"Well--he killed her! Oh! there is no doubt about it; I saw her body in the hospital." "_How_ had he killed her, then?" "How? Only he and the God who permits him to exist can answer that, Sime. He killed her without coming anywhere near her--and he killed his adoptive father, Sir Michael Ferrara, by the same unholy means!" Sime watched him, but offered no comment. "It was hushed up, of course; there is no existing law which could be used against him." "_Existing_ law?" "They are ruled out, Sime, the laws that _could_ have reached him; but he would have been burnt at the stake in the Middle Ages!" "I see." Sime drummed his fingers upon the table. "You had those ideas about him at Oxford; and does Dr. Cairn seriously believe the same?" "He does. So would you--you could not doubt it, Sime, not for a moment, if you had seen what we have seen!" His eyes blazed into a sudden fury, suggestive of his old, robust self. "He tried night after night, by means of the same accursed sorcery, which everyone thought buried in the ruins of Thebes, to kill _me_! He projected--things--" "Suggested these--things, to your mind?" "Something like that. I saw, or thought I saw, and smelt--pah!--I seem to smell them now!--beetles, mummy-beetles, you know, from the skull of a mummy! My rooms were thick with them. It brought me very near to Bedlam, Sime. Oh! it was not merely imaginary. My father and I caught him red-handed." He glanced across at the other. "You read of the death of Lord Lashmore? It was just after you came out." "Yes--heart." "It was his heart, yes--but Ferrara was responsible! That was the business which led my father to drive to Ferrara's rooms with a loaded revolver in his pocket." The wind was shaking the windows, and whistling about the building with demoniacal fury as if seeking admission; the band played a popular waltz; and in and out of the open doors came and went groups representative of many ages and many nationalities. "Ferrara," began Sime slowly, "was always a detestable man, with his sleek black hair, and ivory face. Those long eyes of his had an expression which always tempted me to hit him. Sir Michael, if what you say is true--and after all, Cairn, it only goes to show how little we know of the nervous system--literally took a viper to his bosom." "He did. Antony Ferrara was his adopted son, of course; God knows to what evil brood he really belongs." Both were silent for a while. Then: "Gracious heavens!" Cairn started to his feet so wildly as almost to upset the table. "Look, Sime! look!" he cried.