Page:Weird Tales Volume 6 Number 6 (1925-12).djvu/66

founded senses was the remark made by my tomato fancier friend: "An ordinary man in an ordinary cabin" . . .

"But," I said, feeling a kind of helplessness, "I don't see how those others who came up here curiosity-seeking ever went down again and remained silent about what they had seen!"

"Bless your heart, man!" The hermit ran a caressing hand over his books: "They didn't know what they had seen." There was irony in his voice, and a shade of contempt.

I was recovering from my first shock of surprize, and my attention veered to the hermit as I remembered what had brought me up Larch Trail. I asked him rather bluntly what manner of man he was, but he shook his head, smiling and saying: "That, Mr. Blondin, is a part of the story."

I took a step toward him, hot on the scent. "Well—do I get it?" I said.

At my question the queer flash again lit his eyes. And again it was hidden quickly, but this time I was certain that the predominant quality of it was eagerness. He motioned me to a seat and began to speak in a slow, careful manner; a manner which gave me the uncomfortable feeling that he was veiling some deep, important purpose, with a casual exterior through which I could see only too easily.

"I'll tell you, Mr. Blondin. You've been candid with me. Very well. I'll return the courtesy. I didn't isolate myself for the sole purpose of avoiding my fellow men. I get lonely. But that again is part of the story. Very well. I'll make you a proposition. If you will stay and have dinner with me, give me the pleasure of your company for the night and at breakfast, I will tell you all there is to tell before you go down the mountain."

There it was. I could take it or leave it. But I didn't like that look in his eye. I knew that for a reason known only to himself, my unexpected appearance was of some secret and prodigious import to him. I knew, as he stood there almost breathlessly waiting my answer, that my staying was of even greater import and that he desired it enormously. I sat there looking him in the eye, trying to come to a decision.

Why should he be so palpably anxious for a guest overnight? If he craved companionship, then why didn't he get off that mountain top and live like a civilized human being? And if it were merely a passing impulse engendered by chance contact with a man from his own obvious stratum, why mask it under a tone too casual, a manner too guarded?

My first impelling inclination was to refuse his offer, though I didn't like the idea of going down that tricky trail in the dark. Yet I felt it useless to stay. I had a distinct sense of foreboding, a prescience, in spite of his promise, that I would never take his story down the mountain. Maybe the man was merely a clever maniac; how could I know! But the thought of crusty, courted Madden, and the chance of pleasing that difficultly-approached editor decided me. I said to myself: what the deuce—I came after a story!

"I'll just take you up on that," I said, rising to my feet and holding out a hand. "And thanks for your hospitality. Also, let's eat, pronto. What do you say? I brought nothing but a couple of sandwiches with me, which I ate half-way up the trail, and I find I've developed quite an appetite."

He took my hand in a firm grip, a grip with the right stuff behind it, but that infernal eagerness flashed for a moment beyond all control, and