Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 2 (1924-05-07).djvu/135

still lying on the table. There was no one on that part of the deck near me.

"I just can't explain it, Harv. The next morning I saw that there was a mirror in the wall about where I had seen the face. And yet that didn't explain anything. I couldn't have seen the reflection of a man's face, because there was no one around.

"My first thought was to throw the damned pouch overboard, but it would have seemed like drowning a man. Honestly, that's the way I felt. So I packed it in the bottom of my trunk and left it there.

"During the rest of my trip nothing actually happened. But I had the feeling—can't explain it—that I was not alone in my cabin. I would wake up at night, half-conscious of that odor—you know how it is—the next morning I couldn't tell whether I had smelled it or dreamed it. I was mighty glad when we finally got here—although I'm not relieved. I still have that watched feeling, but I will not give in to it."

Jack stopped, gazed at the fire and sat for many minutes without speaking. "Well, do you want it?" he finally asked, holding out the pouch.

Grayham shrugged. "Yes, I'll take it." His acceptance was not enthusiastic. He took the pouch and gingerly studied the marking.

Jack leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed against his forehead.

For some minutes neither man spoke. The house seemed very quiet. A night breeze blew from off the sea. A door rattled. Grayham started at a sudden movement of his companion. Jack was sitting rigid in his chair, his hands gripping the seat, his head thrown back. He was taking short quick breaths, as if testing the air.

Almost unconsciously Grayham too sniffed, then leaped up, crying, "Cut it out! Man, you're hypnotizing me!"

Instantly he saw his mistake. To Jack this was an admission that Grayham had also caught the odor. He cringed deeper into his chair, his nerve seemed completely shattered.

Grayham tried to laugh, but even with the intake of his breath he drew in the full force of a suffocating rancid odor that was filling the room. His laugh was a weak gasp. He dropped the pouch to the floor, where it lay red in the glow of the dying fire.

Then, breaking a moment of deathly quiet, there came a scream from the room at the rear of the house where Marge, the housekeeper slept. Just one piercing cry, cut short, then silence.

Grayham leaped toward the mantel over the fireplace, clutching a revolver that lay there, and crossed to the doorway at the side of the room.

"Stay here," he ordered Jack, then opening the door, he slipped into the darkened corridor leading to the back of the house.

At the far end of the passageway he could see a thread of light coming from beneath the door of Marge's room. As he crept ahead he was aware that the odor was growing stronger.

Stopping at the door, one hand reaching for the knob, he listened. There was no sound within. He flung the door open, at the same time flattening himself against the passage wall. But nothing happened; nothing rushed out upon him, none of the many terrible things he had imagined as he had approached came out of that room to clutch him, or strangle him, or attack him as he thought unseen devils might.

Neither did he see Marge. He peered into the room. It was reeking with the rancid smell. Then he saw the woman, cowering in one corner, her eyes wide with fright, her mouth moving convulsively.

He crossed to her, and she shrank away, covering her face with her hands. Then recognizing him she pointed to the other side of the room.

Grayham turned and saw nothing but an open door leading into the darkened kitchen. Before he could again face Marge to ask her what she had seen, he heard a noise in the front room, like the thump of an overturned chair. Then Jack's voice, a terrified cry, suddenly muffled.

Marge started to scream. Grayham silenced her with his hand.

"Stay here—don't move," he whispered. He blew out the lamp, crossed to the hallway and started back to the front room.

His legs were weak; he was trembling. He wanted to run out of the house, away from that odor, away from—the thought of Jack in there, sent him on along the hallway toward the closed door.

Blindly, pushed by a courage he had never realized was in him, he threw the door open, leveled the gun in his hand, and stepped into the room.

There he stopped, straining his eyes in the darkness, listening for a telltale sound. Both candles were out, the fire had died to a few scattered embers. For a moment he stood motionless, and vaguely he realized that he was no longer trembling, he felt calm, his grip on the revolver was steady.

Even as he expected at any instant to be fighting for his life, he marveled at the strength of will that held him there, waiting, unafraid.

These thoughts had taken but a fleeting moment, then in the dim light of the fire Grayham saw the form of Jack lying face down upon the hearth. He realized at the same time that the odor had almost vanished from the room; and the presence of danger seemed to have vanished with it.

He struck a match, held it high, holding the revolver in front of him. The room was empty, save for the figure in front of the fireplace.

Lighting a candle Grayham knelt by the side of his friend. A hurried examination showed that Jack was not dead, apparently he had fallen from his chair in a swoon.

Fainted in fright? Grayham forced the thought from his mind. Jack was no coward, and yet perhaps his nerves were pretty well gone. Grayham thought of his own trembling and faintness that had come upon him before he had re-entered the room. But he had forced it back—and he was supposed to be a nervous wreck!

Thus was he thinking as he worked over Jack, bringing him again to consciousness. And he was filled with a new joy in the realization that he had not given in to fear.

Soon Jack opened his eyes and sat up, staring about. He groped on the floor beside him, searching for a moment, then he said, almost like a sigh, "Thank God!"

Grayham looked, remembering that he had dropped the pouch to the floor at the first scream from Marge. The Soul Mark was gone.

He helped Jack to a chair, gave him a drink then whispered, "What happened, where is—"

"I can't tell you." Jack's nervous tension seemed to relax. "I can't tell you,” he repeated. "I'm glad that damned thing's gone."

"You think there will be no more trouble?" Grayham asked doubtfully.

"I know it."

Grayham wondered at the confidence of this reply, and at the apparent relief that had come over Jack. Yet he too felt this relief, and although unable to understand what had happened, he believed that their danger had vanished with the pouch.

Leaving Jack for a moment he went to the back room where he had left Marge. She was sitting in a chair and looked up wonderingly as he lighted her