The Greatest Sci-Fi Books of Erle Cox. Erle Cox
on the couch, and just above the elbow was drawn a circle, that was shown again enlarged on the opposite page, and with it was pictured a short, keen-bladed lancet. Again a picture of the arm with a long, deep incision laying bare the brachial artery. Then followed in exact and most minute detail the operation of injecting the green fluid from the flask. Then was shown an hour-glass, and as Alan came across each new object he checked it by its original in the chest. First the glass was shown, with its upper bulb full, and then the lower. Again there was pictured a flask, the contents of this one being of a deep ruby colour, and for the second time was shown an injection of the fluid into the artery. This second injection was followed by an elaborate and detailed closing of the incision and its subsequent dressing. A careful examination of the contents of the chest showed Alan that every article from flask to bandage was in duplicate, so great was the evident care to guard against accidents. The last page of all showed, wonder of wonders, the figure on the couch sitting up and looking with smiling eyes from the page And the eyes were a deep and wonderful grey.
At last Dundas closed the book. The story he read there was too plain for any doubt to exist in his mind as to its meaning. Here indeed was the key to all the hidden knowledge of the galleries, and the deep significance of it all weighed down on his soul like lead when he reflected on the terrible responsibility he had assumed in keeping the secret to himself. On him and him alone rested the burden of deciding what course to take now. He realised that there was another hitherto uncounted factor in the problem. Whatever course he took he must later answer for it to the unknown being who had through countless ages waited his coming. As he stood beside the crystal canopy with every pulse thrilling with a new and unknown emotion, he knew that for weal or woe his life was forever bound up with that of the woman before him. He was no longer captain of his soul. That and his whole existence was henceforth in the keeping of another.
Since he had set his foot across the threshold Alan had lost all count of time. Now he suddenly became aware of an overwhelming sense of weariness. In spite of it, however, he could not tear himself away from the regal loveliness of the figure before him. A fear came upon him that if he left her for an instant some harm might befall her, and it was only with difficulty that he reasoned himself into a saner frame of mind. Finally he decided that he could not bring himself to grapple with the problem in the present distracting surroundings, and that until he had rested he was unfitted to deal with so weighty a matter. With a lingering look at the still, glorious face, he turned resolutely away and passed through the curtain into the outer gallery. But it was a different man from the one who had entered the "temple" who now stood on the steps of the portico glancing round him with indifferent eyes.
It says much for his state of mind that Dundas walked through the pitch-black ante-chamber with even step, scarce heeding the demoniac raving that his presence caused. The sounds that a few hours before had driven him to unreasoning panic he heard unmoved. The hellish riot that surrounded him in the darkness only brought forth a grim smile of satisfaction. It would be a bold intruder, who, if he chanced to escape the pitfalls of the vestibule, would penetrate to the sixth gallery during his absence.
When he reached the surface at last he found with a detached feeling of surprise that it was black night, and on entering the homestead, the watch he had left behind him in the morning showed him that it wanted but a few minutes to midnight. He took a little food, forcing himself to eat from a sense of duty, and then turned towards his bedroom. As he passed the door leading to the verandah something white on the floor attracted his attention. Stooping he found that it was a letter, evidently put where he had found it by the man who had brought his stores from the township. Alan replaced on the table the lamp he was carrying, and tore open the envelope without glancing at the handwriting on it. The note it contained ran:
"Dear Mr. Dundas,–Why this utter desertion of your friends? Mr. Bryce tells me that you are reading hard for some absurd examination (it must be absurd or it wouldn't be an examination). He and Doris are having dinner with us on Sunday. I hope you will be able to join us, and, as this is only Wednesday, you will have ample time to think up some reasonable explanation. I told Doris I would be writing to you, and she asked me to tell you that you were a heartless wretch, and to be sure and spell it with a capital W., but I absolutely refused to convey so rude a message. Please come.–Yours sincerely, Marian Seymour."
Alan read the note through to the end, and then let it slip unheeded through his fingers. There was a faint smile about the corners of his lips, as through his mind there flashed the memory of a certain night, was it a century ago, when he took counsel with a caterpillar. He had an answer to all his questions.
Chapter XVI
Dundas woke next morning with a clear consciousness of the weighty matter he was called on to deal with, and as a preliminary he emptied his head of his difficulty until the time came for him to grapple with it in earnest. But though he could put problems from his mind for the time being, he made no attempt to turn his thoughts from the central figure in the case, nor could he have done so even if he wished. He set about his house work with a light heart, and for the first time in many days gave it more than perfunctory attention. He cooked for himself and enjoyed a good breakfast. Then having cleaned up his kitchen, he filled his pipe, and, pacing the verandah with his hands deep in his pockets, took counsel with himself.
He knew he had reached a point when he must obtain assistance from outside. Not for an instant did he question the certainty that the now inanimate figure beneath the crystal dome could be called to life by following the directions in the volume in the casket. The trouble was that he knew himself to be incompetent to carry out the necessary operation. Obviously that was a task for a surgeon. He felt a deep satisfaction in the thought that the surgeon he wanted was at his call and was, moreover, a lifelong chum whose fidelity was beyond question. This was, however, the least of his troubles. The real question revolved round the point of what was to be done with the lady of his dreams when she had been recalled to life. He could trust Dick Barry absolutely with his secret, but it was another matter to have to disclose it to some woman or other. He feared now, and not without reason, that once the knowledge of the existence of his discovery became public property constituted authority would step in and assume control of the situation. That he might be deprived of any right to control the contents of the galleries was of small moment compared with the fear that he might be separated from the woman whom he looked upon as his by divine right. He might, of course, get assistance from Doris Bryce or Kitty Barry, but deeply as he admired those two virtuous wives of his friends, he doubted their ability to control events sufficiently to keep their counsel until he was ready to proclaim his discovery to the world. Moreover, there came to add his difficulties the fact that his bachelor establishment was an impossible hiding-place for his secret. Every way he turned, the position bristled with notes of interrogation without one single feasible answer.
In the end he cut the knot of all his problems by deciding to lay the case before Barry, and induce that aspiring physician to perform the operation, and thereafter let events shape themselves. He had an idea that the central figure in the question would probably take the final decision out of his hands. "Anyhow," he said aloud to himself, as he tapped the ashes from his pipe. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I guess I'll give Dick Barry something to think over before the day is out."
It was characteristic of Dundas that, in spite of his absorbed interest in his own affairs, he did not forget to pull up at the only confectioner's shop in Glen Cairn. Then he handed over Billy to the groom at the club, and made his way to the residence of his friend. A brass plate of dazzling brilliance announced that Richard Barry, B.Sc., M.D., might be consulted there between the hours of 10 and 11 a.m., and 8 and 9 p.m. As it was just after 11, Alan knew that he would catch Barry before he left home on his rounds. The moment he entered the gate a joyous infantile squeal announced his presence to the mother on the verandah, who was unevenly dividing her time between sewing and entertaining her exuberant offspring. Alan heaved Barry, junior, to his shoulder, and joined Kitty, who had called out, on seeing who her visitor was, that she was not at home to strangers. Dundas deposited the wriggling infant at his mother's feet, and protested that his call was purely in honour of her son, who did