Page:Weird Tales Volume 13 Number 3 (1929-03).djvu/42

is said that he composed the lines that are carved on this box."

Quickly crossing the room, she took from the sideboard a small wooden casket and handed it to Wilmer. No sooner had he brought it within the range of the single candle which lighted the room than an exclamation of surprize escaped him. Attracted by his evident agitation, I stepped to his side, but he waved me back impatiently and turned to the woman.

"Have you read the lines that are written here?" he asked in a voice that he vainly tried to keep natural.

"I have not even seen them, sir," came the quiet answer. "I was born blind."

Blind! I peered closely into the withered face and saw that she indeed spoke the truth. Yet so alert and assured had been her movements that the revelation came as a sudden shock. I began to murmur some words of sympathy, but she cut them short.

"I have lived here so long that I know every step, every nook and corner and, as I very seldom stir out of doors, my affliction does not hamper my movements. Is the room to your liking, gentlemen?"

We hastened to assure her that it suited us in every way. Whereupon, after wishing us a good night's rest, the old dame took her departure. Scarcely had the door closed on her when Wilmer was holding out the casket with trembling hands.

"What a find! What priceless luck! Here's a hitherto unsuspected relic of Shakespeare—and such a relic! There, read that."

As he spoke he pointed to some lines carved on the lid in strange, old-fashioned characters. I read them out slowly:

Wilmer Denton laid a shaking hand on my arm. "Don't you understand?" he cried. "Inside that casket rests the hand of Shakespeare!"

Wondering, incredulous, still. scarcely realizing the tremendous import of his words, I stood staring dully at the little oblong box. Then I put forth my hand to raise the lid. For a second it resisted my efforts, then suddenly sprang upward. As it did so, the sides of the casket, which were hinged, fell away, revealing an inner casket either of clear glass or crystal. This was completely filled with some colorless liquid, and suspended in it was a human hand. Apparently it had been severed from the arm at a spot a few inches above the wrist, but the actual cut was hidden by a portion of red velvet sleeve terminating in a turned-back linen cuff. Between the slender, tapering fingers was a goose-quill pen, held as if in the act of writing.

Dick Kinnaird was the first to break the awe-struck silence.

"It's modeled in wax—it must be! No dead flesh could remain so firm and lifelike."

Without replying, Wilmer bent over and closely examined the grim souvenir. Then he straightened up and shook his head.

"If that is a model it is the most realistic one ever made," he declared with conviction. "I can even see the tiny hairs on the back of the hand. Moreover, what would be the object in placing a wax replica in spirit? No, no, it's my firm belief that we are looking at the actual hand of the poet. At all events, I think the inscription on the lid is sufficient to set all doubts at rest concerning the authorship of the plays."

"I can not see how," returned Dick with an obstinate frown. "It certainly does not mention the poet by name."