Then I saw through the open door that Philip was still in the room, and experiencing the same horror. His face was white and so set that it was more like a death mask than that of a human being. I tried to call, to help him, but all power was taken from me; I was helpless. So I stood there in mortal fear, gazing and gazing. Then he was out in the pa.s.sage and the door of the unholy room banged to.

The tension released, we sank down in utter exhaustion. I heard Philip's heavy breathing coupled with my own for a few minutes; then he made a sound between a sob and a groan, and I found the tears coursing down my face.

Fortunately no one came that way. It was fully lunch-time before we had recovered ourselves. There was a thick white streak in Philip's hair which had not been there before. We told them at lunch that we had been down the river together, and had to go through a good amount of chaff before returning empty- handed.

That afternoon a party had been planned, and we had to go. I expect that it was best for us, though we found it very difficult to listen to the idle chatter round us. I had a talk with Philip about moving before that night, but the only accommodation was cottages, and we lacked the courage to give the word to pack. It would only be a few days more until the other wing was ready.

After all, banging on the doors was nothing to what we had been through. As usual, the thing came that night, knocking at the doors; after it had gone I fell into a deep sleep.

Next morning, when I awoke, there was a great noise; everyone seemed to be talking outside in the pa.s.sage, and someone was crying hysterically. Above all I heard Philip's calm, deep voice restoring order. A few moments afterwards he came to my room, and I saw that beneath his outward calm he was very worried, ji He told me that the milkman, making his early rounds, had been attracted by somebody lying under a yew tree. It was a young boy with his throat cut. There was a blood-stained razor in his clenched hand; it looked like a clear case of suicide.

I hastily donned some clothes, while Philip sent the women away with a few stern words about behaving in a foolish manner. All of us men went with Philip to see the body. It was that of a boy of about eighteen. He must have been a handsome lad, for his features were curiously cla.s.sical and looked, under the hand of death, as if they were chiselled in marble. A long strand of hair fell across his face, and on his throat was a horrible ma.s.s of gashes and cuts, evidently wrought by an inexperienced hand.

Only - such a boy! What could have impelled him to this deed? Had he, too, been enmeshed in the evil of the place? Here came to me the desolation, human and spiritual, which I know no words to describe. The wind moved the branches of the tree and a shower of drops fell, as if even Nature wept at such a tragedy.

It is only a confused memory now of what was done and said. I felt that I could have joined the women in their hysterical sobs, but there was Philip to be thought of. They told me afterwards that I kept my head and gave out orders like a robot, with an unmoved face.

'The police, such as they were, took most of the responsibility. The old man in charge did not appear unduly surprised; indeed, he took it quite as a matter of course. He walked up to the house with Philip and I, and sat down in the study for a talk. Mechanically, Philip handed him a cigar, and, amid the heavy fumes of smoke, I remember hearing his voice in a rich Irish brogue.

'Well, sir,' he said, warming to his task, 'you don't know this place. There is something here which attracts them to come and die here. There have been some from the house too. 'Tis an evil place, and cursed so that none can live here, though 'tis a fine place. But I suppose that you did not know, sir. Anyhow, if I were you, sir, I would leave and go away.' He finished with rather an air of triumph at having proved his point to a couple of prosaic Englishmen.

As for Philip, he had sat staring out of the window all this time. Now he roused himself and gave the sergeant a handsome tip for his trouble, and begged him to say as little as possible.

When he had gone we stood at the window and watched the men preparing to take the corpse away. At last the little dark-clad procession pa.s.sed out of view. Philip turned to me and said: 'Ever heard of an exorcist? I have sent for one to see if he can expel the evil spirit from this place. The car left early this morning; he should be here this evening.'

Our new guest arrived in time for the evening meal. He was short and jovial and kept us all amused by his chatter, but he never made any mention of spirits or ghosts. He seemed to know most of the details when Philip tried to tell him. He warned us that the thing would make more noise that night, but he promised that no harm should come to us.

All was quiet as usual until the hour struck. Then the thing came out and raged up and down. When it came to the door of the exorcist it rattled at the handle and screamed with rage. At last it wearied of its wanderings and returned to the room. The exorcist told us that he had pa.s.sed the night in prayer.

Next morning, after breakfast, the ceremony of expelling the evil spirit took place. We all waited outside in the pa.s.sage while the exorcist went alone into the room, having enjoined us not to come in, whatever happened.

In a loud, clear voice he began the prayers, holding a book and a lighted candle in his hands. First thing the candle went out; then his face began to distort itself in various grimaces. When the prayer was finished candle and book fell to the ground. He appeared to be fighting for breath, and cried out that he was being throttled.

We tried to move, but were transfixed. There were strange moanings, cries and groans; then he was thrown with violence into the pa.s.sage and the door banged to.

The spell being broken, we bent anxiously over the victim, but he had gone into a dead faint and there were red marks on his throat. We carried him to his room and laid him on the bed.

,When he recovered consciousness it was very evident that he had been face to face with something very dreadful even for a man i used to evil and sinister things.

We were debating to send for a doctor, but he overheard, and forbade us. He said these things were among the incomprehensible and beyond the sphere of man. He spoke to Philip alone, and told him that the place was evil and it was better to go, for there was a terrible power hidden in that room. When Philip came out he told us all to pack, as he had decided to leave next day.

We were all so occupied that it was only when we heard the powerful engines of a car coming up the drive that we remembered Guy Dennis was expected. He was very popular, with his good nature and cheery ways. He asked if we were not glad to see him, and why we all looked like a pack of ghosts. Then Philip started to explain in a mild way what had happened. Guy burst into fits of laughter. So Philip lost his temper and told him the bare truth, and we all bore witness to it. Guy saw that we were really serious about it.

'Dreadfully sorry,' he said, 'to be such an unbelieving sinner.' And he laughed again.

There was something very cheering to have him there laughing at our fears, with his six-foot-four of common sense.

'I suggest a drink all round now, and request that I may sleep in your haunted room,' he said.

El The first part of the request was granted, but Philip was very firm in his 'No' to the other.

I must confess that, under Guy's influence, I almost thought that the whole thing was only overwrought imagination, but a sense of fear and depression soon returned. That evening pa.s.sed fairly quickly. We all got into bed with a feeling of relief that it was to be our last night in that place!

I fell almost immediately into a heavy sleep, and I dreamt that I was in a prison cell and that all around me were people being tortured. They brought in a huge man, bound, and commenced to put out his eyes. His screams were dreadful to hear. Then I woke to find myself in bed, but the cry still rang in my ears. I leapt out of bed, for it was coming from the pa.s.sage. I stumbled out with a candle, and found the others there before me.

It was with a great shock that I saw Guy Dennis rolling about in the pa.s.sage, alternately laughing and crying; for he was raving mad. I heard a voice say he had tried to sleep in that room just so as to be able to laugh at us in the morning, and this was what had happened!

We all stood there watching Guy laughing and showing his teeth. Then suddenly his mood changed and he rushed at us in a rage. There was a grim fight; candles fell to the ground and were trodden out, but in the end we overpowered him and bound him with sheets. Most of us were bleeding, for Guy had used teeth and nails against us.

The struggle had exhausted him. He went off into a faint, while the foam dried on his lips. We threw water on him and rubbed his temples. He opened his eyes with a groan and started moving his lips, but he was inaudible at first; then he started talking as if in a dream.

'I sorry - wanted to sleep there... light, such a queer light. No, it was a pillar of whitish matter, near, very near. There was something green in the middle... damp and wet. It came out. ...I can see it! It is all eyes... no, all hands... no, all face, all claws! It has hundreds of eyes. I must look at it! They are dreadful eyes; they scorch... no, they freeze me, but I must look. Now it has only half a face; but the eyes! ...It laughs at me and gibbers. It is thrusting me but. I want to go back. The door is shut and the master calls me. Master, I cannot get back; it is not my fault.' He tried to rise and fell back, quieter.

For a short time he slept, but about two o'clock he woke again and started moaning and praying.

'Take me away, take me away, for Heaven's sake take me away! Have pity, have pity! ' He tossed to and fro in his agony and fear. 'It is calling me; I must go back! ' he moaned.

We were a weird group round the figure on the bed, all dressed in oddments of clothes.

The exorcist said that he must get him away at once, out of the house; that the power of evil was very prevalent that night.

Six of us carried Guy between us. He had gone into a trance again, so it was not difficult. Down the dark pa.s.sage and the great oak staircase we went, men up against the great unknown, and very fearful.

Philip had locked and barred the door with care that night. We were obliged to put our burden down to struggle with the fastenings; as our hands were trembling, it took some time. At last the great door swung open on its hinges.

We stepped out into the warm darkness, and the procession continued down the drive, our way lit by a storm lantern. Long, dark shadows stole across the path, and every dark bush seemed to contain some lurking terror. Then, with a soft whirl of wings, an owl flew across our path.

When we reached the gates they were as welcome for us flying from evil in the dark night, as those of Paradise. The gamekeeper's cottage was quite near, Philip said; so we walked on in silence.

The little cabin was all in darkness, but it did not take very long to rouse the good man and his wife. The Irish are very quick to understand and they did not ask an undue number of questions until we were ready to tell them. Nor were they incredulous at our story.

The good woman made a bed for Guy and we laid him on it. Poor Guy, he never recovered from that night; we were obliged to leave him in an asylum in Dublin. From time to time he would break out in violent fits when the memory of what he had seen broke upon him. I often go and see him.

The next day Philip and I went back to shut up the house. It looked very pleasant in the sunlight, that haunt of evil. We did as little as possible; it was too full of awful memories to linger. At the lodge gates we looked back for the last time. The sun was blazing down and the gardens were bright with colour; then the gate shut behind us on the dreadful secret evil which reigned there.

Roger Pater: The Astrologer's Legacy

from MYSTIC VOICES Burns, Oates and Washbourne, 1923 ***

26 May, St Philip's feast, is the squire's birthday, and every year he celebrates the day by giving a little dinner party to a few very intimate friends. But, as he says, rather sadly, 'I have outlived most of my generation;' and, for some years past, the whole number, including the host and a guest or two who may be staying at the Hall, has seldom reached as many as ten.

On the first birthday for which I was present there were only half a dozen of us in all at the dinner. These were, first, Father Bertrand, an English Dominican Friar, and one of the squire's oldest friends, who usually spent some weeks with him every summer. Second, Sir John Gervase, a local baronet and antiquarian, who, besides being an F.S.A., and one of the greatest living authorities on stained gla.s.s, was also one of the few Catholic gentry in the neighbourhood of Stanton Rivers. The third was Herr Aufrecht, a German professor, who had come to England to study some ma.n.u.scripts in the British Museum, and had brought a letter of introduction from a common friend in Munich. Fourth, there was the rector of the next parish, who had been a Fellow of one of the colleges at Cambridge for most of his life, but had accepted the living, which was in the gift of his college, a few years previously, and had since become very intimate with the old squire, who, with myself, completed the number.

The mansion of Stanton Rivers is built round a little quadrangle, of which the servants' quarters and kitchen occupy the north side, the dining-room being at the north end of the west wing. When we are alone, however, the squire has all meals served in the morning-room; a small, cheerful apartment on the east side of the house, with dull, ivory-coloured walls, hung with exquisite old French pastels, and furnished entirely with Chippendale furniture, designed expressly for the squire's grandfather by the famous cabinet-maker; the original contract and bills for which are preserved in the family archives.

The birthday dinner, however, as befits an 'inst.i.tution', is always served in the dining-room proper, which is approached through the beautiful long apartment, stretching the whole length of the west wing, which the squire has made into the library. The dining-room is large and finely proportioned, and has its original Jacobean decoration, the walls being panelled in dark oak, with a carved cornice and plaster ceiling delicately moulded with a strapwork design, in which the c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.ls of the Rivers escutcheon are repeated again and again in combination with the leopards' heads of Stanton. The broad, deep fireplace has polished steel 'dogs' instead of a grate, and above it is a carved overmantel reaching to the ceiling, and emblazoned with all the quarterings the united families can boast, with their two mottoes, which combine so happily. Sans Dieu rien and Garde ta Foy.

I think the squire would prefer not to use the dining-room even for his birthday dinner, but he hasn't the heart to sadden Avison, the butler, by suggesting this. Indeed, the occasion is Avison's annual opportunity, and he glories in decking out the table with the finest things the house possesses in the way of family plate, gla.s.s, and china: while Mrs Parkin, the cook, and Saunders, the gardener, in their respective capacities, second his efforts with the utmost zeal.

The evening was an exquisite one, and we sat in the library talking and watching the changing effects of the fading lights as they played on the garden before the windows, until Avison threw open the folding doors and announced that dinner was served. Hitherto I had only seen the room in dSshabille, and it was quite a surprise to see how beautiful it now looked. The dark panelling, reflecting the warm sunset glow which came in through the broad mullioned windows, formed a perfect background to the dinner-table, with its shaded candles, delicate flowers, and gleams of light from gla.s.s and plate: and I felt that Avison's effort was really an artistic triumph. The same thought, I fancy, struck the rest of the guests, for no sooner had Father Bertrand said grace than Sir John burst out in admiration: 'My dear squire, what exquisite things you do possess! Some day I shall come and commit a burglary on you. Your gla.s.s and silver are a positive temptation.'

The host smiled, but I noticed that his eyes were fixed on the centre of the table, and that the eyelids were slightly drawn down, an expression I had learned to recognize as a sign of annoyance, carefully controlled. Following his gaze, I glanced at the table-centre, but before I could decide what it was, the German professor, who was sitting next me, broke out in a genial roar: 'Mein Gott, Herr Pater, but what is this?' and he pointed to the exquisite piece of plate in the centre of the table.

'We call it the Cellini fountain, Herr Aufrecht,' answered the squire, 'though it is certainly not a fountain, but a rose-water dish, and I can give you very little evidence that it is really Cellini's work.'

'Effidence,' exclaimed the German - 'it has its own effidence. What more want you? None but Benvenuto could broduce such a one. But how did you come to possess it?'

There was no doubt about the eyelids now, and I feared the other guests would notice their host's annoyance, but the squire controlled his voice perfectly as he answered: 'Oh, it has been in the family for more than three centuries; Sir Hubert Rivers, the ancestor whose portrait hangs at the foot of the stairs, is believed to have brought it back from Italy.'

I thought I could guess the cause of his annoyance now, for the ancestor in question had possessed a most unenviable reputation, and, by a strange trick of heredity, the squire's features were practically a reproduction of Sir Hubert's - a fact which was a source of no little secret chagrin to the saintly old priest. Fortunately, at this point, the rector turned the conversation down another channel; Herr Aufrecht did not pursue the subject further, and the squire's eyelids soon regained their normal elevation.

As the meal advanced the German came out as quite a brilliant talker, and the conversational ball was kept up so busily between Father Bertrand, the rector, and himself that the other three of us had little to do but listen and be entertained. A good deal of the talk was above my head, however, and during these periods my attention came back to the great rose-water dish which shone and glittered in the centre of the table.

In the first place I had never seen it before, which struck me as a little odd, for Avison had discovered my enthusiasm for old silver, and so had taken me to the pantry and displayed all the plate for my benefit. However, I concluded that so valuable a piece was probably put away in the strong-room, which would account for its not appearing with the rest.

What puzzled me more was the unusual character of the design, for every curve and line of the beautiful piece seemed purposely arranged to concentrate the attention on a large globe of rock crystal, which formed the centre and summit of the whole. The actual basin, filled with rose-water, extended beneath this ball, which was supported by four exquisite silver figures, and the constant play of reflected lights between the water and the crystal was so fascinating that I wondered the idea had never been repeated; yet, so far as my knowledge went, the design was unique.

Seated as I was, at the foot of the table, I faced the squire, and after a while I noticed that he, too, had dropped out of the conversation, and had his gaze fixed on the crystal globe. All at once his eyes dilated and his lips parted quickly, as if in surprise, while his gaze became concentrated with an intensity that startled me. This lasted for fully a minute, and then Avison happened to take away his plate. The distraction evidently broke the spell, whatever it was, for he began to talk again, and, as it seemed to me, kept his eyes carefully away from the crystal during the rest of the meal.

After we had drunk the squire's health, we retired to the library, where Avison brought us coffee, and about ten o'clock Sir John's carriage was announced. He had promised to give the rector a lift home, so the two of them soon departed together, and only the professor and Father Bertrand were left with the squire and myself. I felt a little afraid lest Herr Aufrecht should return to the subject of the Cellini fountain, but to my surprise, as soon as the other two were gone, the squire himself brought up the subject, which I thought he wished to avoid.

'You seemed interested in the rose-water fountain, Herr Aufrecht,' he remarked, 'would you like to examine it now that the others are gone?'

The German beamed with delight, and accepted the proposal volubly, while the squire rang the bell for Avison, and ordered him to bring the Cellini fountain to the library for Herr Aufrecht to see. The butler looked almost as pleased as the professor, and in a minute the splendid piece of plate was placed on a small table, arranged in the full light of a big shaded lamp.

The professor's flow of talk stopped abruptly as the conversationalist gave place to the connoisseur. Seating himself beside the little table, he produced a pocket lens, and proceeded to examine every part of the fountain with minute care, turning it slowly round as he did so. For fully five minutes he sat in silence, absorbed in his examination, and I noticed that his attention returned continually to the great crystal globe, supported by the four lovely figures, which formed the summit of the whole. Then he leaned back in his chair and delivered his opinion.

'It is undoubtedly by Cellini,' he said, 'and yet the schema is not like him. I think the patron for whom he laboured did compel him thus to fashion it. That great crystal ball at top - no, it is not what Benvenuto would do of himself. Thing you not so?' and he turned to the squire with a look of interrogation.

'I will tell you all I know about it in a minute, professor,' answered the old priest, 'but first please explain to me why you think Cellini was not left free in the design.'

'Ach so,' replied the German, 'it is the crystal globe. He is too obvious, too a.s.sertive; how is it you say in English, he "hit you in the eye". You haf read the Memoirs of Benvenuto?' The squire nodded. 'Ach, then you must see it, yourself. Do you not remember the great morse he make, the cope-clasp for Clemens septimus? The Pope show to him his great diamond, and demand a model for a clasp with it set therein. The other artists, all of them, did make the diamond the centre of the whole design. But Cellini? No. He put him at the feet of G.o.d the Father, so that the l.u.s.tre of the great gem would set off all the work, but should not dominate the whole, for ars est celare artem. Now here,' and he laid his hand upon the crystal globe, 'here it is otherwise.

These statuettes, they are perfection, in efery way they are worth far more than is the crystal. Yet, the great ball, he crush them, he kill them. You see him first, last, all the time. No, he is there for a purpose, but the purpose is not that of the design, not an artistic purpose, no. I am sure of it, he is there for use.'

As he finished speaking, he turned quickly towards the squire, and looked up at him with an air of conviction. I followed his example, and saw the old priest smiling quietly with an expression of admiration and agreement.

'You are perfectly right, professor,' he said quietly, 'the crystal was put there with a purpose, at least so I firmly believe; and I expect you can tell us also what the purpose was.'

'No, no, Herr Pater,' answered the other. 'If you know the reason, why make I guesses at it? Better you should tell us all about it, is it not so?'

'Very well,' replied the squire, and he seated himself beside the little table. Father Bertrand and myself did the same, and when we were all settled, he turned to the professor and began: 'I mentioned at dinner that this piece of plate was brought from Italy by Sir Hubert Rivers, and, first of all, I must tell you something about him. He was born about the year 1500, and lived to be over ninety years old, so his life practically coincides with the sixteenth century. His father died soon after Hubert came of age, and he thus became a person of some importance while still quite young. He was knighted by Henry VIII a year or two later, and soon afterwards was sent to Rome in the train of the English Amba.s.sador.

'There his brilliant parts attracted attention, and he soon abandoned his diplomatic position to become a member of the Papal entourage, though without any official position. When the breach between Henry and the Pope took place, he attached himself to the suite of the Imperial Amba.s.sador, thus avoiding any trouble with his own sovereign, who could not afford to quarrel still further with the Emperor, as well as any awkward questions as to his religious opinions.

'Of his life in Rome I can tell you practically nothing, but if tradition be true, he was a typical son of the Renaissance. He played with art, literature, and politics; and he more than played with astrology and the black arts, being, in fact, a member of the famous, or infamous, Academy. You may remember how that inst.i.tution, which was founded in the fifteenth century by the notorious Pomponio Leto, used to hold its meetings in one of the catacombs. Under Paul II the members were arrested and tried for heresy, but nothing could be actually proved against them, and afterwards they were supposed by their contemporaries to have reformed. We know now that in reality things went from bad to worse. The study of paganism led them on to the worship of Satan, and eventually suspicion was again aroused, and a further investigation ordered.

'Sir Hubert got wind of this in time, however, so he availed himself of his position in the household of the Imperial Amba.s.sador, and quietly retired to Naples. There he lived till he was over eighty, and no one in England ever expected him to return. But he did so, bringing with him a great store of books and ma.n.u.scripts, some pictures, and this piece of plate; and he died and was buried here in the last decade of the sixteenth century.

'His nephew, who came in for the estates on his death, was a devout Catholic, and had been educated at St Omers. He made short work with Sir Hubert's ma.n.u.scripts, most of which he burned, as being heretical or worse, but he spared one volume, which contains an inventory of the things brought from Naples. Among the items mentioned is this fountain. In fact, it has a whole page to itself, with a little sketch and a note of its attribution to Cellini, besides some other words, which I have never been able to make out. But I think it is clear that the crystal was used for evil purposes, and that is why I dislike seeing it on the table. If Avison had asked me, I should have forbidden him to produce it.'

'Then I am very glad he did not ask you, mein Herr,' observed the German, bluntly, 'for I should not then have seen him. But this inventory you speak of, is it permitted that I study it?'

'Certainly, Herr Aufrecht,' replied the squire, and walking to one of the bookcases, he unlocked the gla.s.s doors and took out a small volume, bound in faded red leather with gilt ornaments.

'This is the book,' he said; I will find you the page with the sketch,' and a minute later he handed the volume to the professor. I glanced across and saw a little drawing, unquestionably depicting the piece of plate before us, with some lines of writing beneath; the whole in faded ink, almost the colour of rust.

The professor's lens came out again and, with its aid, he read out the description beneath the picture.

'"Item. Vasculum argenteum, crystallo ornatum in quattuor statuas imposito. Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi. Quo crystallo Roma in ritibus nostris pontifex noster Pomponius olim uti solebat."'

(Item. A vessel of silver, adorned with a crystal supported on four statuettes. The work of Benvenuto, most famous of goldsmiths. This crystal our Pontiff Pomponius was wont to use in our rites at Rome in days gone by.) 'Well, that sounds conclusive enough,' said Father Bertrand, who had been listening intently. 'Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi, could only mean Cellini; and the last sentence certainly sounds very suspicious, though it doesn't give one much to go upon as to the use made of the crystal.'

'But there is more yet,' broke in Herr Aufrecht, 'it is in another script and much fainter.' He peered into the page with eyes screwed up, and then exclaimed in surprise, 'Why it is Greek!'

'Indeed,' said the squire, with interest, 'that accounts for my failure to read it. I'm afraid I forgot all the Greek I ever knew as soon as I left school.'

Meanwhile the professor had produced his pocket-book, and was jotting down the words as he deciphered them, while Father Bertrand and myself took the opportunity to examine the work on the little plaques which adorned the base of the fountain.

'I haf him all now,' announced Herr Aufrecht, triumphantly,' after a few minutes. 'Listen and I will translate him to you,' and after a little hesitation he read out the following: In the globe all truth is recorded, of the present, the past and the future.

To him that shall gaze it is shown; whosoever shall seek he shall find. O Lucifer, star of the morn, give ear to the voice of thy servant, Enter and dwell in my heart, who adore thee as master and lord.

Fabius Britannicus.

'Fabius Britannicus,' exclaimed the squire, as the professor ceased reading, 'why, those are the words on the base of the pagan altar in the background of Sir Hubert's portrait!'

'I doubt not he was named Fabius Britannicus in the Academia,' answered the German; 'all the members thereof did receive cla.s.sical names in place of their own.'

'It must be that,' said the squire; 'so he really was a worshipper of Satan. No wonder tradition paints him in such dark colours. But, why - of course,' he burst out, 'I see it all now, that explains everything.'

We all looked up, surprised at his vehemence, but he kept silent, until Father Bertrand said gently: 'I think, Philip, you can tell us something more about all this; will you not do so? '

The old man hesitated for a little while and then answered: 'Very well, if you wish it, you shall hear the story; but I must ask you to excuse me giving you the name. Although the princ.i.p.al actor in it has been dead many years now, I would rather keep his ident.i.ty secret.

'When I was still quite a young man, and before I decided to take orders, I made friends in London with a man who was a spiritualist. He was on terms of intimacy with Home, the medium, and he himself possessed considerable gifts in the same direction. He often pressed me to attend some of their seances, which I always refused to do, but our relations remained quite friendly, and at length he came down here on a visit to Stanton Rivers.

'The man was a journalist by profession, a critic and writer on matters artistic, so one evening, although we were quite alone at dinner, I told the butler, Avison's predecessor, to put out the Cellini fountain for him to see. I did not warn him what to expect, as I wanted to get his unbiased opinion, but the moment he set eyes on it, he burst out in admiration, and, like our friend the professor tonight, he p.r.o.nounced it to be unquestionably by Benvenuto himself.

'I said it was always believed to be his work, but purposely told him nothing about Sir Hubert, or my suspicions as to the original use of the crystal, and he did not question me about its history. As the meal advanced, however, he became curiously silent and self-absorbed. Sometimes I had to repeat what I was saying two or three times before he grasped the point; and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, so that it was a real relief when the butler put the decanters on the table and left us to ourselves.

'My friend was sitting on my right, at the side of the table, so that we could talk to each other more easily, and I noticed that he kept his gaze fixed on the fountain in front of him. After all it was a very natural thing for him to do, and at first I did not connect his silence and distraction with the piece of plate.