The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

was immediately ushered into the library on his arrival at the Hall, and found its master anxiously expecting his arrival.

      “Ah, Professor,” he said, shaking him heartily by the hand, “I am so delighted you have come. I want to find out a certain point; but first I must show you all my treasures.”

      The Professor assented with delight, for he felt the true joy of a bibliomaniac as he stood in this treasure-house of books. All day long they examined the treasures of the shelves, and ate their lunch as hurriedly as possible, eager to return to the feast of intellect. Sir Gilbert found that he had a truly congenial spirit in the Professor, and expounded his favourite theories and rode his favourite hobbies until the twilight began to close in. All this time the astute Professor had been thinking of the “Giraldus,” but did not ask where it was, fearing lest too great eagerness on his part might cause suspicion in the jealous breast of the bookworm. He led the conversation round to the request which the baronet had made to him when he came into the room.

      “You were saying something about a point you wanted elucidated, when I came in, Sir Gilbert,” he said, looking at him keenly.

      “Yes, yes,” replied Sir Gilbert, “it is in regard to the discovery of the philosopher’s stone. Can you tell me any notable work on the subject?”

      “I think you will find what you require in ‘Giraldus,’” said the Professor, whose pulse was beating quickly.

      “But he is an obscure chemist,” objected Sir Gilbert.

      “You find pearls in oysters,” quoth the German, calmly; “and the obscure chemist gives the best description of the philosopher’s stone I have met with.”

      “I thought you had never read the ‘Giraldus?’” said Sir Gilbert, sharply.

      The Professor felt that he was on dangerous ground.

      “Not the work itself,” he answered, coolly; “but other authors which I have studied give extracts, and, putting them together, I have arrived at the conclusion that the work of ‘Giraldus’ is the best on the subject.”

      “Well, I had better bring the book, and you can show me the part you refer to,” answered Sir Gilbert, and went off to find it.

      The Professor sat down in the baronet’s chair by the writing-table, and waited with his heart beating rapidly. At last he had arrived at the consummation of his hope, and in another minute would know the name of the drug which was to be of such value to him. Presently the baronet came back and laid on the table an old yellow book, the counterpart of that stored in the Professor’s study at Heidelberg. The Professor took it up and turned over the leaves carelessly, although the touch of every page caused a thrill to go through him.

      “You had better get Von Helme too,” he said, looking at the baronet. “I think he will prove also useful to you.”

      Sir Gilbert hurried away well pleased, while the Professor took the “Giraldus to the window and turned to the tenth page. Then, counting four lines down, he ran his finger along until it stopped at the fifth word, maiden’s blood…”

      When Sir Gilbert came back with the book wanted, he found Brankel standing by the window turning over the leaves of the “Giraldus.” In handing him Von Helme’s work he glanced up to see if it was the one required, but recoiled in a moment with acry,

      “Brankel! What ails you?”

      The cold light of the evening was striking fair on the face of the German, and the rest of his body was in the shadow. His face was livid, with great drops of perspiration standing on it, and with the jet-black eyebrows, wild hair, and thin, sneering mouth, he looked the incarnation of the arch-fiend—a modern Mephistopheles. When the baronet spoke he turned to him with a cold smile, and the writhe of pain, passing over his face vanished, and left him with his usual countenance.

      “I had a spasm of pain,” he explained, gently going back to the study table; “it is gone now.”

      The baronet looked at him doubtfully, and then suggested that some brandy should be brought.

      “Nothing, thank you,” replied the Professor, holding the ‘Giraldus’ with one hand and waving the other. “I am subject to these attacks. I am perfectly well now. See, here is the remark of Giraldus on the philosopher’s stone.” And they were soon deep in the book.

      The Professor refused to stay to dinner on the plea that he had an engagement, and hastened away almost immediately. When he got to his hotel he went to his bedroom, and began to write rapidly, in his diary.

      November 15th.—At last I have solved this problem, which has been my aim these many days. I have had the second volume of “Giraldus” in my hands, and on turning to the page mentioned in the cryptogram I find that the mysterious drug is “maiden’s blood.” To bring out the highest powers of the elixir I must mingle with it the heart blood of a pure maiden. It is a terrible ingredient, and will be difficult to obtain, but I shall not shrink, for I consider it my duty to bring this elixir to its highest state. But where am I to find the maiden from whom to obtain the blood?

      Murder is a crime generally punished by the gallows. Bah! why do I bring these things into my thoughts? The killing of a person in the cause of science is no murder. If my own blood were necessary I should not hesitate a moment, but give it freely, in order to consummate this great discovery. Before we can wrest the secrets from the great mother, Nature, we must propitiate her with victims. How many human beings have been slain in a less noble cause than this? Was not the daughter of Agamemnon slain by her own father to satisfy the wrath of Artemis? and shall I shrink from offering up a woman on the altar of science? A thousand times no. The cause of science must be advanced even at the cost of human blood, and I, who am appointed by fate to give this secret of Nature to the world, shall not shrink from my task.

      Everything is prepared, the altar, the priest, and the victim, for Miss Harkness will have the honour of contributing her heart’s blood to this great discovery. I have made up my mind that she is to die in this cause; and what greater honour can I offer her? Do not the Hindoo maidens immolate themselves cheerfully under the death-dealing wheels of the chariot of their god, and shall an Englishwoman shrink from sacrificing herself in the cause of science? I cannot tell her my wish, for such is the lack of ambition in her soul that she would not comprehend the magnitude of the thing, and doubtless refuse. I must decoy her into my power.

      It is a terrible thing to do, no doubt, but in my case must be used the motto of the Jesuits, “The end justifies the means.” Did I believe in the existence of a Supreme Being I would pray to him to direct me; but as I have no such belief I must kneel to thee, O Science, and entreat thine aid to bring about this sacrifice on thy shrine. The blood of this one maiden will be of more value to the world than that which thousands of human beings have shed on the fields of Marathon and Waterloo.

      Chapter VII.

       Wolfden

       Table of Contents

      “Good gentlemen,

       The house is stuffed with ghosts, pray you be wary;

       For every footfall wakes a hundred fiends,

       Who have the power to do us devilries.”

      It was a queer, rambling old place, built of grey stone, almost hidden in dark-green ivy. The stones in places were so eaten away and cracked by the lapse of years that it seemed to be held together by the clinging parasite. A quaint, picturesque house, it was built in the Elizabethan style of architecture, with narrow, diamond-paned windows, huge stacks of chimneys twisted into all kinds of fantastic shapes; and little red-roofed turrets starting out of the walls at all sorts of odd corners, and clinging to the grey old stones like birds’ nests. Under the sloping eaves—where the swallows built every summer—over the great oaken doors, beside the elaborately wrought windows, grotesque faces, carved out of stone into a fixed grin, peered everywhere, like the goblin