Tales of Terror and Mystery
not inside a house!" cried Kennedy.
"The entrance to it is. That is just the safeguard which we have
against anyone else discovering it."
"Does the proprietor know of it?"
"Not he. He had found one or two objects which made me almost certain
that his house was built on the entrance to such a place. So I rented
it from him, and did my excavations for myself. Come in, and shut the
door behind you."
It was a long, empty building, with the mangers of the cows along one
wall. Burger put his lantern down on the ground, and shaded its light
in all directions save one by draping his overcoat round it.
"It might excite remark if anyone saw a light in this lonely place,"
said he. "Just help me to move this boarding."
The flooring was loose in the corner, and plank by plank the two
savants raised it and leaned it against the wall. Below there was a
square aperture and a stair of old stone steps which led away down into
the bowels of the earth.
"Be careful!" cried Burger, as Kennedy, in his impatience, hurried down
them. "It is a perfect rabbits'-warren below, and if you were once to
lose your way there the chances would be a hundred to one against your
ever coming out again. Wait until I bring the light."
"How do you find your own way if it is so complicated?"
"I had some very narrow escapes at first, but I have gradually learned
to go about. There is a certain system to it, but it is one which a
lost man, if he were in the dark, could not possibly find out. Even
now I always spin out a ball of string behind me when I am going far
into the catacomb. You can see for yourself that it is difficult, but
every one of these passages divides and subdivides a dozen times before
you go a hundred yards."
They had descended some twenty feet from the level of the byre, and
they were standing now in a square chamber cut out of the soft tufa.
The lantern cast a flickering light, bright below and dim above, over
the cracked brown walls. In every direction were the black openings of
passages which radiated from this common centre.
"I want you to follow me closely, my friend," said Burger. "Do not
loiter to look at anything upon the way, for the place to which I will
take you contains all that you can see, and more. It will save time
for us to go there direct."
He led the way down one of the corridors, and the Englishman followed
closely at his heels. Every now and then the passage bifurcated, but
Burger was evidently following some secret marks of his own, for he
neither stopped nor hesitated. Everywhere along the walls, packed like
the berths upon an emigrant ship, lay the Christians of old Rome. The
yellow light flickered over the shrivelled features of the mummies, and
gleamed upon rounded skulls and long, white armbones crossed over
fleshless chests. And everywhere as he passed Kennedy looked with
wistful eyes upon inscriptions, funeral vessels, pictures, vestments,
utensils, all lying as pious hands had placed them so many centuries
ago. It was apparent to him, even in those hurried, passing glances,
that this was the earliest and finest of the catacombs, containing such
a storehouse of Roman remains as had never before come at one time
under the observation of the student.
"What would happen if the light went out?" he asked, as they hurried
onwards.
"I have a spare candle and a box of matches in my pocket. By the way,
Kennedy, have you any matches?"
"No; you had better give me some."
"Oh, that is all right. There is no chance of our separating."
"How far are we going? It seems to me that we have walked at least a
quarter of a mile."
"More than that, I think. There is really no limit to the tombs--at
least, I have never been able to find any. This is a very difficult
place, so I think that I will use our ball of string."
He fastened one end of it to a projecting stone and he carried the coil
in the breast of his coat, paying it out as he advanced. Kennedy saw
that it was no unnecessary precaution, for the passages had become more
complex and tortuous than ever, with a perfect network of intersecting
corridors. But these all ended in one large circular hall with a
square pedestal of tufa topped with a slab of marble at one end of it.
"By Jove!" cried Kennedy in an ecstasy, as Burger swung his lantern
over the marble. "It is a Christian altar--probably the first one in
existence. Here is the little consecration cross cut upon the corner
of it. No doubt this circular space was used as a church."
"Precisely," said Burger. "If I had more time I should like to show
you all the bodies which are buried in these niches upon the walls, for
they are the early popes and bishops of the Church, with their mitres,
their croziers, and full canonicals. Go over to that one and look at
it!"
Kennedy went across, and stared at the ghastly head which lay loosely
on the shredded and mouldering mitre.
"This is most interesting," said he, and his voice seemed to boom
against the concave vault. "As far as my experience goes, it is
unique. Bring the lantern over, Burger, for I want to see them all."
But the German had strolled away, and was standing in the middle of a
yellow circle of light at the other side of the hall.
"Do you know how many wrong turnings there are between this and the
stairs?" he asked. "There are over two thousand. No doubt it was one
of the means of protection which the Christians adopted. The odds are
two thousand to one against a man getting out, even if he had a light;
but if he were in the dark it would, of course, be far more difficult."
"So I should think."
"And the darkness is something dreadful. I tried it once for an
experiment. Let us try it again!" He stooped to the lantern, and in
an instant it was as if an invisible hand was squeezed tightly over
each of Kennedy's eyes. Never had he known what such darkness was. It
seemed to press upon him and to smother him. It was a solid obstacle
against which the body shrank from advancing. He put his hands out to
push it back from him.
"That will do, Burger," said he, "let's have the light again."
But his companion began to laugh, and in that circular room the sound
seemed to come from every side at once.
"You seem uneasy, friend Kennedy," said he.
"Go on, man, light the candle!" said Kennedy impatiently.
"It's very strange, Kennedy, but I could not in the least tell by the
sound in which direction you stand. Could you tell where I am?"
"No; you seem to be on every side of me."
"If it were not for this string which I hold in my hand I should not
have a notion which way to go."
"I dare say not. Strike a light, man, and have an end of this
nonsense."
"Well, Kennedy, there are two things which I understand that you are
very fond of. The one is an adventure, and the other is an obstacle to
surmount. The adventure must be the finding of your way out of this
catacomb. The obstacle will be the darkness and the two thousand wrong
turns which make the way a little difficult to find. But you need not
hurry, for you have plenty of time, and when you halt for a rest now
and then, I should like you just to think of Miss Mary Saunderson, and
whether you treated her quite fairly."
"You devil, what do you mean?" roared Kennedy. He was running about in
little circles and clasping at the solid blackness with both hands.
"Good-bye," said the mocking voice, and it was already at some
distance. "I really do not think, Kennedy, even by your own showing
that you did the right thing by that girl. There was only one little
thing which you appeared not to know, and I can supply it. Miss
Saunderson was engaged to a poor ungainly devil of a student, and his
name was Julius Burger."
There was a rustle somewhere, the vague sound of a foot striking a
stone, and then there fell silence upon that old Christian church--a
stagnant, heavy silence which closed round Kennedy and shut him in like
water round a drowning man.
Some two months afterwards the following paragraph made the round of
the European Press:
"One of the most interesting discoveries of recent years is that of the
new catacomb in Rome, which lies some distance to the east of the
well-known vaults of St. Calixtus. The finding of this important
burial-place, which is exceeding rich in most interesting early
Christian remains, is due to the energy and sagacity of Dr. Julius
Burger, the young German specialist, who is rapidly taking the first
place as an authority upon ancient Rome. Although the first to publish
his discovery, it appears that a less fortunate adventurer had
anticipated Dr. Burger. Some months ago Mr. Kennedy, the well-known
English student, disappeared suddenly from his rooms in the Corso, and
it was conjectured that his association with a recent scandal had
driven him to leave Rome. It appears now that he had in reality fallen
a victim to that fervid love of archaeology which had raised him to a
distinguished place among living scholars. His body was discovered in
the heart of the new catacomb, and it was evident from the condition of
his feet and boots that he had tramped for days through the tortuous
corridors which make these subterranean tombs so dangerous to
explorers. The deceased gentleman had, with inexplicable rashness,
made his way into this labyrinth without, as far as can be discovered,
taking with him either candles or matches, so that his sad fate was the
natural result of his own temerity. What makes the matter more painful
is that Dr. Julius Burger was an intimate friend of the deceased. His
joy at the extraordinary find which he has been so fortunate as to make
has been greatly marred by the terrible fate of his comrade and
fellow-worker."
The Case of Lady Sannox
The relations between Douglas Stone and the notorious Lady Sannox were
very well known both among the fashionable circles of which she was a
brilliant member, and the scientific bodies which numbered him among
their most illustrious confreres. There was naturally, therefore, a
very widespread interest when it was announced one morning that the
lady had absolutely and for ever taken the veil, and that the world
would see her no more. When, at the very tail of this rumour, there
came the assurance that the celebrated operating surgeon, the man of
steel nerves, had been found in the morning by his valet, seated on one
side of his bed, smiling pleasantly upon the universe, with both legs
jammed into one side of his breeches and his great brain about as
valuable as a cap full of porridge, the matter was strong enough to
give quite a little thrill of interest to folk who had never hoped that
their jaded nerves were capable of such a sensation.
Douglas Stone in his prime was one of the most remarkable men in
England. Indeed, he could hardly be said to have ever reached his
prime, for he was but nine-and-thirty at the time of this little
incident. Those who knew him best were aware that famous as he was as
a surgeon, he might have succeeded with even greater rapidity in any of
a dozen lines of life. He could have cut his way to fame as a soldier,
struggled to it as an explorer, bullied for it in the courts, or built
it out of stone and iron as an engineer. He was born to be great, for
he could plan what another man dare not do, and he could do what
another man dare not plan. In surgery none could follow him. His
nerve, his judgement, his intuition, were things apart. Again and
again his knife cut away death, but grazed the very springs of life in
doing it, until his assistants were as white as the patient. His
energy, his audacity, his full-blooded self-confidence--does not the
memory of them still linger to the south of Marylebone Road and the
north of Oxford Street?