The dream detective
I started. It was a point of view which had not, hitherto, occurred to
me.
“You probably understand the nature of the thing better than we do,
Miss Brearley,” said Fairbank. “Do you mean that it involves worship
of Isis?”
“He has always avoided a direct answer when I have asked him that,”
she said. “But it is only reasonable to suppose that it does. His
translation of the writing I have never seen. But he has been dieting
in a most extraordinary manner for nearly a year! Since the workmen
completed it, no one but himself has been inside the chamber which he
has had constructed at the end of his study; and he spends hours and
hours there every day--and every night!”
Her anxiety became more evident with each word.
“You saw that he ate nothing at dinner,” she continued, “and taxed him
with faddism. But it is something more than that. Why has he sent the
servants away to-night? Oh, Doctor Fairbank! I have a dreadful
foreboding! I am so afraid!”
The light in her eyes, suddenly upturned to him in the vague
half-light, the tone in her voice, the appeal in her attitude--were
unmistakable. Fairbank had been abroad for three years, and I could
see that between these two was an undeclared love, and almost I felt
that I intruded. Moris Klaw looked away for a moment, too. Then--
“My dear young lady,” he rumbled, paternally, “do not be afraid. I,
the old know-all, so fortunately am here! Perhaps there is
danger--yes, I admit it; there may be danger. But it is such danger as
dwells here”--he tapped his yellow brow--“it is a danger of the mind.
For thoughts are things, Miss Brearley--that is where it lies, the
peril--and thought things can kill!”
“Ailsa! Fairbank! Mr. Klaw!” came Brearley’s voice. “We have none too
much time!”
“Proceed, my friends,” rumbled Moris Klaw; “I am with you.” And, oddly
enough, I was comforted by his presence; so, it was evident, were the
girl and the doctor; for Moris Klaw, beneath that shabby, ramshackle
exterior, Moris Klaw, the Wapping curio dealer, was a man of power--an
intellectual ark of refuge.
In the Egyptologist’s study all appeared much the same as when last I
had set foot there. The cases filled with vases, scarabs, tablets,
weapons, and the hundred-and-one relics of the great dead age with
which the student had surrounded himself; the sarcophagi; the frames
of papyri--all seemed familiar.
Brearley sat at the huge writing table, littered, as of yore, and in
picturesque confusion.
“We must begin almost immediately!” he said, as we entered.
A danger spot burned lividly upon either pale cheek. His eyes gleamed
brilliantly. The prolonged excitement of his strange experiment was
burning the man up. His nerve centres must be taxed abnormally, I
knew.
Brearley glanced at his watch.
“I must be very brief,” he explained, hurriedly, “as it is vitally
important that I commence in time. Beyond the bookcase, there, you
will see that a part of the room has been walled off.”
We looked in the direction indicated. Although it was not noticeable
at first glance I now saw that the apartment was, indeed, smaller than
formerly. The usual books covered the new wall, giving it much the
same aspect as the old; but, where hitherto there had been nothing but
shelves, a small, narrow door of black wood now broke the imposing
expanse of faded volumes.
“In there,” Brearley resumed, “is the Secret Place described by
Khamus!”
He placed his long, thin hand upon a yellow roll that lay partly
opened on the table.
“No one but myself may enter there--until after to-night, at any
rate!” with a glance at Moris Klaw. “To the most minute
particular”--patting the papyrus--“it is equipped as Khamus describes.
For many months I have prepared myself, by fasting and meditation, as
_he_ prepared! There was, as no doubt you know, a widespread belief in
ancient times that for any but the chosen to look upon the goddess was
death. As I admit the possibility of Isis existing, I must also admit
the possibility of this belief being true--the more so as it is
confirmed by Khamus! Therefore none may enter with me.”
“One moment, Mr. Brearley,” interrupted Klaw; “in what form does
Khamus relate that the goddess appeared?”
A cloud crossed Brearley’s face.
“It is the one point upon which he is not clear,” was the reply. “I do
not know, in the least, _what_ to expect!”
“Go on!” I said, quickly. Although I seriously doubted my poor
friend’s sanity, I began to find the affair weirdly, uncannily
fascinating.
Brearley continued:
“The ritual opens with a chant, which I may broadly translate as ‘The
Hymn of Dedication.’ Its exact purport is not very clear to me. This
hymn is the only part of the ceremony in which I am assisted. It is to
be ‘sung by a virgin beyond the door.’ That is, directly I have
entered yonder it must be sung out here. Ailsa has composed a sort of
chant to the words, which, I think, is the proper kind of setting.
Have you not, Ailsa?”
She bowed her graceful head, glancing, under her lashes, toward
Fairbank.
“She has learned the words--for, of course, it must be sung in
Egyptian----”
“But have no idea of their meaning,” said his sister, softly.
“That is unnecessary,” he went on, quickly. “After this, I want you
all just to remain here in this room. I am afraid you will have to sit
in the dark! Any sounds which you detect, please note. I will not tell
you what to expect, then imagination cannot deceive you. I will be
back in a moment.”
With another hasty glance at his watch, he went out in high
excitement.
“Please,” began Ailsa Brearley, the moment he was gone, “do not think
that because I assist him I approve of this attempt! I think it is
horrible! But what am I to do? He is wrapped up in it! I _dare_ not
try to check him!”
“We understand that,” said Fairbank; “all of us. Do as he desires.
When he has made the attempt, and failed--as, of course, he must
do--the folly of the whole thing will become apparent to him. Do not
let it worry you, Miss Brearley. Your brother is not the first man to
succumb, temporarily, to the glamour of the Unknown.”
She shook her head sadly.
“It is an unpleasant farce,” she said. “But there is something more in
it than that.”
Her blue eyes were full of trouble.
“What do you mean, Miss Brearley?” asked Moris Klaw.
“I hardly know, myself!” was the reply; “but for the past two months
an indefinable horror of some kind has been growing upon me.”
With a deep sigh, she turned to a tall case and took from it a kind of
slender harp. The instrument, of which the frame, at any rate, was
evidently ancient Egyptian work, rested upon a claw-shaped pedestal.
“Do you play this? Yes? No?” inquired Moris Klaw, with interest.
“Yes,” she said, wearily. “It comes from the tomb of a priestess of
Isis and was played by her in the temple. It is scaled differently
from the modern harp, but any one with a slight knowledge of the
ordinary harp, or even of the piano, can perform upon it with ease. It
is sweet toned, but--creepy!”
She smiled slightly at her own expression, and I was glad to see it.
Brearley returned.
He wore a single loose garment of white linen, and thin sandals were
upon his feet. Save for his long, fair hair, he looked a true pagan
priest, his eyes bright with the fire of research that consumed him,
his features gaunt, ascetic.
Some ghost of his old humorous expression played, momentarily, about
his lips as he observed the astonishment depicted upon our faces. But
it was gone almost in the moment of its coming.
“You wonder at me, no doubt,” he said; “and at times I have wondered
at myself! Do not think me fanatic. I scarcely hope for any result.
But remembering that the writing is authentic and that there prevails,
to this day, a widespread belief in the occult wisdom of the
Egyptians, _why_ should not this problem in psychics receive the same
attention from me that one in physics would receive from you,
Fairbank?”
There was reason in his argument and in his manner of advancing it.
Fairbank glanced from Brearley to the girl sitting with her white
hands listlessly caressing the harp strings. The silence of the great
empty house grew oppressive. Suppose the ancients indeed possessed the
strange lore attributed to them? Suppose in those Dark Continents, the
Past and the Future, somewhere in the vast unknown, there existed a
power, a being, a spirit, named by the Egyptians, Isis?
Those were my thoughts, when Moris Klaw said suddenly:
“Mr. Brearley, it is not yet too late to turn back! This sensitive
plate”--he tapped his forehead--“warns me that some evil thought thing
hovers about us! You are about to give form to that thought being. Be
wise, Mr. Brearley--abandon your experiment!”
His tone surprised everyone. Otter Brearley looked at him with an odd
expression and then glanced at the watch upon the writing table.
“Mr. Klaw,” he said, quietly, “I had hoped for a different attitude in
you; but if you really disapprove of what I am about to attempt, I can
only ask you to withdraw; it is too late for further arguments.”
“I remain, my friend! I spoke not for myself--my life has been passed
in this coping with evil things; I spoke for others.”
None of us entirely understood his words, but Brearley went on,
impatiently:
“Listen, please. I rely upon your coöperation. From now onward I
require absolute silence. Whatever happens make no noise.”
“I shall not be noisy, I, my friend!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am the
old silent; I watch and wait--until I am wanted.”
He shrugged his shoulders and nodded, significantly.
“Good!” said Brearley, and his voice quivered with excitement; “then
the experiment, the final experiment, has begun!”
III
He suddenly extinguished the light.
Passing to a window, he looked up to the moon, and, a moment later,
lowered the blind. Dimly visible in his white garment, he crossed the
room. He might be heard unfastening the door of the inner chamber, and
a faint, church-like smell crept to our nostrils. The door closed.
Immediately the harp sounded.
Its tone was peculiar--uncomfortable. The strain which Ailsa played
was a mere repetition of three notes. Then she began to sing.
Our eyes becoming more accustomed to the gloom, we could vaguely
discern her now; the soft outlines of her figure; the white,
ghost-like fingers straying over the strings of the instrument. The
music of the chant was very monotonous, and weird to a marked degree.
The sound of that ancient tongue, dead for many ages, chanted softly
by Ailsa Brearley’s beautiful voice, was almost incredibly eerie. I
found myself gripped hard by a powerful sense of the uncanny.
No other sound was audible. Throughout the rambling old house intense
silence prevailed. A slight breeze stirred the cedars outside. Every
now and again it came--like a series of broken sighs.
How long the chant lasted I cannot pretend to state. It seemed
interminable. I became aware of a curious sense of physical loss. I
found myself drawn to high tension, as though the continuance of the
chant demanded a vast effort on my part. Though I told myself that
imagination was tricking me, the music seemed to be draining my nerve
force!
Ailsa’s voice grew louder and clearer, until the queer words, of
unknown purport, rang out passionately, imperatively.
She ceased.
In the ensuing silence I could hear distinctly Moris Klaw’s heavy
breathing. A compelling atmosphere of mystery had grown up about us.
Repel it how we might, it was there--commanding acknowledgment.
Fairbank, who sat nearest, was the first to see Ailsa Brearley rise,
unsteadily, and move in the direction of the study door.
Something in her manner alarmed us all, and the doctor quietly left