"What!" I cried, shaken to my soul. "Conrad, this is madness heaped on madness! Malik Tous--good God! No mortal man was ever so named! That is the title of the foul god worshipped by the mysterious Yezidees--they of Mount Alamout the Accursed--whose Eight Brazen Towers rise in the mysterious wastes of deep Asia. His idolatrous symbol is the brazen peacock. And the Muhammadans, who hate his demon-worshipping devotees, say he is the essence of the evil of all the universes--the Prince of Darkness--Ahriman--the old Serpent--the veritable Satan! And you say Grimlan names this mythical demon in his will?" "It is the truth," Conrad's throat was dry. "And look--he has scribbled a strange line at the corner of this parchment: 'Dig me no grave; I shall not need one.'" Again a chill wandered down my spine. "In God's name," I cried in a kind of frenzy, "let us get this incredible business over with!" "I think a drink might help," answered Conrad, moistening his lips. "It seems to me I've seen Grimlan go into this cabinet for wine----" He bent to the door of an ornately carved mahogany cabinet, and after some difficulty opened it. "No wine here," he said disappointedly, "and if ever I felt the need of stimulants--what's this?" * * * * * He drew out a roll of parchment, dusty, yellowed and half covered with spiderwebs. Everything in that grim house seemed, to my nervously excited senses, fraught with mysterious meaning and import, and I leaned over his shoulder as he unrolled it. "It's a record of peerage," he said, "such a chronicle of births, deaths and so forth, as the old families used to keep, in the Sixteenth Century and earlier." "What's the name?" I asked. He scowled over the dim scrawls, striving to master the faded, archaic script. "G-r-y-m--I've got it--Grymlann, of course. It's the records of old John's family--the Grymlanns of Toad's-heath Manor, Suffolk--what an outlandish name for an estate! Look at the last entry." Together we read, "John Grymlann, borne, March 10, 1630." And then we both cried out. Under this entry was freshly written, in a strange scrawling hand, "Died, March 10, 1930." Below this there was a seal of black wax, stamped with a strange design, something like a peacock with a spreading tail. Conrad stared at me speechless, all the color ebbed from his face. I shook myself with the rage engendered by fear. "It's the hoax of a madman!" I shouted. "The stage has been set with such great care that the actors have overstepped themselves. Whoever they are, they have heaped up so many incredible effects as to nullify them. It's all a very stupid, very dull drama of illusion." And even as I spoke, icy sweat stood out on my body and I shook as with an ague. With a wordless motion Conrad turned toward the stairs, taking up a large candle from a mahogany table.