "I think I have told you before
that I do not want to hear any of the club jokes. I suppose that is
meant for one." Her voice was anything but reassuring. "Perhaps you
will tell me what you mean."

"Well to tell the truth, Doris, he didn't seem to take kindly to the
idea."

"Not likely when it was pelted at him like that," was his wife's
comment. She stared at her reflection thoughtfully. "He will come in
to dinner on Sunday, I hope?"

"Yes, of course," answered Bryce, pleased to be able to give one
answer that might mollify a somewhat irritated wife.

"Ah, well, I have invited Marian Seymour to dinner on Sunday as well.
I told her you would drive out and bring her in in the car."

"Good idea, Doris. It will be bright moonlight in the evening, and we
can go for a spin after we take her home."

Doris, who had stooped to remove her shoe, straightened up, and looked
at him helplessly. "Good heavens! What a man! To think I'm married to
it!" She turned up her eyes as though imploring heavenly guidance in
her affliction. "Hector, if I thought there was the remotest
possibility of your suggesting driving her home, I should most
certainly jab your tyres full of holes. It's beyond my comprehension.
They say you are the cleverest business man in the district, but in
ordinary matters of domestic common sense you are just hopeless."

"Now, what in the name of all that's wonderful have I said?" asked the
injured man, groping for light.

"Must I put it into plain cold English?"

"Well, my good woman--"

"For goodness' sake, Hector, don't say 'good woman.' You know I hate
it."

He did know, as a matter of fact, and that is why perhaps, he used the
expression. "Well, Doris, may I ask you to be a little less complex?"

"A little less complex! Instruction for the young!" she said bitingly.
"Alan Dundas will drive in to dinner on Sunday. Marian Seymour will be
driven in by you to have dinner with us on Sunday. Do you follow that
much?"

"I have already absorbed those two ideas," said Bryce mildly.

"Well, as you have already remarked, it will be bright moonlight when
it is time for them to go home. Your car will have something wrong
with it's engine--"

"But, my dear, it hasn't anything wrong."

"It had better have then."

Bryce hastily remarked something about sparking plugs.

"Then, as I said, your car will not be fit to take Marian home in, so
it will be necessary for Alan Dundas to drive Marian Seymour home, a
distance of five miles--in fact, nearly six--in the moonlight, and,"
she concluded, "I know the seat of Alan's dog-cart is not very
spacious for two. Perhaps you see now?" and she tossed her head
disdainfully.

Bryce spoke slowly. "And Alan called me a Machiavelli! Good Lord!
Well, as you please. These manifestations are beyond me."

That afternoon Dundas watched the dust of Bryce's car until it died
away along the track, and after setting his domestic affairs in order
returned to his "condemned clayhole." For some time he stood on the
edge of the excavation staring thoughtfully into it, but in spite of
appearances, his thoughts were far from pick and shovel. Had Doris
Bryce only known, she need not have condemned her long-suffering man
on her own somewhat biassed and self-satisfied feminine judgment, for
Hector's sledge-hammer diplomacy had undoubtedly given the owner of
'Cootamundra' an unexpected mental jolt that for the time being had
left the smooth running of his thoughts somewhat out of gear.

For a long ten minutes Alan stood and stared, then pulling himself
together abruptly he scrambled down, and drawing his pick from its
cover began to make up for lost time. He worked himself mercilessly in
spite of the breathless, sweltering heat.

The greater part of the afternoon had gone before he paused, after
clearing up the bottom, to survey the result of his labour with
pardonable satisfaction, and he estimated that a couple of weeks'
clear work would see his property the better for a serviceable
waterhole. Then, taking up his pick, he struck heavily at a spot on
the face some two feet below the surface level. The result of the blow
was both unexpected and disconcerting. Hard as the clay was, and
braced as his muscles were for the stroke, the jar that followed made
his nerves tingle to the shoulder. The pick brought up with a loud,
clear ring, while two inches of its tempered point and a fragment of
clay flew off at a tangent and struck his foot. Alan swore softly, but
sincerely. He picked up the broken point and examined it critically.
Then he stooped and inspected the spot where the blow had taken
effect. Then he swore again wholeheartedly. "Rock, and I suppose the
only rock on the whole dashed place, and I've found it." However, he
was not the sort to waste his time in growling, so set to work
carefully and scientifically to discover the extent of the obstacle,
and the longer he worked the more puzzled he became.

His usual stopping hour passed. The shadows of the trees and homestead
grew to gigantic lengths and grotesque shapes, but the rim of the sun
was touching the distant timber belt before he finally flung down his
tools.

In the fading light of the evening, Dundas strolled back to the hole
again. He had hurried over a meal that he usually took at his leisure.
He had brought with him a cold chisel and a heavy hammer, and after
throwing off his coat he jumped into the excavation. There was just
enough light for his work, and he selected a spot for an attack.
Holding the chisel carefully against the uncovered rock, he brought
the hammer down on it again and again with smashing force, bringing a
flash of sparks with every blow, until at last a corner of the tool's
edge snapped with a ring, and whirred into the dusk like a bullet.
Alan examined the dulled and broken edge with a frown, and then peered
at the spot on which he had been striking. The stone showed neither
chip nor mark. Not the faintest scratch appeared on the hard
glass-smooth face after a battering that would have scored and dented a
steel plate. Just as wise as when he started his investigation, he
returned the ruined chisel and hammer to the tool shed, and went back
to the house.

The book Dundas selected lay on his lap unopened for half an hour. The
pipe he lit hung between his lips, cold after a few pulls, and he
stared into the dark through the open window. Finally he pulled
himself together and sat up.

At last he stopped, at peace with himself and the world. Close beside
him and just where the light fell from the open window, a vine shoot
from the verandah had sent down a tendril, and along the tendril,
doubtless attracted by the light, appeared, cautiously feeling its
way, a fat black vine caterpillar. The insect arrived at the end of
the tendril and reared up as if seeking assistance to continue its
journey. Dundas watched it idly. With absurd persistence it reached
from side to side into space. Then, speaking half aloud, (habit formed
of his solitary life), he addressed his visitor.

"My friend, can you tell me this? I have to-day broken up ground that
I am absolutely sure has never been broken before, and yet below the
surface I have come on rock that is not rock. It is a rock that I am
prepared to stake my life on came out of a human workshops and not
nature's. Perhaps you can tell me how that human handiwork comes to be
embedded in virgin soil that has never been stirred since time began.
No, Mr. Caterpillar, the smoothness of that rock, which is not a rock,
does not come from the action of water. I thought so myself at first.
No, and again, no. It is human work, and how did it get there? Give it
up? Well, so do I--for the present. I'm off to bed, old chap, and I'm
very much obliged for your intelligent attention."

Ten minutes later darkness and silence held the homestead.




CHAPTER III


NEXT morning Alan Dundas returned to his work with an interest he had
never known before.

When he had stopped the night before, he had uncovered about two
square yards of the obstacle that had broken first his pick and then
his cold chisel. In colour it was a dull red, not unlike red granite,
but without a trace of "grain." The surface was as smooth as glass,
but it was the indication of a symmetrical shape that puzzled Dundas
most. Where he had cut away the clay low down in the hole the rock
sprang perpendicularly from the ground for about two feet, then from a
clean, perfectly defined line it came away to form a dome. Of that he
could make no mistake. Running his eye over the uncovered space, he
estimated roughly that, supposing the lines continued as they
appeared, he had unearthed the edge of a cylindrical construction,
terminated by an almost flat dome, of some twenty-five to thirty feet
in diameter. How far down the foundations might go he could not even
hazard a guess.

So, filled with curiosity, he set to work, and as the hours passed the
original idea of tank-sinking fled, and he worked solely to solve the
mystery he had unearthed. The course he had to follow took his trench
across the boundary he had first marked out, but as he worked surmise
became fact. The boast he had made the day before was forgotten, and
he ate his midday meal standing in his kitchen, and washed it down
with a drink from his water-bag. By evening he surveyed the results of
his day's work, the most perplexed man in Christendom. To follow the
course of what, for want of a better name, he called the rock, he had
cut around the segment of a circle of about the size of his original
estimate for about twenty feet. He had made his cut about three feet
wide and shoulder deep, and all round he had found the clean cut line
of the spring of the flat dome as clearly defined as if it had been
moulded, and every inch he had uncovered strengthened his first idea
that the work was from human hands. So far as he had examined it he
was absolutely at a loss to account for its purpose. It was like
nothing he had ever seen or heard of, and moreover again and again
came back the certainty that the surface of the soil had been hitherto
unbroken.

For a while he considered whether he should catch Billy Blue Blazes
and drive into Glen Cairn to talk the matter over with Bryce, but the
mystery had eaten into his soul, and in the end he determined at all
costs to solve it for himself. When he had arrived at this resolution
he felt a keen satisfaction in the thought that his place was so far
removed from the beaten track.

It was not until late in the afternoon of the following day when the
strain of the past few days was beginning to tell on his energy, that
he came on the first break in the wall, and it so far revived his
spirits that he redoubled his efforts until he had assured himself
that the break he had come upon was the top of an arched doorway.
There could be no possible doubt of that, and when he had satisfied
himself on the point he set to work, tired and aching as he was, to
fill in enough earth all round his trench to hide as far as possible
all indications of the construction. He felt certain that the solution
of the problem would come from within, and he left only enough
uncovered to enable him to have easy access to the newly discovered
doorway.

Eight hours of dreamless sleep banished every ache. The morning was
yet very young when Alan swung his dogcart into the main street of
Glen Cairn, and Billy stopped, with his forefeet in the air, before
the principal store in the town. There Dundas gave orders for timber
and galvanised iron. Would it be out that day? And swag-bellied
Gaynor, the storekeeper, swore that Mr. Dundas's order would take
precedence over all other in the matter of delivery.

Then it struck him that by driving a few miles off his homeward track
he might see someone more interesting--that is, by accident.

Man proposes. Alan drove home by the long way. He irritated Billy by
pulling him into as slow a pace as that bundle of nerves and springs
ever assented to, but neither down the long hedged lane, nor in the
curving oak-arched drive, nor yet about the white house half buried in
the trees, was there any flutter of skirt or sign of her whom he
sought. He was not good at fibbing, and, trying his best, he could not
invent a reasonably passable excuse for a call.

And so home, all the time turning things over in his mind, till Marian
Seymour first receded to the background of his thoughts and then
disappeared altogether, and It took her place. "It." After days of
racking toil he could find no other name for his discovery than "It."
At times there flashed across his mind that there might be some simple
and rational explanation for "It," and with the thought came a sense
of disappointment and depression. The feeling soon vanished, however,
under analysis. Every sense of his being told him that he stood on the
verge of the unknown.

When he reached 'Cootamundra' he attended to Billy's requirements, and
then sought means to pass the time until the arrival of his material
from Glen Cairn.

Unconsciously his feet carried him back to the excavation, and he
smiled grimly at its appearance. Its original symmetrical shape had
vanished. Its apparently objectless outlines and the patent fact that
it had been partially refilled made it look as an effort at tank
sinking about as mad as some of his theories.

Although he was itching to recommence his explorations, he had to
possess his soul in patience, and it was long after noon before
Gaynor's team arrived bearing the material he had ordered. Alan had
the cart unloaded well away from the scene of his labours. He was
taking no risks, although he felt sure that the driver's one idea
would be to make his delivery and get away.

It was no light task that he had set himself. To make up for his
enforced idleness of the morning he worked until the fading light made
it impossible for him to continue. He had to admit to himself that as
architecture the framework he had erected was beneath contempt, while
a carpenter's apprentice would have snorted at his workmanship; but if
it lacked all else it had strength, and would serve its purpose.

Next morning saw him working with beaver-like persistence.

But, in spite of damaged and blistered hands and raw-edged temper, the
work advanced. When evening came his persistence was rewarded by an
almost completed enclosure ten feet high, surrounding the spot where
he had been excavating. Raw it looked, and a blot on the not too
beautiful landscape, but he felt that it would serve his purpose.
Another day would see it roofed and completed, and then not even the
most curious visitor, known or unknown, would have sufficient
curiosity to investigate what was to all appearances, nothing but a
shed for storing implements or fodder.

Alan felt at the day's end that Sunday's rest, if nothing else, was a
justification for Christianity. When he finally put away his tools and
tramped wearily to the empty house, he told himself that until Monday
morning he would empty his head of every thought of work.




CHAPTER IV


DUNDAS woke late and care-free. It was ten o'clock before he had
finished his leisurely breakfast, and captured and groomed Billy. Then
he turned his attention to his toilet. To a man with a regard for the
decencies of life, there was a deep sense of satisfaction in
discarding his serviceable but unpleasantly rough working garb for
more conventional clothing.

Truly clothes maketh the man. Few would have recognised in the
smart figure, clothed in spotless white from head to foot, the
dungaree and flannel clad man of yesterday. As he stepped into his
dogcart that morning, nineteen women out of twenty would have found
Alan Dundas a man to look at more than once, although they might
pretend they had never noticed him, as is their way.

Billy Blue Blazes made his own pace on the road to Glen Cairn, a
privilege he was rarely granted, and made the most of it. Two miles
out of the township Alan met Bryce in his car on his way to bring in
the other visitor. The two exchanged hasty greetings as Billy clawed
the air, and expressed his opinion on mechanical traction in
unmistakable fashion. So, after stabling at the club, it was Doris
alone who greeted Alan at the bank. And Doris, when she looked at him,
said in her heart that her work would be good.

From her deck chair on the verandah she chaffed him for a hermit. "I
suppose, Mistress Doris, that wretched man of yours has been telling
tales of my menage. You know he had lunch with me last week."

"Of course, Alan, he told me that you were starving yourself, poor
boy. I do hope that you have recovered your appetite."

"The traitor! He said he would do nothing to warn you of the impending
catastrophe. Well, if he has to go without on my account, serve him
right."

There came the hoot of a motor-horn from the street. "There's Hector
now; he went out to bring us in another guest, Alan--guess?"

"I'm too lazy and contented for a mental effort." Then, after a pause,
"MacArthur?"

Doris made a sound that approached a dainty sniff. "I'm not playing
speaks with Mr. MacArthur," she said, a little stiffly.

"You might do worse, Mistress Doris. Give him a chance."

There came a sound of voices from the garden, and they both stood up.
"Come on, Maid Marian. We'll find them on the verandah." Then the
others turned the corner. Bryce greeted Alan heartily, and then turned
to the girl beside him. "I've brought you a judge, jury, and
executioner, Dundas. I hear you have been guilty of treason,
desertion, and a few other trifling offences. It's currently reported
that you were squared by the Ronga Club not to play yesterday."

Alan took the warm firm hand held out to him. "I've been executed
already by Mistress Doris, Miss Seymour, you can't punish me twice for
the same offence." The girl smiled as she took the chair he drew up
for her. "Luckily we pulled through without you. What excuse have
you?"

"Only Eve's legacy--work," he answered.

"Doris dear," said Marian, "is not the excuse as bad as the offence? A
nasty slur on our sex by inference and a claim to the right to work
when we want him to play."

Then, standing up: "Guilty on all counts, and remanded for sentence--
until I can think of something sufficiently unpleasant to fit the
crime."

"Then I can only throw myself on the mercy of the court. Make it a
free pardon, Miss Seymour," said Dundas, laughing.

She regarded him with laughing eyes, and then turned to Doris. "I
doubt if severity will have any lasting effect in this case. Perhaps
if we extend the clemency of the court--" Then to Dundas: "Case
dismissed. I hope you will not appear here again. Isn't that what
father says on the bench?"

Bryce chuckled. "A disgraceful miscarriage of justice. That's what it
amounts to. Coming in, Doris, nothing but his bleeding scalp would
satisfy her. Now he is pardoned. It's too thick."

"Out of your own mouth, Bryce," said Alan, "a free pardon was the
right course. The quality of mercy is not strained. Why? Because it's
too thick."

Doris stood up. "Come and take off your hat, Marian. A constant diet
of eggs has affected his mind. He's absolutely unworthy of notice."

Left to themselves Bryce and Alan settled down to a yarn that drifted
from politics to town and district news, and thence to the absorbing
topic of vines and crops. "How grows the waterhole?" asked Bryce after
a while. Dundas was waiting for the question, and with elaborate
carelessness answered briefly that he had struck rock and abandoned
it. "I am building a fodder-house on the site as a monument to my
displaced energy," he went on. "I was so busy with the building that I
missed coming in to town yesterday."

Bryce shook his head. "You'll overdo it, Dun."

"Hector and Alan." It was Doris's voice. "If you want any dinner you
had better come now."

It was afterwards when they were at peace with the world, the one with
a pipe and the other with a cigar, that Alan put the question that he
had been quietly manoeuvring for.

"Can you tell me, Hec, if at any time there has been any big building
work done at 'Cootamundra,' or even started?"

 Bryce reflected for a few moments. "I've known 'Cootamundra' now for
nearly forty years, and I'm certain that, beyond the present
buildings, nothing of the kind has ever been done there. Why ask?"

"Oh, nothing much," answered Dundas, fibbing carefully. "Now and again
I thought I noticed traces of foundations about the place near the
house."

And so the talk drifted lazily off into other channels until they were
rejoined by Doris and Marian.

It was the strange behaviour of his wife that occupied Bryce's
attention for the rest of the day, to the exclusion of all else. As an
onlooker he thought he should have seen most of the game, and knowing
the rules, or thinking he did, it was, he found, a game that he did
not understand. When Marian came on the scene he prepared cheerfully
to give Dundas a clear field, but to his surprise he found that every
attempt was neatly foiled by his erratic spouse.

Thereafter he watched her manoeuvres with amused astonishment. It was
apparent to the densest understanding that both Alan and Marian would
have welcomed each other's society undiluted, and Bryce enjoyed to the
utmost Alan's diplomatic but persistent efforts to "shoo" off his too
attentive hostess, and her apparently unconscious disregard for his
efforts.

In the end it came as a relief to be able to announce a wholly
fictitious trouble with the engine of his car that threw on Alan the
responsibility of delivering Marian safely at her home. It was nearly
ten o'clock when Dundas brought the snorting Billy B.B. to the door of
Bryce's quarters at the bank, and Marian made her hasty farewells, for
Billy was never in a mood on a homeward journey to stand on four legs
for two consecutive seconds.

The two watched the receding lights of the dogcart for a few minutes,
and then returned to the house. Doris began to straighten some music
that was lying about, while Bryce, leaning back in an easy chair,
watched her thoughtfully. Presently she appeared to be aware of his
scrutiny. "What's on your mind, Hec?" she asked.

"It's not what's on my mind, best beloved; it's what's in yours that
is making me thoughtful," answered her husband.

Doris returned the music to its place, and sank into a chair, while
Bryce, after placing a cushion for her head, took his stand in front
of her, feet apart, hands in pockets. "Now, my lady, I want
explanations; lots of 'em."

Doris looked up at him with a slow reminiscent smile that ended in a
little gurgle. "Aren't they lovely, Hec? The dears! I'm sure Alan
would have liked to shake me. Don't you think so?"

"By Jove, Doris, I wonder at his self-control! Now, listen." Here he
shook an admonitory finger. "If you don't immediately explain your
scandalous conduct, I'll act as Alan's deputy, and shake you till you
do."

"Violence is quite unnecessary, Hec," she laughed softly. "You know it
struck me this morning, that if I left them together Alan would just
take things easily, and let them drift. You know I'm not altogether
sure of Alan." Here she paused thoughtfully.

"And so?" persisted Bryce.

"And so," she went on, "I just teased them by not giving them a
chance, because, well, suppose you dangle something a child wants just
out of its reach, and then suddenly rest for a moment, the
probabilities are that the child will grab when it gets the chance."
Another pause.

"And you mean?" asked Hector with dawning comprehension.

"Well, there is a tantalised nice man, and a specially nice girl, and
a narrow-seated dogcart, and a wonderful moon, and if the man doesn't
grab--well, I don't know anything. Oh, you monster!"

Bryce's arms had swept outwards and gathered her in with one heave of
his shoulders. "Oh, Hec, do let me down." He backed to his armchair,
still holding her firmly until her struggles ceased. "Will you be
good?" he asked. "Good as gold," she answered, with her head on his
shoulder.

"It's my opinion, Doris, that you are a scandalous little schemer.
Great Scott! What chance has a man against that sort of thing?"

"Do you think it will work, Hec?" passing her hand round his neck.

"Maybe--it won't be your fault if it doesn't, you imp! The only thing
against it is that you forgot Billy. He is a straight-forward little
animal, whatever may be said against him, and I doubt if he will
permit his owner to become a victim of your conspiracy."

"Hum--dear boy--it would take wilder horses than Billy to stop a man
if he really meant business."

"Look here, Doris, I want to know, are we all treated like this? Are
you and your kind really the destiny that shapes our matrimonial ends?
You know it makes one nervous. I never dreamed of such depths of
duplicity. What about me, for instance?"

She looked at him with shining eyes, and smiled softly. "Oh--you--
well, Hec, special cases require special treatment. I've read
somewhere that natives when they want to get certain very shy birds,
just do something that will attract their attention and their
curiosity. Then, when the bird comes to see what it is, they just put
out their hands and take it. That is, if the bird is worth taking."

"So--I see--I see--I don't seem to recollect any tactics of that kind
in our case, Doris, and I'm sure I would have remembered, because I
have read somewhere, too, that the method adopted by the natives is to
lie on their backs and twiddle their toes in the air. Now, if you had
done that--" There was a brief struggle and a soft hand closed over
his mouth, and the rest is of no interest to outsiders.




CHAPTER V


MEANWHILE, way down the long white road between well-ordered vineyards
and scattered homesteads nestling in orchards, sped Marian and Alan
behind the fretting Billy, and with them a silence that neither seemed
inclined to break. There were not many women even in that district of
horse-women who would have sat calmly and care-free beside Dundas,
knowing Billy's reputation. Where a city-bred girl would have clung
with white knuckles to the side-rail, Marian sat with loosely folded
hands, letting her body sway with the swing of the dogcart. Billy's
breaking-in had been peculiar. His forebears had been remarkable more
for speed than for good temper. George MacArthur had acquired him as a
yearling, and under that gentleman's able tuition he had developed
more than one characteristic that made sitting behind him more
exhilarating than safe.

MacArthur, grown tired of buying new dogcarts, sent Billy to the
saleyards, and insisted that the auctioneer should read a guarantee
that described Billy as perfectly sound, and an ideal horse for a
lunatic or anyone contemplating suicide, and it was under this
guarantee that Alan purchased for a couple of sovereigns what had
originally cost MacArthur fifty guineas.

Alan used to say, when asked why he retained Billy, that to get rid of
him would deprive him of the joy of a royal progress. "You have no
idea how polite people are to me when B.B.B. gets moving. I've seen a
dozen vehicles pull off the road the moment I came in sight, and stand
still till I passed them."

Tonight Alan was driving with special care, for his freight was very
precious. He felt, too, a pride in the fact that Marian had trusted
herself to his care without hesitation. It was only when the first
struggle was over, and Billy had settled himself into his real gait,
that he turned to the girl beside him. "Now, he is not so bad as he is
painted, is he?"

Marian laughed. "No horse could be as bad as Billy is painted, not
even Billy himself, but he is splendid!" Then, after a pause, "but I
think it is almost criminal to have spoiled such a horse in the first
place."

"Don't believe it," answered Alan. "I've studied Billy carefully for
three years now, and I'm quite convinced that his habits are a gift.
MacArthur only cultivated them, just as a fine voice is cultivated."
Marian looked straight ahead, and said, "I'll admit that in this
instance he could not have had a more able tutor."

Alan looked round at the calm, disapproving face, and smiled. "Et tu,
Brute," he said, quietly.

She turned quickly. "Do you stand by Mr. MacArthur?"

"Inasmuch as he is my friend, yes; more so now than usual, perhaps."

She turned his answer over in her mind a moment. "Yes, I suppose you
would," she said.

"What does that mean--approval or otherwise?" he asked.

"I only meant that I thought that you would be very loyal to your
friends, right or wrong. But, at the same time, in this instance I
don't agree with you."

"God made him for a man--let him pass. Steady, Billy! That's only a cow."

There was a full and lively thirty seconds until the horse had recovered
from his attack of nerves. Then Marian took up the tale.

"That's all very well, but is it fair, I ask you? Suppose, now, that I
carried on a flirtation with the groom at the Star and Garter, which God
forbid, for methinks he is passing fond of beer. Would your charity
stand the strain?"

Dundas made a mental comparison, and chuckled. "I'd take the strongest
exception to your taste, apart from conventions."

They had turned off the white main road, and the clatter of Billy's
hoofs was muffled in the dust of the unformed track they followed,
that twisted in and out among the big timber. The moon splashed their
path with patches of black and silver, and in the deep hush of night
they moved as through a dream landscape.

Alan spoke slowly. "I laughed, but God knows I did not mean to, Maid
Marian. It is not good to hear you slander yourself, even in jest. To
me the idea was worse than sacrilege." He changed the reins swiftly
over to his right hand, and covered the soft slender hand on her lap
with his. For a moment it shrank timidly and then lay still. For a
little while he held it, and then, bending forward, he raised it to
his lips unresisting. For one instant her eyes met his and told their
secret. "Oh! Marian, Maid Marian," he said softly. Momentous words
were on his lips, but words decreed by fate to remain unuttered in
that hour.

For the moment he had forgotten everything but the girl beside him,
and the right hand relaxed its hold, and as it did a hare darted from
the shadow of a log and flashed under Billy's nose. There came a swift
jerk on the reins, and Alan recovered them in a flash, but too late.

He set his teeth and strained his eyes into the patchy light to catch
the first glimpse of dangers to avoid. Only once he turned to Marian.
The rush of air had swept her hat back on her shoulders, and her hair
was a flying cloud about her face. But in her eyes there was no trace
of fear. "Don't mind me, Alan; I trust you absolutely."

But for her presence he would almost have enjoyed the excitement, but
the thought of danger to her turned his efforts to tightlipped
savageness. He sawed Billy's leathery mouth as he had never done
before, when, to his delight he felt Billy's mad rush falter. For the
first time he had won in a straight-out fight, and though they took
the curve on one wheel, by the time they came in sight of the white
gate in the lane Billy was snorting angrily, but behaving like a
normal animal otherwise.

"I am sorry, so sorry, Marian. That was my fault," he said soberly; "I
should have watched Billy more carefully." The girl turned slightly
and rested her hand lightly on his sleeve. "Please, don't blame
yourself, Alan. I want you to believe me when I tell you that all the
time I felt perfectly safe, and I wouldn't have missed it for
anything."

Alan laughed grimly. "Precious little honour to me that I did. It is
the first time that he has ever given in so soon." He reined Billy to
a standstill at the gate, and as he did so a voice came from the
shadow of the avenue beyond. "Is that you, lassie?" and there was a
glow of a cigar in the darkness "Father!" she whispered. Then aloud,
"Yes, father, Mr. Dundas has brought me home." The owner of the voice
came forward into the light. "Oh! Dundas, come in, it's not too late
for a glass of wine." Billy stirred uneasily and backed a little. "I'm
afraid I cannot to-night. B.B.B. does not approve of late hours." He
pressed Marian's hand tenderly as she rose. "Good night, Maid Marian,"
he said softly. "Good night, Alan. Oh! be careful going home," came
the whispered answer. In a second she had jumped lightly to the
ground. Billy half turned, and bored at the reins fretfully. Standing
where the light fell full on her face, Marian looked up at him
smiling. "Good night, Mr. Dundas, and thank you so much for the
drive." Alan waved his hand as the dogcart turned with a jerk, and the
next moment he was pelting down the lane homeward. Marian stood beside
her father watching the two twinkling red stars as they disappeared in
the distance. "Now that," said her father, "is a man, but I'm blessed
if I like the horse. How did he behave on the way?" Marian slipped her
arm round his shoulder, and looked up laughing. "If you will tell me
whether you are referring to the man or the horse, I might be able to
answer," she said. "Oh, lassie!" he said, taking her hand, and looking
down at her fondly, "I think I'll inquire about both." Marian drew his
head down and kissed him. "Daddy dear, as a judge of men and horses, I
can honestly say that neither could have behaved better." Which, when
one considers it, was a truly feminine answer. Nevertheless, she lay
awake that night smiling happily with her thoughts.

Fortunately for Alan, Billy's performance had taken the edge off his
appetite for bolting that night at least, for with his thoughts in a
state of chaos he paid little attention to either road or horse. That
one glimpse of Marian's eyes as he had raised her hand to his lips had
been a revelation, and he knew, although no word had passed between
them, that he had awakened in her the love that until then he had
known nothing of, and the wonder of it held him spellbound.

He spent a longer time than usual rubbing Billy down after his arrival
at 'Cootamundra,' and when he had finished he brought his hand down
with a resounding whack on the back of the contentedly munching pony.
"Billy, you little devil; I don't know whether I ought to shoot you,
or pension you off on three feeds of oats a day. I must ask Marian."
He walked over to the homestead, and looked at its darkened solitude
distastefully.

He unlocked his door, but in attempting to light his lamp found that
it was empty, and spent five minutes striking matches to find a candle
before he could refill it. He splashed his clothes with kerosene, and
before he had finished his task he had declared to all his household
gods that "batching" was a rotten game.




CHAPTER VI


DUNDAS was feeling "Monday morningish." He over cooked his eggs and
the bread he fried refused to crisp, and its doughiness and the extra
annoyance of having let the water boil too long before making his tea
started him on his day's work with a distinct feeling of
dissatisfaction with the world.

He knew he was shirking work, and owned up to himself. There was only
one remedy, work itself. In his heart he felt that Marian could and
would wait, and then he felt dissatisfied with himself that he could
let it go at that. And so he turned to, and after a while his
self-training asserted itself. By ten o'clock he had finished his walls,
and when he came to make a start on the roof he had no room for
thoughts foreign to the matter in hand.

At last it was finished. When he had fitted a heavy towerbolt to his
shed next day, Alan felt he could go on with the real work, and
discover what was to be discovered without endangering his secret. It
was with a feeling of intense satisfaction that he started again with
pick and shovel, after clearing away the planks with which he had
covered the spot where he had first found the archway. As his work
advanced, his delving showed that the opening was about three feet
wide, and was evidently recessed for a considerable depth; how far he
did not at once try to ascertain. His first object was to clear the
entire doorway. In order to give himself plenty of room, he sank a
shaft about four feet square, having one of its sides formed by the
door-pierced wall. It was no easy task, for the iron shed seemed to
absorb all the sun's heat, while its doorway gave little light and
less air. Indeed, it took him the whole day to sink seven feet, when,
as he anticipated, his pick uncovered the foot of the entrance. By six
o'clock next morning he was making his first tentative strokes with
his pick in the doorway he had uncovered. On either side was the hard
smooth surface of the wall showing a clearly defined three by seven
opening, filled with almost brickhard clay, and on this he set to work
with a will. He commenced by breaking it down well in the upper half,
and in less than an hour found his progress barred by some obstacle
that defied both pick and crowbar, at a depth of about eighteen
inches. By no means discouraged, for he expected such a development,
he continued to clear away the clay with undiminished vigour, and soon
found that his advance had been stopped by a smooth surface, which,
until he had completed its clearance, he decided not to examine. By
midday his task was completed, and, on returning to work after lunch,
he brought with him one of the acetylene lamps from his dogcart, for
the light from the shed door was insufficient to reveal the interior
of the recess where his work had ceased. When the white clear light
was flashed inwards, he was for a while at a loss as to the real
nature of the obstacle. The discoloration from the clay and the lapse
of ages had tinted the whole to a dull red that made it appear as if
the back were composed of the same rocklike cement as the walls.
Kneeling in the archway Alan rubbed the surface with his moistened
finger. In a moment the dry clay worked to a paste, and, as he
continued rubbing, from the spot where he cleaned the clinging dust,
there showed up the dull but unmistakable glow of bronze-like metal.

"I've been a navvy; now I might as well turn charwoman," was his
mental note on the situation. He armed himself with a scrubbing brush
and a bucket of water, and by dint of much labour and splashing he
thoroughly cleaned from every vestige of clay or grit the metal
surface of the door, giving special attention to the corners. While he
worked one fact was strongly forced on his mind. However long the
metal had been in its place, the surface showed no sign of corrosion.
From its absolutely unmarked smoothness it might to all appearances
only have been erected a day. Although over and over again in breaking
down the clay the point of his pick had come heavily against it, there
was not even a scratch or dent left. Another point which puzzled him
not a little was that the entire surface was perfectly blank, without
knob or projection of any kind. When he had finished his scouring he
took his lamp and made a minute examination of every inch of the door,
and when he had completed it his sole gain in knowledge was that its
fitting had been absolutely perfect. There was not room for even the
point of a needle to penetrate between door and wall.

Alan went to the house, and returned with a box and a heavy driving
hammer, with the fixed resolution of solving the problem confronting
him before the day was out. Using the box as a seat in the bottom of
the shaft, he reasoned the matter over as he resurveyed the blank and
uninviting metal wall. Undoubtedly it was a door of sorts. Whoever put
it there meant it as a means of ingress or egress. "Therefore," he
said aloud, "the darned thing must open somehow;" and he emphasised
his remark by bringing the hammer down with a hearty bang on the
metal. The result was rather disconcerting, for the door answered the
stroke with the deep, hollow boom of a mighty bell that seemed to
reverberate into unknown distances. "I won't do that again," said Alan
to himself, dropping the hammer. "It's almighty funereal, whatever
causes it. But that blessed door--it might have hinges, or it might
slide up, down, or sideways, and there isn't a vestige of a sign to
show which." He shook his head, and stared long and thoughtfully.
"Now," he reflected, "the people who built this box of tricks were not
fools." He took up the hammer again, and, starting from the top
right-hand corner, he tapped his way over its entire area, and in
doing so he awoke a booming, metallic clamour that almost deafened
him. No pressing or straining for hidden springs availed, and
nightfall found him owning up to defeat.

After his evening meal he paced slowly about the shed, every now and
again descending into the shaft to try the effect of some fresh idea
as it occurred to him. At last, as the hour grew late, he decided on
bed. Perhaps the morning would bring wisdom or guidance. He returned
to the house, and commenced slowly to undress. Seated on the edge of
the bed with one boot already unlaced, he suddenly straightened up in
answer to a thought that flashed across his mind. "Now I wonder?" he
said softly. "By Jove! I'll try it now!" In a moment he had relighted
his acetylene lamp, and hurried across to the shed, and scrambled over
the loose clay into his shaft. Then, beginning on the step of the
doorway, he commenced carefully to sound the cement of the recess. All
over the step he worked, and up the left-hand side without detecting
the slightest variation in sound. Was it to be another disappointment?
He changed over to the right side. For the first two feet the sound of
the clank remained unaltered--a little lower. Then, as the hammer
fell, Alan drew a deep breath, and struck again. There was no
mistaking it. The wall rang hollow beneath the blow. "Got it! By gad!
Got it!" he almost shouted. He flashed the lamp to the spot, but even
under the dazzling white glare he could detect no alteration in the
appearance of the surface. There was no line or crevice to indicate a
patching of the wall. Nevertheless, he knew for a certainty that in
the wall was a covered recess of some kind.




CHAPTER VII


NATURE took her full toll of his weary body, and it was nearly nine
next morning before Dundas kicked off his bed clothes with a hearty
exclamation of dismay at his laxness. He awoke keenly alive to the
possibilities of the day before him, and after hurrying through his
domestic routine he made his way to the shed with a handful of tools.
He fixed his lamp so as to give the best possible light, and then, by
means of careful sounding, he marked out with chalk the area that rang
hollow beneath his hammer, and which he finally estimated was about a
foot square.

Before long, by working on one spot, he had penetrated about an inch,
when, to his delight, a small hole, no larger than a pin's head,
appeared. Once broken through, he found that the work of enlarging the
opening became easier. The cement began to fly in larger fragments
from the edge of the chisel. In about two hours he had enlarged the
opening sufficiently to admit his hand, but in spite of his eagerness
he refrained from a close examination of the interior. It was when
lunch time arrived, and half the area that had been marked out was
broken down, that he turned the light inwards only to meet with
disappointment. One inch behind the cement was a metal plate that
blocked his view. This, he found, was loose, but he could not remove
it until he had cleared away the whole of the cement. If they had done
nothing else, his difficulties had made him philosophic. He had come
to recognise the fact that whatever the intelligence was that had
created his discovery, that intelligence had so adjusted matters that
the secret could not be lightly violated.

The result of his work next morning justified his surmise about the
metal plate. He found that the recess was just ten inches square, but
so accurate had been the fitting that while a chip of the cement
remained round the edges it was impossible to remove it. Smoking
contentedly he pegged away at the work, his thoughts all the while as
busy as his hands. All the edges were clear, and at last he chipped
the fragments that still held the corners until by careful coaxing he
was enabled to work out the metal plate. As he did so it slipped
through his fingers and fell clattering to his feet. Quickly Alan
turned his light into the recess. It was not more than four inches
deep, allowing for the inch of cement he had removed, but small as it
was it held enough to call forth a quick exclamation of pleasure.
Arranged in the form of a square at the back of it were four small,
bright metal knobs, each one of which reflected back the rays of the
acetylene lamp from brilliant points of light. Each knob was at the
end of a stem protruding from the wall, and each stem sprang from the
intersecting point of two deep grooves that formed a crosscut in the
cement. "So," said Alan softly, "this is the open sesame--now I think
I'll step right inside, or perhaps this is merely a--hell!" With the
forefinger of his right hand he had touched one of the knobs. The next
instant he was lying in the bottom of the shaft in a sickly odour of
acetylene gas, with the extinguished lamp beneath him.

He pulled himself painfully together, ruefully rubbing the various
bumps he had acquired during his somersault, and wondering whether his
jarred system were entirely sound. "Well, I'll be hanged if that
wasn't a dirty trick to play on the innocent investigator--
electricity! And the father of sin himself only knows how many
volts. No, my friends," he went on, addressing the unknown builders,
"you certainly did not mean that door to be opened by a fool." He
dragged himself to the surface and examined his lamp to find it intact
and in good order. Then he turned, and looking into the darkness at
his feet, asked in injured tones how many more surprises it held for
him. He relighted the lamp, and returned to the doorway. The
glittering knobs winked back at him as he turned the light on them.
Fixing his lamp behind him so as to have both hands free, he sat down
and regarded the recess sourly. "Now I wonder," he said to himself
presently, "did I get it all the first time, or is there more to
follow? I wish to goodness I knew something about electricity."
Putting his fingers up gingerly, he touched the same knob again. Even
prepared as he was, the shock he received brought forth an angry grunt
of pain, and again he almost overbalanced himself. He rubbed his
quivering arm savagely. "Knowledge may be strength," he said angrily,
"but it's confoundedly painful to get in this locality. No, this is
certainly no place for fools. However, we'll see." He roused himself,
and scrambling to the surface betook himself to the house. He ran his
eye over his bookshelves, pulled down a volume, and for a quarter of
an hour he buried his nose in its pages. Finally he banged the book
with his open hand. "Might have thought of it before if my head had
not been wool-gathering," he said aloud, then with his hands in his
pockets he leaned back in his chair and stared through the window,
whistling softly. Suddenly he sprang up. "The very thing!" He went to
his bedroom and returned with an old raincoat, which he flung on the
table. Spreading the garment before him, he took his pocket-knife and
cut a 3 inch strip from the lower hem, and then carefully examined the
material. "Yes," he repeated, "the very thing," and proceeded to cut
from the strip four pieces about 3 inches square, and with these and
some twine he hurried back to the shaft. "Now, my friends," he said,
as he seated himself on his box before the recess. "We'll see who
knows most." Holding a piece of the cloth-cased rubber carefully in
his fingers, he pressed it to the knob with, as he expected, entire
success, for his simple non-conductor answered his purpose. Then he
folded the cloth carefully about the shank, and fastened it in place
with twine, working gingerly, so as to keep his hands from coming into
contact with the other danger points. Then he treated the other three
in the same manner, and found he could handle them all without fear.

So far so good. Now what were the knobs for? How were they to be
operated? A few tentative presses and twists soon found an answer.
Each one could move in four directions, for deep in the cement the
shanks worked on a pivot that allowed the knobs to follow the lines of
the crossed grooves, up or down, and right or left, and realising
this, Alan realised, too, that he was face to face with a problem that
might baffle him for an indefinite time. That the door could be
operated by the knobs he felt certain, but he felt more certain that
he was faced by a cunningly contrived combination lock that would test
his wits to the uttermost before he won success.

There were in all five positions, counting the upright, in which each
knob might be placed, and there were four knobs. "Now bless my soul,"
Dundas murmured, "I wonder how many thousand variations the dashed
things are capable of, and must I go on fiddling with them until I'm
grey-headed? Reminds me of how many places nine men in a boat can be
put in. Only this is worse."

With a silent prayer for patience he began to work, moving the levers
to and fro, trying them systematically in rotation, combination after
combination, till his arms ached from being held in the one position,
and his fingers almost refused to do his bidding. Then in the end he
sat back and filled his pipe. So busy had he been that time had passed
unnoticed, and it was only the clamouring of an angry stomach that
directed his attention to the hour, and he found to his surprise that
night had fallen while he worked. Another night, and he was still
outside the longed-for goal! It was no use going on, he told himself.
For all he knew, unless he stumbled on the right combination by
accident, it might take him weeks or months to exhaust all possible
variations of the levers. Stiff and tired, he dragged himself to the
surface, and then to the homestead, disgusted with his failure.

Alan set out for the shed next morning in a cheerful mood, and with
the determination to stick to his task, in spite of failure. He had
re-charged his lamp, and he set to work, whistling light-heartedly.
Following up his first idea, he commenced by numbering the levers from
one to four, and then he moved them alternatively in numerical
rotation, thus avoiding a repetition of variations. It was a tiresome
task, but he relieved the monotony with an occasional pause for a
smoke, and to stretch his cramped limbs. As time passed his movements
became mechanical. He leaned forward with his face close to the
recess, and his elbows against the wall to relieve his tired body, for
he found his occupation more trying than the hard manual work that had
preceded it. He was thinking vaguely that it was about time for lunch,
when he suddenly started up. He had heard nothing move, but some
subtle sense told him of a change. He turned his head slightly, and an
involuntary cry broke from his lips. The mighty door had disappeared,
and he was staring into the blackness beyond where it had been.




CHAPTER VIII


FOR a little space Alan could scarcely believe the evidence of his
eyes. With wildly beating heart and shaking hands he reached for his
lamp, and without rising from his seat he turned its glare into the
gloom beyond. Then he sat staring before him, big-eyed and wondering.
What he saw was a bare circular apartment about twelve feet in
diameter. Immediately inside the doorway was a small landing not more
than 3 feet square, surrounded on two sides by a balustrade of the
same familiar concrete about three feet high, while from the third
side appeared a flight of steps that curved with the wall down into
the darkness. Right before him near the low ceiling on the opposite
wall his eyes were held by a tablet, on which stood out in bold relief
three groups of characters, one below the other. The characters were
evenly spaced, the top group having three, the middle four, and the
lower one six. Moving his light slightly from side to side, Alan's
eyes rested on the doorway. "Well! May I be hanged, what's become of
the door?" for truly it had vanished. He had heard no sound as it
opened, and within there was no trace of it. Then with a chuckle of
pleasure he solved the mystery: there was a foot-wide groove where it
had been, and flashing his light to his feet he saw that it had
slipped downwards into the thickness of the wall till its upper edge
came exactly to a level with the floor.

Allowing for eighteen inches outside, a foot for the thickness of the
door, and another eighteen inches inside Alan estimated the thickness
of the wall to be about four feet, and four feet of such material as
he knew it to be composed of meant practical indestructibility. In
spite of his quivering excitement, Dundas held himself in hand. His
previous experience had made him very wary, and the possibility of
unpleasant results made him curb his impatience to investigate
further. Without leaving his seat, he turned the light over every
visible portion of the interior. Again the tablet with its bold
inscription took his eye, and he studied the characters long and
thoughtfully. "It might be an address of welcome," he mused, "or,
again, it might be a notice to keep off the grass. Looks like a
mixture of Russian and Hebrew, with a dash of Persian. Anyway, it's
been dead a lot longer than any of the dead languages I've rubbed
against, and methinks I'll find no Rosetta stone lying about." Then he
turned his light to the winding staircase. "It would appear," he went
on, half to himself, "as if I'd found an entrance from the attic, and
if I go downstairs I'll come on the furnished apartments." He half
rose, but came to rest again in answer to a warning thought. "Alan, my
son, it behoves you to move carefully, or you may find yourself in a
nasty fix. The architects of this problematically desirable building
were no second-raters."

First he turned to the levers, and after carefully noting their
position, he again commenced to work them. Watching the door
carefully, and as nothing occurred he returned them to the combination
that had gained him entrance. Then he went to his tool shed and
procured a crowbar. Armed with this he returned to the doorway, and
while standing outside he carefully tested the landing within for any
hidden trap that might lead to trouble. He satisfied himself that all
was secure, and then took up his lamp and stepped over the threshold.
Standing on the landing he turned his light into the darkness below
him, but all he could see was the stairway winding down into the
blackness beyond the lamp's rays. As the chamber was about twelve feet
in diameter, and the stairway about three feet wide, it followed that
there was a circular shaft about six feet across down the middle
leading to goodness only knew where. Strain his eyes as he would,
Dundas could only penetrate the darkness some twenty or thirty feet,
where the light caught on the winding balustrade below. He returned to
the outside of the shaft and picked up a small piece of clay, and,
holding it well over, he let it drop, and listened intently. In the
silence he heard the whiz of its passage through the air, but no sound
of its fall. He straightened up, and looked about thoughtfully, and as
he did so, the light falling on the balustrade drew his attention to a
small but significant matter. He rubbed his finger carefully over its
smooth surface, and then examined it under the lamp. "Not a trace. Not
a particle of dust. And yet--countless centuries--good God! What does
it all mean?" He broke off, murmuring disjointedly. One thing was
clear to his mind. It would be madness to attempt to descend without
ascertaining as far as possible the state of the air in the shaft.

Back to the homestead he hurried, and after rummaging in the drawer of
his sideboard he found several fishing lines, then from its hook in
the kitchen he took a hurricane lamp, and with these he returned to
the shed. He lit the hurricane lamp and attached it to one of his
lines, and, leaning over the balustrade, he lowered it slowly, using a
short piece of wood with a groove in the end to keep the lamp in the
centre of the shaft, and prevent it from striking against the
balustrade in its descent. He played out his line carefully yard after
yard, and watched the glow grow fainter and fainter as the depth
increased.

At twenty yards his line ran out, and he attached another, and
continued lowering. By hanging over and watching carefully he could
follow the course of the lamp, but it was too far down for him to
distinguish anything. Then the second line came to an end, another
twenty yards, or one hundred and twenty feet in all. Once or twice the
silence was broken by a dull echo when the lamp had touched the side
somewhere below, and the sound came up magnified and uncanny. Alan
added a third line to the others, and continued paying out as before.
Half of the third line had run out, and it was only by straining his
eyes that he could catch a faint speck of light in the depths. "Deuce
take it all," he thought. "It might be a thousand feet or more, and
I've only one more line." At the moment the line came slack in his
hand, and out of the depths came a slow, whispering sound that told of
contact somewhere below. "At last!" He looked at the remainder of the
line in his hand, and judged its length. "A hundred and sixty feet at
least. By Jove! What a trip to the bottom." He plumbed carefully to
make sure that the lamp had not caught, and that it was really on the
bottom, and, having assured himself of this, he commenced to haul up.
He was not long in satisfying himself of the purity of the air below,
for the gleam of light from the lamp grew stronger as he drew it
upwards, and when he finally retrieved it he found it burning as
brightly as when he began to lower it. A careful examination of the
bottom of the lamp showed that it was quite dry, and this was
sufficient to indicate that whatever dangers the shaft held, foul air
and water were not included. It was meagre information at the best,
but still it was something.

He had already made up his mind as to his future movements, and his
curiosity, now at fever heat, could no longer be restrained. In spite
of unforeseen dangers, he would not have shared the honour of
exploration, even with a friend, for a kingdom. Leaving his hurricane
lamp on the landing and taking with him the acetylene lamp from his
dogcart in one hand, and the crowbar in the other, he turned to the
stairway and began to descend. His progress was slow, for with the bar
he tested every step before putting his foot on it. In spite of his
eagerness, or perhaps because of it, his heart was going a good deal
faster than usual, but his head was perfectly clear, for he thoroughly
realised the importance of keeping his wits about him.

At the first turn he lost sight of the doorway, and after that his
world consisted of the winding path before him, and its dancing
shadows. As he went lower and lower the echoes around him increased.
Every sound was magnified and distorted out of all recognition. The
clank of the iron bar on each step as he tried it rang and rolled up
and down in deep metallic murmurings. The sound of the tread of his
heavy boots was thrown from wall to wall until it seemed that in every
step he was accompanied by an unseen multitude who thronged round him
in the darkness. Even when he paused, awed in spite of himself, the
winding gallery seemed full of mysterious uncanny whisperings. "My
aunt! What a beast of a place--enough to make anyone funk," he
thought. But he sternly repressed his feelings and recommenced his
descent.

All the way down the walls showed unchanging and unbroken. At first he
had tried to calculate the distance he had gone, but there was nothing
to guide his eye, and he soon lost all sense of his position. His slow
progress seemed unending. The blackness from above seemed to weigh on
him with a palpable force, and in spite of every endeavour to put
aside the idea, the ghostly crowding footfalls about him seemed to
grow in numbers. The clanking ring of the bar boomed and echoed off
into the distance, and returned like the tolling of iron bells. It
seemed hours since he had started on his journey, though he knew it
could not be more than a few minutes. With his teeth clenched and his
breath coming fast through his nostrils he forced himself to go on. In
his heart he knew if he paused he would give away to panic and bolt
for the surface. He felt a cold, clammy sweat break out on his
forehead, and it seemed as if each hair on the back of his head lifted
separately. Would he never reach the end of these damned steps, he
wondered. Did this twisting, nerve-racking track wind downwards into a
ghost-haunted eternity? "God Almighty!" The words were wrung from
terror-parched lips as he paused on the last step. The iron bar
clashed clamouring to the floor, then he turned and fled--fled with a
shriek that echoed in a devil's chorus. Upwards--upwards--anywhere.
Oh, God! for the light of day. An animal instinct made him cling to
the light he carried as he fled. After the first wild cry he made no
sound. Afterwards he could recall no detail of his flight. Instinct
lent him strength to scramble from the shaft at last. The glorious
light of day partially calmed his semi-madness as he sped to the
house. Once there he snatched his rifle from its rack, and jamming a
cartridge home with his thumb, he ran back to the verandah, and stood
looking towards the shed with the weapon at the ready, waiting for he
knew not what to appear.

As he stood there, pale faced and with the perspiration rolling off
him, he almost jumped a foot to hear a voice behind him. It was
nothing more unusual than the driver of the storekeeper's cart with
supplies from Glen Cairn. Alan forced himself to calmness with an
effort, and answered the man's astonished stare with a smile. "Wild
turkey," he said. "Not exactly legal, you know," he went on, glancing
at the rifle. "But it's hard to resist temptation." Fortunately for
Alan, the man was not gifted with any imagination; he accepted the
story without question. "Gord's truth, Mr. Dundas, when I seen you
comin' out of that shed I made sure you was snake-bit. Cripes, but you
did leg it. Where's the bird?"

"Gone into the vines," said Alan, setting down the rifle and glancing
over his shoulder. Then he took delivery of his goods and gave the man
an order for his next trip. The proximity of a fellow-creature was all
that he wanted to restore his shaken equanimity, and by the time the
driver was rattling down the track to the road he was almost himself
again.

Alan went back to the house and poured himself out a nip of whisky
with a hand that let the bottle rattle a tattoo on the edge of the
glass. "Pretty state I'm in," he murmured. "Dutch courage, too." He
gulped down the spirit and returned to the verandah to stare
thoughtfully at the shed that held the mystery, and pieced together in
his mind the events of his exploring trip.

"Now, was it just pure funk--or was it. No, by heaven! It was real. My
eyes couldn't have played tricks like that. And yet it's slam dancing
dementia on the face of it." But dementia or not, he knew that as he
had come to the last step on that infernal staircase; a step that had
brought him on to a wide circular landing; just directly opposite to
where he had stood was an opening in the floor of the landing, and
from that opening came a brilliant stream of light that flung itself
against the wall before him, and in the midst of the light showed up
clear and distinct the shadow of a human figure with one threatening
hand up-raised. Alan knew he had not imagined this. Yet the sheer
impossibility of, in the first place, light, and in the second place
humanity, in such circumstances might well make him hesitant to accept
the evidence of his senses. He glanced at the watch in his belt. It
was just four o'clock. He snapped out the cartridge and returned the
rifle to its rack. Then he went to his bedroom, and from a drawer in
his dressing-table took a .32 automatic pistol and some cartridges,
and slipped in a full clip.

At the door he paused and returned again, and took off his heavy
working boots, and substituted for them a pair of thick rubber-soled
tennis shoes. He did not want the company of the ghostly army on his
second trip. Then with the pistol in his hand he made his way once
more to the shed. At the door he listened intently. Not a sound broke
the stillness. He advanced and looked into the shaft. There he saw the
acetylene lamp he had abandoned in his flight still burning brightly.
Again he listened intently for a few moments, and then let himself
down. Inside the massive doorway the hurricane lamp still glowed,
lighting up the interior. He picked up the acetylene, and with his
finger on the trigger of the automatic, he stepped inside, He leaned
over the balustrade, and listened with strained senses. In the intense
silence, he could only hear the deep drawing of his breath. Then,
tight lipped and with tense nerves he turned to the stairway.

It took courage of no light order to force himself to those black
whispering depths, where in spite of all his self-assurance, his
shrinking flesh told him that any turn in the winding path might bring
him face to face with something nameless, and beyond the ken of
imaginations.

Down he went, this time faster than before, for he had now no need to
test his path. In order to divert his mind he counted his steps as he
went. He held the lamp so as to throw the light as far ahead as
possible, and in his right hand he grasped the pistol ready for
instant action. At the one hundred and fiftieth step he paused, and in
a moment the whispering murmurs of his progress died away into aching
silence. It was a stillness so intense that he could plainly hear the
thumping of his heart. Then he pulled himself together and went on.
One hundred and seventy-five--eighty surely he must be near the end.
Ten more steps and still the darkness ahead. Then his lamp flashed on
a break in the descent, and showed his crowbar lying on the lower
landing, and Alan braced himself for what he knew was coming. It was
not until he stood on the final step, that he could be sure. Treading
with feline stealth, and with every nerve alert, he went downward.
Then he knew at last that his eyes had not deceived him. Both light
and shadow were still there.




CHAPTER IX


STANDING rigid, with his breath coming in quick gasps, Alan took in
every detail of his position. The landing he had come upon appeared to
be an enlargement of the shaft. It was circular, and quite forty feet
in diameter, with a low ceiling and with walls perfectly devoid of
ornament. At first only one fact fixed his mind to the exclusion of
all else. Straight before him on the opposite side of the landing was
an opening in the floor leading to a lower apartment, and from this
opening shone a brilliant, white, steady glow that flung a clearly
defined arched light upon the wall in front of him, and this arched
light framed the shadow of a motionless human figure. How long Dundas
stood staring he did not know, but long as he stood the shadowed
figure showed no sign of movement. With one arm upraised and distorted
by the angle of the light, it stood out immense and threatening, as if
to warn him away.

After minutes that seemed like hours Alan summoned up his courage.
Hard as it was to go forward, he felt he could not go back without
having solved the mystery of the light. Slowly, with infinite care to
make no sound, he placed his lamp on the step behind him; then he
stepped forward gingerly and went down on his hands and knees, keeping
his eyes fixed on the shadow, and his pistol ready for instant use.
Inch after inch he wriggled himself across the cold, hard floor, now
and again pausing to listen. At length he came to the opening and drew
himself forward cautiously, till by craning his neck he could peer
over the edge to satisfy his burning curiosity. It was a long time
before he moved again, although what he saw allayed his fears, his
astonishment held him spellbound. A flight of steps led to another
floor thirty feet below, to an apartment the size of which he could
not determine. Just below him on the floor was a tripod that held what
appeared to be a ball of white fire, from which emanated the light
that streamed through the opening he was looking through. It was not a
diffused light, but was projected as if from a powerful lens. For a
little time Alan was at a loss to account for the shadow of the human
figure on the wall, until he realised that it was projected directly
from the source of light itself, and was beyond doubt thrown on the
place where it could be seen from above, with the object of doing to
investigators what it had done to Dundas. That the device had scared
him badly Alan admitted ruefully, but he felt some consolation in
knowing that there had been no witness to his stampede.

"By Jove! whoever was responsible for that little game scored
properly," he thought with a grin. "If his spirit is anywhere in this
locality it must have been tickled to see me foot it upstairs."
Gradually as he stared below another fact forced itself to his senses.
Somewhere beyond the range of his vision was another source of light
unaccounted for by the one below him. It was not strong, but diffused,
and served to show what appeared to be a pattern on the pavement
beneath. "Someone left the light burning," he mused. "There ought to
be a pretty bill. Great Scott! Fancy being landed with an account for
several hundred thousand years' light supply." The idea tickled his
fancy. "Wonder if I could be made responsible? What a pretty case to
argue before the Full Court. Good Lord, though, it's no wonder. The
originators of this concern knew a few things, and didn't want to
leave the finding of them to chance. That light now, for instance--I
guess I'm going to see things before this is over, provided"--he
paused, turning things over in his mind. "Yes, provided I don't
stumble on any little prearranged contrivance to end my explorations."
He sat up and slipped the pistol into his belt, realising that by his
wits alone could he guard himself against the dangers of the task
before him. Then he walked over to where the crowbar had fallen, and,
picking it up, he returned to the opening. There was no need for his
lamp, so he left it where he had set it down. He started down to the
lower chamber, testing each step as before. The floor he had left was
about six inches deep, and when he reached the fourth step he sat down
and looked around him. The stairway he was on went down steeply
against the so that the first glance enabled him to take in the whole
of his surroundings, and for a long time he sat motionless with his
thoughts in a state of chaos. It seemed as though he had penetrated to
a great circular vestibule, fully eighty feet in diameter, whose walls
were broken at regular intervals by what appeared to be six wide,
translucent doors. Four of these he could see plainly from where he
sat, and his eyes wandered from one to another, drinking in a beauty
that was beyond his dreams of the beautiful and wonderful. They
appeared to be composed of stained glass, through which the light he
had noticed streamed, filling the vestibule with its soft radiance.
Even from where he sat the gorgeous figured designs on the panels
opposite were perfectly distinct. He had very little artistic lore,
but a strongly developed love for the beautiful, and he felt certain
that nothing he had ever heard of could approach those translucent
panels for sheer beauty of colour or design.

The soft glow filtering through showed the vestibule to be quite empty
but for the tripod bearing the lens, whose beam of light cut into the
semi-darkness like a sword of fire, and one other object the nature of
which, until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could not
make out. Gradually under his straining sight it took shape, and
resolved itself into a sculptured group of three figures on a low
pedestal that occupied the centre of the apartment. Close as they were
to him however, Alan could determine no details in the cathedral
gloom. Another thing at the same time fixed his attention. He had
noticed it before, but had been so occupied with other matters that
its significance escaped him until now. The stairway he was on had no
balustrade. Instead, from the roof above to each step, were fixed two
thin bars of metal, hardly as thick as a lead pencil. They were
sufficiently close together to prevent even a child from passing
between them, but so slender as to be almost unnoticeable.

Dundas looked at them sourly and suspiciously. "Now what the deuce is
the reason for that?" he thought. "Another infernal trick?" After a
few minutes he touched one of them gingerly, half expecting a shock
that would reward his curiosity; but found he could handle them with
impunity. Emboldened by his immunity from trouble, he grasped one of
them firmly and tried its strength. The result of the attempt took him
by surprise, for in spite of its wirelike proportions it remained as
rigid as a bar of inch steel against the utmost pressure he could
exert. "So, my friends," he muttered, "visitors are expected to go all
the way down the steps, and not take any short cuts. Now, if I have
learned anything about this blessed place, those wires were not put
there out of considerations of safety. There's a reason, and I doubt
if it's a pleasant one." He stood up and recommenced his descent,
sounding before him with his crowbar more carefully than ever.
Two-thirds of the way were passed in safety, and he was beginning to think
he had judged wrongly. Then he struck downwards with his bar at the
tenth step from the bottom. As it touched the step something flashed
for one fleeting second before his eyes, something that swished
viciously so close to his face that it seemed almost to touch him.
There was a loud clear twang of metal under immense tension, and a
jarring blow on the bar he held that almost wrenched it from his
grasp. Then something heavy clanked down the lower steps and came to
rest on the pavement below. Dundas sprang backwards with a cry half
anger and half surprise. What had happened? The bar in his hand felt
lighter and shorter, and he held it up close to his eyes and examined
it. Nearly a foot of its length had been severed by a clean, smooth
cut that had gone through the metal as if it had been putty, and it
was the severed end that had clattered down the steps. In a moment
Alan realised how close he had been to death, and a cold chill went
through him. "The devils," he muttered savagely. "The devils!" He
retreated upwards, got the acetylene lamp he had left behind him, and
returned to the lower stairway. Moving with infinite caution he
examined the wall above the danger point. The clear white rays showed
what his eyes had missed in the gloom. It was the line of a narrow
vertical cleft in the wall, and turning the light downward he saw a
similar cleft along the step beneath him. He placed the light beside
him, and then sat down. Then he leaned well backward out of reach of
danger, and again pressed the crowbar to the step below. At the first
slightest touch a great white blade flashed out and downward from the
wall, severing the bar as before. The thought of what would have
happened had the step been pressed by his foot brought a cold
perspiration to his forehead. The fiendish ingenuity that had barred
his way struck a cold fear to his heart. Alan knew that but for the
precaution he had taken he must have met a terrible death, and his
mutilated body would be lying there at the foot of the stairway in the
gloomy silence. The shock to his nerves made thinking out of the
question, and with shaking limbs and dazed senses he made his way
upwards. Out into the dusk he went, and locked the door of the shed
behind him. In his heart was a deep feeling of gratitude for his
preservation.

That evening he prepared his meal in thoughtful silence. There was
none of the cheerful whistling and singing that usually accompanied
his last work of the day. When he had finished and set all in order,
he sat down and commenced to write. He set out in clear detail every
incident of his discovery, and every danger to be encountered so far
as he had gone. It was far into the night when he had finished. Then
he enclosed the many sheets in an envelope and wrote across it in
clear, round hand: "If I am missing, the contents of this letter must
be read before any search is made for me." This he signed and dated.
Then he placed the envelope in a conspicuous spot on the mantelpiece,
so that it could not be possibly overlooked. "Now," he thought, "if I
do get bowled out, Bryce, or whoever comes to investigate, will run
fewer risks." Then, satisfied that he had insured others to a certain
extent, if not himself, he went to his bed thoroughly tired out with
his strenuous day.

But, tired as he was, the sleep he longed for refused to come at his
bidding. The wonder of his discovery had gripped his mind so that, try
as he would, he could not clear his brain of the questions that
clamoured for an answer. The feeling of anger which he had at first
felt at the deadly trap he had escaped had given way under a quieter
reasoning with himself. Whatever mystery was hidden behind those great
doors was surely worthy of the care taken to guard it. He realised
that every difficulty that he had encountered so far was capable of
solution, and that every obstacle was one which would bar effectually
an unreasoning or unintelligent intruder, and that behind it all was
the evident fact that everything had been planned to prevent the
secret of the place from falling into the hands of anyone who was
unfitted by lack of courage or mental training to estimate it at its
proper value.

Alan smiled to himself when he realised how completely the events of
the past few days had absorbed him. Glen Cairn may have been a
thousand miles away for all the thought he gave it. The friends he
knew had been completely forgotten. It seemed years since he had last
seen Bryce, instead of just one week. The next day would be Sunday,
and he knew that, instead of resting, nothing could tear him from the
work in hand. He felt he should have gone to see Marian, but he
determined that while the mystery remained unsolved he would be
chained to the spot.

At last sleep came, deep and untroubled, and the sun had risen long
before Dundas became conscious of the day.




CHAPTER X


WITH his hands deep in his pockets and his chin on his chest, Alan
paced slowly up and down the verandah of the homestead. He had
abandoned his first idea of going at once to the shed because he
wanted to think with his mind untroubled by the weird surroundings of
the great vestibule. Obviously there were some means of passing that
murderous blade. It would be easy for him to jump from the step above
to the floor beneath, but the possibility of finding something as bad,
or worse on landing, forced him to put the idea aside. He felt that
each bar to his progress must be fairly overcome before he could
safely press forward. In his mind's eye he went over the surroundings
for the key of the situation, and he could see only one way out.
Whatever motive force there was behind the blade could not be
inexhaustible. Doubtless it was a question of mechanics, and the only
means he could see was to exhaust the power that drove the flying
death until he could pass unharmed.

He went to his tool shed and fastened a pair of ploughshares together
with a piece of fencing wire leaving a fair length of wire over that
he bent roughly into a hook. Then he took his lamp and made his way
down into the winding staircase. He had become familiar now with its
echoings, and smiled to think of his racked nerves on his first
descent. At length he reached the bottom of the first landing, and
found the remnant of the crowbar he had left there the night before.
This he carried with him, and, scarcely pausing to glance at the
shadowed wall, he made his way to the great vestibule. Treading
carefully, he stopped above the danger mark, and sitting down, he
examined the step beneath. He found, as he had expected, that the
cleft that allowed the passage of the blade terminated about an inch
from the end of the step near the wire bars. Holding the crowbar
carefully so that it was clear of the sweep of steel, he touched the
edge of the step lightly beside the wires and the touch was answered
instantly by the ringing whiz of the flying metal. Even prepared as he
was, Alan flinched back from the blow and released the pressure. Then
he took the ploughshares he had brought with him, and adjusted the
hook so as to catch the bar of the step, and let the weight fall
outside. It was a simple plan that would keep a continuous weight on
the step that would be out of reach of the blade, and it acted to
perfection. The moment the pressure came to the step the blade flashed
outward. As Alan had surmised, it was fitted to an axle set in the
wall, and instead of stopping as before after one slash when the
pressure had been released, it continued flashing before him with ever
increasing speed. Somewhere in the wall beside him he could hear the
deep drone of machinery in motion. In a few seconds the speed was so
intense that it appeared as if a dazzling quadrant of burnished metal
had darted out of the wall. The whizzing as it cut through the air
rose from a wail to a thin, high-pitched screech, and even after
retreating upwards several steps to be out of reach of possible harm,
Alan could feel the displaced air pressing against his face as if
driven from a blast. With his lamp turned full on the spot, he watched
the whirling, flying blade with grim satisfaction. Patience was an
asset in the game he was playing, but he felt sure he had found a key
to the barrier before him, and he was content to wait.

Presently his eyes strayed from the shimmering quadrant to the great
doors that shed their soft splendour through the dim vestibule,
wondering at the mystery they guarded, and from the doors they turned
to the sculptured group in the centre. On this he turned the glare of
the acetylene lamp. Of the three figures only one faced him, and this
he scrutinised with bated breath. It was the life-size image of a man
clad in a long robe that fell almost to his feet, and under the steady
white rays every detail stood out with perfect distinctness. The body
was bent forward slightly with both hands resting on a short staff,
and the robe showed ragged and torn as if slipping from the shoulders
of the gaunt frame that supported it, but it was the face that held
the gaze of the watcher. It was the face of an old man, but in its
intense drawn misery could be read the premature age of pain and
overwhelming sorrow. Never had Alan realised such agony as stared back
at him from the blank eyes under the scarred and lined forehead, but
it seemed as if the stern, set lips were fighting back any feeling of
weakness or surrender that seemed struggling to find expression. On
the pedestal at the feet of the figure the light gleamed on a metal
tablet, and on the tablet Alan recognised a repetition of the first
group of characters he had seen at the head of the first stairway.
"Evidently," he thought, "the name of that monument of misfortune. Ye
gods! what a face! A portrait, beyond doubt. I suppose I'll find the
other two figures are labelled with the remainder of these
hieroglyphics upstairs at the entrance. I wish I could see them
properly." But there was no chance of a proper examination of the
other two until he was able to gain the floor of the vestibule. Both
were turned away from him, but he could see that one had an arm
upraised and pointing directly at the gleaming splendour of the door
in front of him.

The inaction of waiting with the goal in sight was exasperating beyond
words, but while that screeching blade remained in motion he must
possess his soul in patience. He wondered vaguely how many revolutions
it was making each minute that passed. His situation was not very
pleasant, sitting cramped on the step that seemed to grow harder as
time went on, and, moreover, he realised with a slight shiver that the
temperature of the great vestibule was very much below that of the
atmosphere of the surface. At last his patience became exhausted, and
he determined that rather than sit there in irritated watchfulness he
would return to the surface and let that whizzing machinery wear
itself out. Alan's previous trips up the winding staircase had taught
him that it was not a journey to be undertaken lightly, but to face
the climb was better than fretting his patience with compulsory
idleness. So off he set, and forced himself to prepare his dinner.
Then he selected a book, and by sheer force of will concentrated his
mind on it. It was about eleven in the morning when he had adjusted
the weights and started the wheels, and he had decided that he would
not return until four o'clock. It took a good deal of self-discipline
to adhere to his determination. However, he succeeded, but it must be
confessed that the author of "The Origin and Development of Moral
Ideas" never had a less enthusiastic reader. At last! He flung the
heavy volume on the table and hurried to the shaft; then downward. He
had noticed in the morning that until he had half completed his ascent
he could hear the sound of the flying blade. Now, on the way down he
strained his ears to catch every sound. As he went lower and lower his
heart beat faster, now and then he paused to listen, and then hope
became conviction. Even when he had reached the lower landing and
stood before the shadowy figure no sound broke the silence. He hurried
onwards, quivering with excitement. As he stepped down into the lower
stairway he saw in an instant that the blade had ceased its movement.
He took his bar and carefully tested the danger step, but this time
without result. His way was clear at last. Even so, he knew the risk
of any relaxation in his precautions. He had gained too wholesome a
respect for the abilities of the builders in the way of unpleasant
surprises to have any illusions that there was nothing more to follow.
Treading as delicately as a cat he went down the remaining steps.

At last he stood on the lower floor. The lamp showed up a wonderful
pattern of mosaic that radiated from the sculptured group in the
centre, so that he seemed to stand on a vast jewelled carpet.
Everywhere the white light fell it was flashed back from a thousand
gleaming multi-coloured points of light. It seemed sacrilege to set
foot upon it, and Alan felt pleased that his rubber-shod shoes would
not be likely to mar its beauty.

His first idea was to examine that strange ball of light that
projected its rays through the landing above, and, walking carefully,
a few steps brought him before it. The most minute scrutiny failed to
show any attachment to the tripod. It looked like the lens from a
lantern that had been carefully placed to throw its rays in the
desired direction. For a long time he stared, hesitating to touch it.
Holding his hand within an inch before it he found not the slightest
trace of warmth. "Light without heat," Alan murmured, bending over and
gazing into the brilliant glare. He touched the lens with a tentative
finger, expecting developments. Nothing happened. Then he boldly
closed his hand over it, and without difficulty lifted it from its
stand. He turned it over and over, sending its dazzling rays
erratically round the vestibule. All he could discover was that behind
the lens appeared to be a cavity containing something self-luminous,
but whether liquid or gas he could not determine. Set deep in it was a
tiny opaque human figure--the origin of that spectre that