The Haunter of the Ring By ROBERT E. HOWARD _A strange story of dark powers and occult evil, by the author of "Black Colossus."_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales June 1934. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] As I entered John Kirowan's study I was too much engrossed in my own thoughts to notice, at first, the haggard appearance of his visitor, a big, handsome young fellow well known to me. "Hello, Kirowan," I greeted. "Hello, Gordon. Haven't seen you for quite a while. How's Evelyn?" And before he could answer, still on the crest of the enthusiasm which had brought me there, I exclaimed: "Look here, you fellows, I've got something that will make you stare! I got it from that robber Ahmed Mektub, and I paid high for it, but it's worth it. Look!" From under my coat I drew the jewel-hilted Afghan dagger which had fascinated me as a collector of rare weapons. Kirowan, familiar with my passion, showed only polite interest, but the effect on Gordon was shocking. With a strangled cry he sprang up and backward, knocking the chair clattering to the floor. Fists clenched and countenance livid he faced me, crying: "Keep back! Get away from me, or----" I was frozen in my tracks. "What in the----" I began bewilderedly, when Gordon, with another amazing change of attitude, dropped into a chair and sank his head in his hands. I saw his heavy shoulders quiver. I stared helplessly from him to Kirowan, who seemed equally dumfounded. "Is he drunk?" I asked. Kirowan shook his head, and filling a brandy glass, offered it to the man. Gordon looked up with haggard eyes, seized the drink and gulped it down like a man half famished. Then he straightened up and looked at us shamefacedly. "I'm sorry I went off my handle, O'Donnel," he said. "It was the unexpected shock of you drawing that knife." "Well," I retorted, with some disgust, "I suppose you thought I was going to stab you with it!" "Yes, I did!" Then, at the utterly blank expression on my face, he added: "Oh, I didn't actually _think_ that; at least, I didn't reach that conclusion by any process of reasoning. It was just the blind primitive instinct of a hunted man, against whom anyone's hand may be turned." His strange words and the despairing way he said them sent a queer shiver of nameless apprehension down my spine. "What are you talking about?" I demanded uneasily. "Hunted? For what? You never committed a crime in your life." "Not in this life, perhaps," he muttered. "What do you mean?" "What if retribution for a black crime committed in a previous life were hounding me?" he muttered. "That's nonsense," I snorted. "Oh, is it?" he exclaimed, stung. "Did you ever hear of my great-grandfather, Sir Richard Gordon of Argyle?" "Sure; but what's that got to do with----"