Then, with the lamp held high above his head, he peered inside; and, considering the character of the man, it is worthy of note that he did not faint on the spot, for the feeble light, but serving, as it did, to intensify the gloom of the long and shadowy place, revealed a scene well calculated to shake the nerves of a stouter man than Heimer. Less than six feet from where he stood, and lying flat on his back with his head toward the light, was Heidelberger in a perfect pool of blood, his skull cleft almost to the chine! Beside him on the floor lay the fearful weapon that had wrought his end--an enormous battle-ax, a relic of the Crusades such as none but a man of Herculean strength could possibly wield. Sick with terror, and scarcely capable of keeping his feet, Heimer gave one glance around the gloomy place, which showed him that, save for the murdered man, it was empty; then he staggered down the narrow stairs and let himself out into the grounds. Slightly revived by the fresh night air, but fearful of pursuit by the unknown assassin, he ran, as fast as his condition would allow, into the village. “Here it is--Uxley!” jerked Moris Klaw. III “Ah!” cried Moris Klaw, in a species of fanatic rapture, “look at the blood!” We stood in the ancient banqueting hall of Crespie. By a distant door I could see a policeman on duty. A ghostly silence was the marked feature of the place. Klaw’s harsh, rumbling voice echoed eerily about that chamber sacred to the shades of departed Crespies. Isis Klaw stood beside her father. They were a wildly incongruous couple. The girl looked down at the bloodstained flooring with the calm scrutiny of an experienced criminologist. “This spot must be alive with odic impressions,” she said, softly. A local officer, who formed one of the group, stared uncomprehendingly. Moris Klaw instinctively turned to him. “You stare widely, my friend!” he said. “It is clear you know nothing of the psychology of crime! Let me, then, enlighten you. First: all crime”--he waved one long hand characteristically--“operates in cycles. Its history repeats itself, you understand. Second: thoughts are _things_. One who dies the violent death has, at the end, a strong mental emotion--an etheric storm. The air--the atmosphere--retains imprints of that storm.” “Indeed!” said the officer. “Yes, indeed! I shall not sleep in this place--as is my usual custom in such inquiries. Why? Because I am afraid of the _shock_ of experiencing such an emotion as was this late Heidelberger’s! Ah! you are dense as a bull! Once, my bovine friend, I slept upon a spot in desolate Palestine where a poor woman had been stoned to death. In my dreams those merciless stones struck me! Upon the head and the face they crashed! And I was helpless--bound--as was the unhappy one who for her poor little sins had had her life crushed from her tender body!”