"O, tiens, my young lady, I have been actively engaged for the past eight years in this thrilling occupation." "I am sorry that I weren't acquainted with your adventures right from the start," I confessed. "Weren't you afraid in some of the gruesome cases such as 'The Bleeding Mummy' and the 'Band of Glory'?" "Eh, bien," he answered, "my friend, if one allows himself to let fear enter his heart, he is already defeated, and I know that I have the Good One in my favor." "Well, Mr. de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge, thank you for this delightful talk," I began, when a blood-curdling moan echoed through the house. De Grandin, Dr. Trowbridge, and I ran to where the moan seemed to come from, but nothing was there. I imagine that I must have turned pale, for Dr. Trowbridge caught hold of my arm and gave me a glass of water containing some sort of restorative. As I began to feel better, my color came back and de Grandin said, "My friend, your train leaves in twenty minutes, so, Friend Trowbridge, get out your car and take the young lady to the station." "But how about that moan?" I asked. "_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, though less excited than would be expected under the circumstances, "but I, Jules de Grandin, shall soon find out!" Gathering up my purse, I arose and gave my hand to de Grandin, then Dr. Trowbridge took me to the station. Safely in my compartment, I suddenly realized how tired I was. So, leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes, I drifted into the land of dreams--into the realm of deathless visions, where hazy phantasms of the imagination take one through glorious adventures in which earthly realities become as nothing. WINDS by Richard F. Searight The North Wind blares, a gelid, lee-born roar, Down from the arctic wastes where sit the ghosts Of one-eyed Odin, bloody-handed Thor, In frost-bound silence with their warrior hosts. The East Wind murmurs softly through the night Of dank and noisome things, and evil lore Old in the days when Atlar rose to might. And Chaldic magic ruled a world of gore. The South Wind breathes a pestilential dirge. It whispers of corruption and the tomb; Of life in death, and mankind's biting urge To gain the secrets hidden in Time's womb. The West Wind keens a warning cry of hate, As, from the boundless voids of sea and sky, It sweeps upon a race bowed low by fate, Yet striving still to gain the heights or die. THE DWELLER by William Lumley Dread and potent broods a Dweller In an evil twilight space, Formless as a daemon's shadow, Void of members and of face. Heeding not the shaped or human, Past the reach of time or law-- Never may our minds conceive It Save as clouds of fright and awe. When It crawls malignly on us, Lethal mists of leaden grey, Rising vaguely in the distance, Veil its hideous bulk away.