Page:Weird Tales Volume 13 Number 3 (1929-03).djvu/43

"Indeed?" shrugged Wilmer. "Read the lines again:

"Why, the allusion to Shakespeare's name is obvious. Such a play on words is quite in the spirit of the age."

But Dick was far from being convinced. He took up the crystal casket and held it on a level with his eyes.

"I think you're taking too much for granted," he said. "I've seen preserved anatomical specimens before, and they've always appeared bleached, withered and altogether unnatural-looking; while this is so perfect that one might almost imagine the blood to be still coursing through its veins. But, whether it be artificial or real, I still hold to my opinion. I'm willing to stake my soul that this hand never penned—my God!"

He uttered the final words with a gasping cry, his tone of lofty contempt giving place to one of shivering horror.

"What happened?" I stepped forward as I asked the question.

He hastily replaced the casket on the table and wiped the moisture from a face which had suddenly gone gray-white.

"It moved!" he whispered hoarsely. "As I am a living man, that hand moved as I said the words!"

"Nonsense," interposed Wilmer. "Probably you shook the casket."

"I tell you it moved of its own accord," persisted Dick with a shudder. "And it's moving now! Look! Look!"

For a full minute we gazed in silence at the gruesome fragment of humanity. Yes, it certainly seemed as if a slight movement was agitating it, and at first I, like Wilmer, set this down to the disturbance of the preserving medium in which it was immersed. But the next moment I knew this could not be the explanation. For the fingers that held the pen were flexing in such a manner as no chance current could account for. The others saw it, too.

"By heaven! you're right!" Wilmer gasped. "It's forming letters—writing! Merciful God! the hand of Shakespeare is spelling out a message from the grave!"

Then, as we stood spellbound with horror, scarcely daring to credit the evidence of our senses, we saw the thing happen. With a movement so calm and unhurried that it only accentuated its ghastliness, the hand began to write. Although the pen made no mark, we were easily able to recognize each letter as it was formed:

Just those words; then the hand was still once more.

For a space we remained tense and breathless, waiting in vain for the message to be continued. Then Wilmer turned to me with a question.

"Before we let this go any further we'd better check our impressions." He drew his notebook from his pocket as he spoke. "What was the message you saw traced?"

I repeated the strange, unmeaning couplet, and Dick Kinnaird confirmed it.

"That was my own impression, but I thought I must be mistaken," said Wilmer as he copied the words down in his book. "We must have misread the message—there's no sense in it. How is it possible for us to emulate the feat of Ulysses?"

Dick Kinnaird gave an unsteady laugh. "The hero of Homer's Odyssey is supposed to have performed many marvelous feats during his voyages. We're in for a fairly exciting time if we've got to imitate them all. There must be another meaning———"

"Wait!" I interrupted suddenly, as an idea flashed through my mind.

As is so often the case when one is perplexed, I had allowed my eyes to roam idly round the room. Without