Chapter IX: Part 9

“While a clerk was ’phoning for the police I returned to the scene of the tragedy accompanied by the druggist and Dr. Sprague, who happened to be in the store at the time. Dr. Sprague examined and pronounced Berjet dead. Mr. Peret then informed the doctor that he was a detective and requested him to remain with the body until the police arrived, so he could make a preliminary investigation in the house. This Dr. Sprague agreed to do, and Mr. Peret ran across the pavement and jumped the fence in front of Berjet’s house.

“I was standing a few feet away, talking with the druggist, and saw everything that followed. At the very instant that Mr. Peret leaped over the fence, I heard Dr. Sprague scream and saw him throw out his hands as if to grapple with something. He was standing by Berjet’s body at the time. He appeared to have been attacked by some powerful and ferocious Thing, which I could not see, and I sprang forward to go to his assistance. It was then that I heard the whispering sound and felt the Thing hurl itself upon me.

“I could see nothing, but I felt my throat caught in a viselike grip and my chest crushed between two opposing forces. I cried out once, and then my breath was shut off. I threw out my hands to grapple with the unseen Thing, but there appeared to be nothing to grapple with. My hands came in contact with nothing but air.

“Yet all of this while I could feel the monster crushing my life out. The terrible grip on my throat kept pressing my head back, inch by inch, and the pressure around my body seemed on the point of caving my ribs in. Everything went black before me, and I could feel myself losing consciousness. Calling to my aid every ounce of strength I possessed, I made a last desperate effort to free myself of the Thing, and just as I felt life slipping from my grasp, the pressure on my throat and chest relaxed and, too exhausted to stand, I fell to the pavement.”

“Unconscious?” asked the coroner.

“No, never for a single instant did I lose consciousness. Every terrible second of that eternity is indelibly stamped on my mind.”

The recollection of his frightful experience made the artist tremble. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his face.

“Was Dr. Sprague still struggling with his—ah—antagonist when you were attacked?” questioned the major.

“I cannot say,” replied Deweese. “After I was attacked I had little thought to give to anything but my own defense.”

“The testimony of both Peret and the druggist show that Deweese and Sprague were attacked at practically the same time,” observed Strange, shifting his quid from east to west. “Both men struggled for a few seconds—about half a minute, according to Peret—and fell to the pavement at the same instant.”

“Then it appears that we have more than one thing to contend with,” interposed the major a little grimly. “Mr. Deweese, you are positive, are you, that you did not _see_ the Thing? Think before you reply.”

“It is not necessary for me to think,” retorted the artist, “God knows, if I had seen the Thing I should not have been able to forget it this quickly!”

“When did you hear the Thing whisper—before or after it attacked you?”

“Before. After it hurled itself upon me I heard nothing.”

“But you felt it breathing in your face?”

“Not after the attack: no. It was immediately after I heard the whispering sound that I felt the Thing’s breath on my face. After that terrible grip became fastened on my throat, everything else became negligible.”

“You mean that even if the Thing had been breathing in your face it is doubtful if you would have known it?”

“Yes.”

“Did this breathing sound or feel like the breathing of a man?”

“No; the Thing’s breath was quick and jerky and as cold as ice.”

“_Cold?_” cried Peret, leaping to his feet.

He had been sitting back in his chair in an attitude of dejection, staring at a blank space on the wall. He had, with one ear, however, been drinking in every word of the conversation, and now he rose from his chair with such suddenness that he all but upset the little finger-print expert standing in front of him.

“Yes, _cold_,” repeated Deweese, the perspiration dripping from his brow, “cold and clammy.”

“_Dame!_” cried the Frenchman, breathing on his hand as if to test the temperature of his breath. “Think well, my friend, of what you are saying. The breath of living things is _warm_. Perhaps it was not the breathing of a monster that you heard. It may have been—.” He hesitated, and then, at a loss, stopped.

“There was no mistaking the—the thing I felt on my face,” rejoined the artist grimly. “Except for the fact that it was cold and spasmodic it was like the breathing of a man.”

“Like the breathing of a man choking on a piece of ice?” suggested the coroner.

“Exactly.”

“_Eh, bien!_” called the Frenchman, and smote himself on the forehead with his clenched fist. “Why did you not tell us this before?”

The Frenchman was transformed. Heretofore, in appearance at least, he had been an insignificant little man with no special capacity for the intricacies of unsolved crime mysteries. But now that the germ of an elusive idea had taken root in his mind he seemed to grow in stature as well as in intellect. His eyes became animated, his nostrils distended, his foolish little mustache took on an air of dignity, and his narrow shoulders seemed to grow straighter and to broaden.

Twisting the starboard point of his mustache fiercely between his fingers, he began to pace rapidly up and down the room. Dobson, who was acquainted with these symptoms, threw a significant look at the coroner. The look, however, failed to register, for Rane was staring at the floor, with knitted brow. He appeared to be thinking deeply.

Strange scratched his ear reflectively and stole a glance at the Frenchman. He, also was familiar with the latter’s eccentricities and, like the major, was always a little awed by an outburst of his friend’s temperament. Experience had taught him that this was a moment for silence, and he was determined to maintain it at all costs.

But even while he was rolling this thought around in his mind, and glaring threateningly at O’Shane, who was moistening his lips as if about to speak, the Frenchman put an end to it in a manner peculiarly his own.

“_Triomphe!_” he cried, with such suddenness and vigor that the iron-nerved detective sergeant jumped. “I’ve got it! At last I see the light!”

In his excitement he danced up and down in front of the major, to the secret amusement of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese. Strange, however, knowing what this overflow of energy denoted, leaned forward eagerly and strained his ears to catch what would follow.

“Well, what have you got?” asked the major calmly, though the coroner thought he could detect a note of vast relief in his voice.

“The answer to the riddle, major,” yelled Peret too excited to contain himself. “I’ve got it! I’ve found it! The mystery is solved. _Nom de diable!_ The Thing is—”

“Stop,” said the major, truculently. “We must use some discretion here. Are you sure you know what you are talking about, Peret, or are you simply making a wild guess?”

“I know it,” shouted Peret, making a heroic though futile effort to lower his voice. “Ah, it was too simple! Like taking the candy from the mouth of the little one! _Oui, m’sieu_; The mystery is solved! I stake my reputation on it. I will show you—Stay!”

To the horror of the central office men, he grasped the dignified major by the lapel of his coat and dragged him (not unwillingly) out of his chair and half across the room. When they were well out of earshot of the others, he drew the major’s head down and poured a perfect torrent of whispers in his ear.

Dobson heard the Frenchman out without interruption, but, while evincing the deepest interest, he did not appear to be altogether convinced. However, Peret had once been under his command, and there was no one who had more respect for his ability. It was he himself who, a year or so previously, had characterized the Frenchman as “an accomplished linguist, a master of disguise and one of the most astute criminologists on this side of the Atlantic.”

In his present extremity, moreover, he was like a drowning man clutching at a straw. He was not in a position to reject a possible solution of the mystery advanced by a man of Peret’s ability, no matter how unsound it might appear to him.

“What you say seems plausible enough,” he remarked, when Peret paused for want of breath; “but it is, after all, only a theory. There is not a shred of evidence to give weight to your words.”

“Evidence is sometimes the biggest liar in the world,” said Peret, a little dashed by Dobson’s lack of enthusiasm. “In this case, however, there is, as you say, no evidence of any kind—yet. We must therefore look for it, before it sneaks up on us and bites us. Ah, my dear friend. Think! Consider! Reflect! Why, the thing is as clear as a piece of crystal.”

“What suggestions have you to make!” asked the major, visibly impressed. “I suppose you have in mind some plan—.”

“_Oui!_” cried Peret, with fierce enthusiasm. “Except for one little thing, I ask that you give me a free hand. I will either prove or disprove my theory within twenty-four hours. Your men in the meantime, can make an independent investigation.”

He made several hieroglyphics on a page torn from his memorandum book and handed it to the major. Dobson studied the characters for a moment, and then nodded.

“All right,” he said briskly. “I give you a free hand. Call headquarters when you want, and in the meantime let me know at the earliest possible moment, if you learn anything of importance. _Allez-vous-en._”

“Remember—no arrests!” hissed Peret, and, clapping his hat on the back of his head, he fled from the house as if pursued by the devil himself.

_CHAPTER V._

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF.

Jules Peret was a man of parts. Born in the slums of Paris, he had migrated to America at an early age and, following the vicissitudes of a dissipated youth, had, by the sheer power of will and ability, forced himself to the top of the ladder of success in his chosen profession.

Eccentric, high-strung and affected, he was nevertheless something of a genius in his particular line. As a plainclothes man under the command of Major Dobson, his success had been outstanding. This was largely due to his love of the dramatic, and his knack of making the most unpretentious case assume huge proportions in the eyes of the public.

His methods were simple, apparently infallible, always spectacular. For which reason the newspapers gave him much space on their front pages and delighted in referring to him as the Terrible Frog and the Devil’s Sister—appellations, by the way, that had their origin in the dives of the underworld.

Three months ago Peret had severed his connections with police headquarters and established himself as a “consulting detective.” And because of the enviable record he had made while serving his apprenticeship on the “force,” he had at once found his services in great demand.

At this time Peret was about thirty-four years of age. A small effeminate man, with delicate features, small hands and feet, rosy cheeks and thick eye-brows, one would have taken him for almost anything in the world but a detective. In manner and dress, he was typical of the _boulevardiers_ of Paris. He affected a slender black mustache about the same general size and shape of a pointed match-stick, and he had a weakness for pearl-striped trousers and lavender spats.

Exteriors, however, are sometimes deceiving, and this was true in the case of the little Frenchman. When aroused, Peret was like a tiger. It was not for nothing that he had earned his terrible _noms de guerre_ in the world of crime.

Erratic in manner as in dress, his departure—or, rather, his flight—from the home of the murdered scientist, was as distinctive of the man as was his mustache. The mirth of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese meant nothing to him. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts for the moment to consider the effect of his behavior on the others. He had simply felt the impulse to action and had obeyed it with characteristic promptness, energy and enthusiasm.

On the sidewalk he paused for a moment.

The night was pitch-black. Not a star was visible. The fog still hung over the city in heavy folds and at a distance of fifteen or twenty feet almost obliterated the street lights. A little crowd of morbidly curious sensation-seekers had gathered in front of the house and, much to their dislike, were now being herded away from the immediate scene of the crime by two uniformed policemen.

Turning up the collar of his coat, Peret wiggled his way through the crowd and sped across the street to the drug store. Entering a telephone booth, he ordered a taxi. He then called up his office, and when the connection was made, poured a volley of instructions into the receiver in language that must have burnt the wires.

Replacing the receiver on the hook, he left the store and, when his taxi arrived a few minutes later, started out on a feverish round of inquiries.

His first call was at the Army and Navy Building. Evidently luck was against him, for after a moment’s stay he emerged from the building, with a scowl on his face. Hopping into the taxi, he ordered the chauffeur to drive to the Treasury Department.

Owing to the lateness of the hour, he had, as expected, some difficulty in gaining admittance. A cabalistic message sent to some mysterious personage within, however, had a magical effect on the watchman, who swung wide the doors for him.

His stay within was brief, and after the portals had again been opened to let him out, he sped down the flight of steps in front of the building and crossed the street on a dead run. From the corner drug store he fired a message over the wire to police headquarters, then, quitting the store, once more boarded the taxi and instructed the chauffeur to drive him to a certain street corner.

After a short run, the cab came to a stop at the corner of a dark street in one of the residential sections of the city. Instructing the chauffeur to wait for him, Peret left the car and, wrapping his coat around him, glided off in the darkness.

Half way down the block, at the intersection of an alley, the Frenchman paused. Though the fog had lifted somewhat, the mist had turned into a heavy sleet and, if such a thing were possible, it was even darker than it had been an hour previously. Except for the taxi waiting at the corner, the street, so far as Peret could see, was deserted.

Stepping behind a tree-box, Peret surveyed the row of houses on the opposite side of the street. A dim light burned in several of the vestibules; otherwise the houses were wrapped in darkness. Satisfied that he was not observed, Peret stepped from behind the tree-box and gave a peculiar, birdlike whistle.

In answer to the signal, the eye of a flash-light blinked near the front door of one of the houses in the middle of the block, and Peret, clinging to the shadows, crossed the street. Drawing his automatic, he traversed the lawn to the house.

“Bendlow?”

“H’luva night to be abroad, Chief,” came a hoarse whisper. “What’s the row, anyway?”

Although it was too dark to distinguish the speaker’s features, or, as a matter of fact, even to see the outline of his form, there was no mistaking the foghorn voice of Harvey Bendlow, former Secret Service agent and, at the present time, night manager of Peret’s Detective Agency. Restoring his automatic to his pocket, the Frenchman gripped the other’s hand.

“Haven’t time to explain now,” he said in an undertone. “We’ve got a big job ahead of us. How long have you been here?”

“’Bout an hour,” croaked Bendlow. “I came on the jump just as soon as your message was received at the office. I’ve been prowling around taking a look-see.”

“Seen anything of the occupant of the house?”

“Nope. I guess the Wolf is in the hay,” was Bendlow’s enigmatic reply.

“What’s that?” asked Peret sharply. “Who is this that you call the ‘Wolf’?”

“Say, don’t you know whose house you sent me to watch?” demanded Bendlow in surprise.

“No; I have a suspicion that the man living in this house is a foreign agent, but I’m not sure that I know who he is.”

“Well, your suspicion does you credit. This house at the present time is occupied by Count Vincent di Dalfonzo, better known to the Secret Service as the Wolf.”

“_Tiens!_” exclaimed Peret, with rising excitement. “You are sure?”

“None surer! Known him for a long time.”

“Tell me what you know about him, quickly, my friend.”

“Take too long now. He’s got a record. Had a coupla run-ins with him when I was attached to the Secret Service. He’s a clever and dangerous guy. International agent. Famous spy during the war. Plays only for big stakes, and the harder the game the better he likes it. Renegade Italian nobleman. His mother was an American. Takes after her in looks, I reckon. Never know he was a wop to look at him. He’s been a thorn in the side of the foreign Secret Service for years. Too clever for them. They know he’s the milk in the cocoanut, but they can’t crack his shell, so to speak. He’s bad medicine, and no mistake. He kills at the drop of a hat.”

“But how do you know he is living in this house, eh? Have you seen him?”

“Nope. You ordered me to watch the house, and, not knowing what your game is, I haven’t made any effort to see him. He’s here, though, and its damn funny, too. Last time I heard of him, two months ago, he was in Petrograd.”

“If you have not seen him, how do you know he is living in this house?” asked Peret impatiently.

In a subdued voice, Bendlow rapidly related all he knew about the man he called the Wolf, and gave his reasons for believing him to be the present occupant of the house. When he concluded, Peret could scarcely control his elation.

“_Voila_,” he exclaimed softly. “You have done your work better than you know, my friend. Everything fits together beautifully. Now, let’s to work. I wonder if there is any one in the house now?”

“Can’t say for sure, but I doubt it.”

“Well, we’re going in, regardless. It’s dangerous business, but necessary. I must clear up the mystery of the whispering Thing.”

“The Whispering Thing?” questioned Bendlow.

“_Oui_,” whispered Peret tersely. “I cannot tell you what it is, for I do not know. But it’s a demon, my friend, be sure of that! Keep close to me and be prepared for any eventuality. Ready?”

“Yep,” laconically. “Lead on.”

Peret tried the door behind him and found it locked. After several unsuccessful attempts, he opened it with a master key and, followed by Bendlow, entered the cellar. Closing the door, Peret brought his flashlight into play, and then, like a phantom, he passed over the concrete floor and ascended a flight of steps in the rear.

Unlocking the door at the head of the steps, the two detectives stepped out into the carpeted hall and paused for a moment to listen.

No sound greeted their ears. The house was as dark and silent as a grave. Even the light in the vestibule had been extinguished.

“Where next?” whispered Bendlow.

“The first floor, then upstairs,” breathed Peret in his ear.

Guided by frequent flashes from Peret’s flashlight, the two detectives explored the parlor, dining-room and kitchen, and found them empty, cold and silent. When they returned to the hall, Peret leaned over and put his lips to his companion’s ear.

“Wait at the bottom of the front stairs and watch,” was his whispered order. “I’m going up. Warn me if any one enters the house, and if you hear me cry out, turn on the lights and come to my help as rapidly as you can. The Whispering Thing strikes quickly, and, having struck, moves on. _Comprendez-vous?_”

“Yep,” croaked Bendlow, and took up his stand at the place designated.

Flashing his light around the hall once more, so as not to lose his sense of direction, Peret began his slow and cautious ascent to the second floor. Placing his feet carefully on that part of the steps nearest to the wall so they would not creak, he worked his way up to the top of the steps. There he paused to listen.

No one knew better than he how fatal it would prove to be caught prowling around the house of a man as desperate as the Wolf was reputed to be, in the dead of night. There was not only the man himself to be feared; there was the Whispering Thing, for if Dalfonzo was, as he suspected, implicated in the murders he was investigating, it was certain that the invisible assassin, be it man, beast or devil was in league with the renegade Italian.

Yet a search of the man’s house during his absence, or at least without his knowledge, seemed necessary, since Peret not only had no evidence against the Count, but had as yet to learn the exact nature of the Thing; and it would be useless to make an arrest until he could fasten the crimes on their perpetrator.

Having assured himself that no one was stirring, therefore, Peret began to explore the second floor. The house was a small one, and it did not take him long to go through the four rooms that comprised the second floor, especially as two of them were unfurnished. The other two rooms, which contained only the necessary articles of bedroom furniture, bore signs of recent occupation, but Peret was unable to find in them anything of an incriminating or even of an enlightening character.

Rendered moody by his failure to find the evidence he sought, the Frenchman returned to the hall and was about to retrace his steps to the first floor when he felt a pressure on his arm and heard Bendlow’s hoarse, low-pitched warning in his ear.

“Something’s in the vestibule.”

Peret’s muscles grew tense.

“Somebody coming in?” he asked quickly.

“Nope,” came the reply. “It’s something in the vestibule between the two doors. It musta been there all the time we’ve been here, as the front door hasn’t been opened since I’ve been on guard.”

“How do you know something’s there?” whispered Peret.

“Heard it moving around, and when I put my ear to the keyhole I heard it breathing.” was Bendlow’s startling reply.

Peret’s jaws closed with a snap, and his grasp on his automatic tightened.

“_Eh, bien_,” he hissed. “Follow me down stairs. Keep hold of my coat so we won’t get separated. If anything approaches you from the rear, shoot first and ask questions afterwards. It begins to look as if we had tracked the Whispering Thing to its lair. _En avant!_”

Cautiously and noiselessly, the two men made their way down the dark steps to the first floor. Followed closely by Bendlow, who had an automatic in his hand, Peret tip-toed across the hall and applied his ear to the keyhole in the front door. He heard a slight movement on the other side of the door, and his spine stiffened.

Peret waited, with his ear glued to the keyhole. He could plainly hear something moving around restlessly in the vestibule, but, for the moment, he could not determine what it was. Suddenly, however, he heard a _thump_ on the door and a scratching sound on the floor. This was followed by a loud whining yawn.

Peret caught Bendlow by the arm and drew him away from the door.

“It’s a dog,” he whispered disgustedly. “Dalfonzo doubtless placed him there to guard the entrance during his absence. Lucky for us we entered by way of the cellar, eh?”

“I thought it might be a dog when I first hear it,” muttered Bendlow; “but after what you said about the Whispering Thing I thought I better not investigate alone. Maybe the dog’ll convince you that the Wolf is a tough customer. He’s a hard man to catch napping. Going back upstairs?”

“No. I am through. There is no one in the house, and I can find no trace of the Whispering Thing. _Sapristi!_ what a blind trail it is that I follow. Are you sure, my friend, that you have not made a mistake in thinking that Dalfonzo—”

“Not a chance,” was Bendlow’s emphatic reply. “This house, however, may be a blind. The Wolf may be laying low and working through his confederate. He may not even be in the city. However, as I am working in the dark, I will not hazard any more guesses. But you can bet your bottom dollar that the Wolf—”

“_Hist!_”

But Peret’s warning came too late. Engrossed as they were in their whispered conversation, neither of them had heard the outer front door open, or the whine with which the dog welcomed the man who entered the vestibule. Peret’s alert ear had caught the sound made by a key being turned in the lock of the inner door, and he hissed his warning just as the door was opened to admit the man and the dog. At the same instant a match flared in the hand of the new-comer, and the two detectives, as if on pivots, whirled.

“The Wolf,” croaked Bendlow hoarsely, and, with Peret following darted down the hall.

“Halt!” commanded the Wolf, and the dog, with an angry growl, shot between his legs and hurled itself after the detectives.

Reaching the door at the head of the cellar steps, Bendlow grasped the knob and wrenched it open. A streak of flame stabbed the darkness and a bullet _zummed_ by Peret’s ear and buried itself in the wall.

“Get him, Sultan,” cried the Wolf, and fired another shot.

Sultan tore down the dark hall, his lower jaw hung low in readiness, but when he reached the end of the hall he found the two prowlers had disappeared and the cellar door was closed.

_CHAPTER VI._

THE WHISPERING THING.

If Sultan was doomed to disappointment, so, too, were Peret and his husky companion, for they were not to make their escape as easily as they had at first believed they would. As they climbed from the basement window a dark form loomed up in front of them and a harsh voice commanded:

“Hands up!”

At the same instant the cold muzzle of a revolver came in violent contact with the Frenchman’s nose.

“_Diable!_” swore Peret softly, and, realizing that he was at the other’s mercy, elevated his hands with alacrity and, with a backward swing of his foot, kicked Bendlow on the shin.

Bendlow, however, needed no such urging. At the first spoken word, he had raised his automatic and taken deadly aim at the dark form in front of Peret. Something in the speaker’s voice, however, made him hesitate to shoot.

“Climb out of there, you!” ordered the voice harshly. “No funny business if you’re fond of life. C’mon out.”

“Dick Cromwell!” spoke up Bendlow suddenly. “Drop your gat. It’s Bendlow and Peret.”

“Well, for the luva Mike!” exclaimed the central bureau detective, and lowered his revolver. Then, to someone behind him. “It’s the Terrible Frog, Sarge.”

With a sigh of relief that was not unlike a snort, Peret scrambled out of the basement, and, without loss of time, tersely explained the situation to the three city detectives who crowded around him and his companion. His explanation, however, did not altogether satisfy Sergeant O’Brien, who was in charge of the party. Although he and the other two detectives had been set to watch the house at the Frenchman’s suggestion, he had not been informed of this and had no knowledge of Peret’s connection with the cause, and further, while the two private detectives were both well and favorably known to him, he had been ordered to arrest any one who attempted to leave the house, and orders were orders.

The only thing he could do, therefore, was to hold the two men until he could telephone for instructions. Having explained this to Peret, he went to the patrol box in the next block to get in communication with headquarters, while the others retired to a safe distance from the house to await his return. When he rejoined them, a few minutes later, the two prisoners, after being subjected to much good-natured badinage, were released.

At the corner, where he found the taxi still waiting for him, Peret gave Bendlow his orders for the night, then climbed in the cab and left his lieutenant to shift for himself. His only desire now was to get home and crawl into bed. The past hour’s work had disgusted and depressed him. The only thing he had accomplished had been to put Dalfonzo on his guard, and that was the last thing in the world he desired to do. Nevertheless, he felt that he had the case pretty well in hand and that within the next twenty-four hours he would be able to act decisively. And in this he found consolation.

Reaching his apartment house, he descended to the sidewalk, paid and dismissed the chauffeur without doing him bodily harm—which, considering the size of the fare, was little less than remarkable—and even wished the bandit good-night.

Peret entered the apartment house with a sprightly step. Had he been attending his own funeral he would have done no less. His vast supply of nervous energy had to have some outlet, and even in moments of depression he walked as if he had springs in his heels.

It was long after midnight, and the front hall was deserted. Rather than awaken the elevator boy, who was dozing in his cage, Peret mounted the stairs to the second floor. At the front end of the dimly-lighted hall, he came to a stop and tried the door of his sitting-room. As he expected, he found it locked.

Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door and entered the dark room. As he replaced the key in his pocket with one hand, he pushed the door shut with the other.

He heard the spring of the night-latch close with a loud _click_. He was about to reach out his hand to find the push-button that operated the electric lights, when, suddenly, his head flew back with a snap and his body became tense.

The silence in the room was suddenly broken by a loud though inarticulate _whisper_—a loud, jerky, sibilant sound, that departed as abruptly as it had come.

The blood in the Frenchman’s veins congealed. He could see nothing. The darkness was so intense that he could almost feel it press against his eye-balls.

Moistening his lips, he waited, with every sense alert, half believing that his ears had deceived him. But no. Almost immediately the silence was once more broken by a blood-curdling _hiss_, and, at the same instant _Peret felt an ice-cold breath on his cheek_.

He shuddered, too paralyzed with fear to move. The hiss, or whisper, seemed to come from in front of him, and in his mind’s eye he could see the invisible Thing gathering itself for attack. He shuddered again as It moved around in back of him and, after chilling his fevered cheek with its icy breath, whispered in his ear.

There was nothing human about the whisper: it had an unnatural and ominous sound, and the breath of the unseen Thing, which now fanned his face, was as cold and clammy as the respirations of an animated corpse.

Peret was undoubtedly a brave man. He had the heart of a lion and the strength of many men twice his size. But for once in his life he knew fear—real fear—a terrible, overpowering apprehension of impending danger.

The tragic happenings in the vicinity of Berjet’s house were still so fresh in his mind that even his lively imagination could scarcely have lent color to the deadly peril in which he knew he stood. In a flash he recalled everything that Deweese had said about the whispers and the breathing that had preceded the attack of the monstrous Thing, and he remembered the death struggles of the scientist and Dr. Sprague, and their horribly distorted features as they lay stretched out on the pavement at his feet.

Again he heard the agonized scream of the physician and saw his bulging eyes as he battled for his life with the invisible monster.

He wanted to move, to scream, to strike out, to do anything but remain inactive, but, for the moment, he was helpless, for his soul was gripped by the icy fingers of terror. The hair of his head bristled and beads of cold perspiration burst from his brow.

That he stood in the presence of the Whispering Thing—the whispering and respiring supernatural horror that had, but a few short hours before, crushed the life out of the two men whose death he had sworn to avenge—he could not, and did not, for a moment doubt.

_This story will be concluded in the next issue of WEIRD TALES. Tell your news dealer to reserve a copy for you._

_The Last Thrilling Chapters of_

_The_ Thing _of a_ Thousand Shapes

_A Weird Novel_

By OTIS ADELBERT KLINE

_The first half of this story appeared in the March issue of
WEIRD TALES. A copy will be mailed by the publishers for 25c._

HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED IN THE EARLY CHAPTERS:

William Ansley, who tells the story, receives word that his
Uncle Jim is dead in Peoria and goes at once to his uncle’s
home. Later, while gazing upon the body in a gray casket, he
hears himself say, as if against his own reason, “_He is not
dead—only sleeping._” Subsequent events indicate that this is
true. William, watching beside the body in the lonely house at
night, is visited by a number of terrifying apparitions. At
midnight he fears that the worst is yet to come.

THE STORY CONTINUES FROM THIS POINT

The storm slowly abated, and finally died down altogether, succeeded by a dead calm.

An hour passed without incident, to my inestimable relief. I believed that the phenomena had passed with the storm. The thought soothed me. I became drowsy, and was soon asleep.

Fitful dreams disturbed my slumber. It seemed that I was walking in a great primeval forest. The trees and vegetation about me were new and strange. Huge ferns, some of them fifty feet in height, grew all about in rank profusion. Under foot was a soft carpet of moss. Giant fungi, colossal toadstools, and mushrooms of varying shades and forms were everywhere.

In my hand I carried a huge knotted club, and my sole article of clothing seemed to be a tiger skin, girded about my waist and falling half way to my knees.

A queer-looking creature, half rhinoceros, half horse, ran across my pathway. Following closely behind it, in hot pursuit, was a huge reptilian monster, in outline something like a kangaroo, in size larger than the largest elephant. Its monstrous, serpentlike head towered more than twenty-five feet in the air as it suddenly stopped and stood erect on its hind feet and tail, apparently giving up the chase.

Then it espied me. Quick as a flash, I turned and ran, dodging hither and thither, floundering in the soft moss, stumbling over tangled vines and occasionally overturning a mammoth toadstool. I could hear the horrible beast crashing through the fern brakes, only a short distance behind me.

At last I came to a rocky hillside, and saw an opening about two feet in diameter. Into this I plunged headlong, barely in time to escape the frightful jaws which closed behind me with a terrifying _snap_. I lay on the ground, panting for breath, in the far corner of the cave and just out of reach of the ferocious monster. It appeared to be trying to widen the opening with its huge front feet....

Someone had laid a hand on my arm and was gently trying to awaken me. The cave and the horrible reptile disappeared, and I was again in my uncle’s living-room. I turned, expecting to see Mrs. Rhodes, but saw no one.

There was, however, a hand on my arm. It ended at the wrist in a sort of indescribable, filmy mass. I was now fully awake, and somewhat startled, as may be imagined. The hand withdrew and seemed to float through the air to the other side of the room.

I now observed in the room a sort of white vapor, from which other hands were forming. Soon there were hands of all descriptions and sizes. They were constantly in motion, some of them flexing the fingers as if to try the newly-formed muscles, others beckoning, and still others clasped in pairs, as if in greeting.

There were large, horny masculine hands, daintily-formed womanly hands, and active, chubby little hands like those of children. Some of them were perfectly modeled. Others, apparently in the process of formation, looked like floating bits of chiffon, while still others had the appearance of flat, empty gloves.

Two well-developed hands now emerged from the mass and moved a few feet toward me. They waved as if attempting to attract my attention, and then I could see they were forming letters of the deaf and dumb alphabet. They spelled my name:

“B-I-L-L-Y.”

Then:

“S-A-V-E M-E B-I-L-L-Y.”

I managed to ask, “Who are you?”

The hands spelled:

“I A-M—”

Then they were withdrawn, with a jerk, into the group.

I could now see a new transformation taking place. The hands were drawn together, dissolving into a white, irregular fluted column, surmounted by a dark, hairy-looking mass. A bearded face seemed to be forming at the top of the column, which was now widening out considerably, taking on the semblance of a human form. In a moment a white-robed figure stood there, the eyes turned upward and inward as if in fear and supplication, the arms extended toward me.

The apparition began slowly to advance in my direction. It seemed to glide along as if suspended in the air. There was no movement of walking, just a slow, floating motion.

The phantom, when at the other end of the room, had seemed frightful enough, but to see it coming toward me was unnerving—terrifying. The nearer it approached, the more horrible it seemed, and the more firmly I appeared rooted to the spot.

Soon it was towering above me. The eyes rolled downward and seemed to look through mine into my very brain. The arms were extended to encircle me, when the instinct of self-preservation came to my rescue.

I acted quickly, and apparently without volition. Overturning my chair and rushing from the room, I ran out the front door and down the pathway. I did not dare look back, but rushed blindly forth into the night.

Suddenly there was a brilliant glare of light. Something struck me with considerable force, and I lost consciousness.

When I regained my senses I was lying in a bedroom, the room I had occupied in my uncle’s house.

A beautiful girl was bending over me, bathing my fevered forehead from time to time with cold water. Sunlight was streaming in at the window. Outside, a robin was singing his morning song, his farewell to the Northland, no doubt, as the stinging snow-laden winds of winter must soon drive him southward.

I attempted to sit up, but sank back with a groan, as a sharp pain shot through my right side.

My fair attendant laid a soft hand on my brow.

“You mustn’t do that again,” she said. “The telephone wires are down, so father has driven to town for the doctor.”

Memories of the night returned. The apparition—my rush down the pathway—the blinding light—the sudden shock—and then oblivion.

“Do you mind telling me,” I asked, “what it was that knocked me out, and how you came so suddenly to my rescue?”

“It was our car that knocked you out,” she replied, “and it was no more than right that I should do what I could to make you comfortable until the doctor arrives.”

“Please tell me your name—won’t you?—and how it all happened.”

“My name is Ruth Randall. My father is Albert Randall, dean of the local college. We had motored to Indianapolis, intending to spend the week-end with friends, when we were notified of your uncle’s death. He and my father were bosom friends, and together conducted many experiments in psychical research. Naturally we hurried home at once, in order to attend the funeral.

“We expected to make Peoria by midnight, but the storm came, and the roads soon were almost impassable. It was only by putting on chains and running at low speed most of the time that we were able to make any progress. Just as we were passing this house, you rushed in front of the car.

“Father says it is fortunate that we were compelled to run at low speed, otherwise you would have been instantly killed. We brought you to the door and aroused the housekeeper, who helped us get you to your room. Father tried to phone for a doctor, but it was no use, as the lines were torn down by the storm, so he drove to town for one. I think that is he coming now. I hear a motor in the driveway.”

A few moments later two men entered—Professor Randall, tall, thin, slightly stooped, and pale of face, and Doctor Rush, of medium height and rather portly. The doctor wore glasses with very thick lenses, through which he seemed almost to glare at me. He lost no time in taking my pulse and temperature, pushing the pocket thermometer into my mouth with one hand, and seizing my wrist with the other.

He removed the thermometer from my mouth, then, holding it up to the light and squinting for a moment said “_Humph_,” and proceeded to paw me over in search of broken bones. When he started manhandling my right side I winced considerably. He presently located a couple of fractured ribs.

After a painful half-hour, during which the injured ribs were set, he left me with instructions to keep as still as possible, and let nature do the rest.

The professor lingered for a moment, and I asked him to have Doctor Rush examine my uncle’s body for signs of decomposition, as it was now more than three days since his death.

Miss Randall, who had left the room during the examination, came in just as her father was leaving, and said nice, sweet, sympathetic things, and fluffed up my pillow for me and smoothed back my hair; and if the doctor had taken my pulse at that moment he would have sworn my auricles and ventricles were racing each other for the world’s championship.

“After all,” I thought, “having one’s ribs broken is not such an unpleasant experience.”

Then her father entered—and my thoughts were turned into new channels.

“Doctor Rush has made a thorough examination,” he said, “and can find absolutely no sign of decomposition on your uncle’s body. He frankly admits that he is puzzled by this condition, and that it is a case entirely outside his previous experience. He states that, from the condition of the corpse, he would have been led to believe that death took place only a few hours ago.”

“If you can spare the time,” I said, “and if it is not asking too much, I should like to have you spend the day with me. I have much to tell you, and many strange things have happened on which I sorely need your advice and assistance. Joe Severs can take the doctor home.”

The professor kindly consented to stay, and his daughter went downstairs to locate Joe and his flivver.

“The things of which I am about to tell you,” I began, “may seem like the visions of an opium eater, or the hallucinations of a deranged mind. In fact, they have even made me doubt by own sanity. However, I must tell someone, and as you are an old and valued friend of my uncle’s, I feel that whether or not you accept my story as a verity you will be a sympathetic listener, and can offer some explanation—if, indeed, it be possible to explain such singular happenings.”

I then related in detail everything that had happened since my arrival at the farm, up to the moment when I rushed headlong in front of his automobile.

He listened attentively, but whether he believed my narrative or not I could not tell. When I had finished, he asked many questions about the various phenomena I had witnessed, and seemed particularly interested when I told him about the disappearance of the bat. He asked me where the book, which had been used to dispatch the creature, might be found, and immediately went downstairs, bringing it up a moment later.

A dry, white smudge was still faintly discernible on the cover. This he examined carefully with a pocket microscope, then said:

“I will have to put this substance under a compound microscope, and also test it chemically in my laboratory. It may be the means of explaining all of the phenomena you have witnessed. I will drive home this afternoon and make a thorough examination of this sample.”

“I should be very glad indeed,” I replied, “to have even some slight explanation of these mysteries.”

“You are undoubtedly aware,” he said, “that there are no vampires or similar bats indigenous to this part of the world. The only true vampire bat is found in South America, although there is a type of frugivorous bat slightly resembling it, which inhabits the southeast coast of Asia and the Maylayan Archipelago, and is sometimes erroneously called a vampire or spectre bat. You have described in detail a creature greatly resembling the true vampire bat, but it is probable that what you saw was no bat at all. What it really was, I hesitate to say until I have examined the substance on this book cover.”

“Well, whatever it was, I am positive it was no real vampire, as Glitch says,” I replied.

“I don’t like this vampire story that is being circulated by Glitch,” said the professor. “It may lead to trouble. It is most surprising to find such crude superstition prevailing in these modern times.”

At this juncture there was a rap at my door. I called, “come in,” and Joe Severs entered.

“Well, Joe, did you get the doctor home without shaking any of his teeth loose?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, I got him home all right, but that ain’t what I come to tell you about,” he replied. “There’s a heap of trouble brewin’ around these parts an’ I thought I better let you know. Somebody’s sick in nearly every family in the neighborhood, an’ they’re sayin’ Mr. Braddock is the cause of it. They’re holdin’ an indignation meetin’ up to the school house now.”

“This is indeed serious,” said the professor. “Do you know what they propose to do about it?”

“Can’t say as to that, but they’re sure some riled up about it,” replied Joe.

Mrs. Rhodes came in with my luncheon, and announced to the professor that Miss Ruth awaited him in the dining-room below, whereupon he begged to be excused. Joe went out murmuring something about having to feed the horses, and I was left alone to enjoy a very tasty meal.

_CHAPTER IV._

A half hour later the housekeeper came in to remove the dishes, and Miss Randall brought me a huge bouquet of autumn daisies.

“Father has driven to town to analyze a sample of something or other that he has found,” she said, “and in the meantime I will do my best to make the hours pass pleasantly for you. What do you want me to do? Shall I read to you?”

“By all means,” I replied. “Read, or talk, or do anything you like. I assure you I am not hard to amuse.”

“I think I shall read,” she decided. “What do you prefer? Fiction, history, mythology, philosophy? Or perhaps,” she added, “you prefer poetry.”

“I will leave the selection entirely to you,” I said. “Read what interests you, and I will be interested.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered, and went down to my uncle’s library.

She returned a few moments later with several volumes. From a book of Scott’s poems, she chose “Rokeby” and soon we were conveyed, as if by a Magic carpet, to medieval Yorkshire with its moated castles, dense forests, sparkling streams, jutting crags and enchanted dells.

She had finished the poem, and we were chatting gaily, when Mrs. Rhodes entered.

“A small boy brought this note for you, sir,” she said, handing me a sealed envelope.

I tore it open carelessly, then read:

“_Mr. William Ansley.
Dear Sir_:

“_Owing to the fact that at least one member of nearly every
family in this community has been smitten with a peculiar
malady, in some instances fatal, since the death of James
Braddock, and in view of the undeniable evidence that the
corpse of the aforesaid has become a vampire, proven by
certain things which you, in company with two respected and
veracious neighbors witnessed, an indignation meeting was held
today, attended by more than one hundred residents, for the
purpose of discussing ways and means of combating this terrible
menace to the community._

“_Tradition tells us that there are two effective ways for
disposing of a vampire. One is by burning the corpse of the
offender, the other is by burial with a stake driven through
the heart. We have decided on the latter as the more simple and
easily carried out._

“_You are therefore directed to convey the corpse to the
pine grove which is situated a half mile back from the road
on your uncle’s farm, where you will find a grave ready dug,
and six men who will see that the body is properly interred.
You have until eight o’clock this evening to carry out these
instructions._

“_To refuse to do as directed will avail you nothing._ IF YOU
DO NOT BRING THE BODY WE WILL COME AND GET IT. _If you offer
resistance, you do so at your peril, as we are armed, and we
mean business._

“_THE COMMITTEE._

_P. S. No use to try to telephone or send a messenger for help.
Your wires are out of commission and the house is surrounded by
armed sentinels._”

As the professor had predicted, this was indeed a most serious turn of events. I turned to Mrs. Rhodes.

“Where is the bearer of this letter?” I asked. “Did he wait for a reply?”

“It was given to me by a small boy,” she answered. “He said that if you wished to reply, to put your letter in the mail-box, and it would be given to the right party. There was a closed automobile waiting for him in front of the house, and he ran back to it and was driven away at high speed.”

“I must dress and go downstairs at once,” I said.

“You must do no such thing,” replied Miss Randall. “The doctor’s orders are that you must keep perfectly quiet until your ribs heal.”

I heard a swift footfall on the stairs, and a moment later the professor entered the room, very much excited.

“Two farmers,” he said, “poked shotguns in my face and searched me on the public highway. That’s what just happened to me!”

“What do you suppose they were after?” I asked.

“They did not make themselves clear on that point, and they didn’t take anything, so I am at a loss to explain their conduct. They merely stopped me, felt through my pockets and searched the car; then told me to drive on.”

“Perhaps this will throw some light on their motive,” I said, handing him the letter.

As he read it a look of surprise came over his face.

“Ah! It is quite plain, now. These were the armed guards mentioned in the postscript. It seems incredible that such superstition should prevail in this enlightened age; however, the evidence is quite too plain to be questioned. What is to be done?”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” I replied. “We are evidently so well watched that it would be impossible for anyone to go for help. Of course, they cannot harm my deceased uncle by driving a stake through the corpse, but to permit these barbarians to carry out their purpose would be to desecrate the memory of the best friend I ever had.”