The Master of Silence | Page 9

characters with my pencil:
"Kendric Lane, son of Kendric Lane (deceased), late of London,
England, wishes to see Dr. Lane on business of importance."
I handed the message to the strange man behind the wall, who
immediately disappeared with it, closing the panel. "The worst is over,"
thought I, while I stood in that mysterious and silent chamber waiting
for his return. But I should not have thought so had I known what was
still to be revealed to me before the dawn of another day, and in the
months that followed, during which that house and its echoing groves
were my home. And I sometimes ask myself, in the light of later events
of which that visit was indirectly the cause, whether, had I been able to
foresee them, I would still have persevered in my purpose to know the
secrets of my uncle's house?
CHAPTER IV
A long time I stood waiting for some reply to my message. My candle
was fast burning out, and I began to fear that after all I was likely to
leave the house no wiser than when I had entered it. Suddenly a door
swung on its creaking hinges and a feeble old man, holding a lamp in
one hand, stood grinning at me in the opening. It was the same face that
I saw before, but it seemed less ghostly and unnatural now. Stepping
back he beckoned me to enter. As soon as I had crossed the threshold
the door closed behind me and the old man carefully bolted it. I stood
in a large room, richly furnished, of which spiders had apparently long
held possession. Great cobwebs hung like hammocks from the ceiling,
and the dust of years had settled over all. Two human skeletons
completely wrapped in cobwebs, stood facing me against the opposite
wall. Following my silent leader, I went through a long narrow passage,
at the end of which was a heavy door fastened with large iron bolts.
Before opening it the strange old man placed the lamp upon a table and

turning around looked squarely into my face. Merciful Heaven! It was
the face of another man who was looking at me now! The deep lines
had almost disappeared and the eyes looked brighter and more
intelligent. No, it was the same face, for while my eyes were eagerly
scanning it that hideous grin began to deepen its wrinkles, and its
owner, taking half a dozen steps down the passageway, made an
awkward motion with both hands as if trying to indicate that I was to
follow him very closely. Then he opened the big door and I was
surprised to observe that it led into the outer air. What gulf of darkness
are we about to plunge into? I asked myself, peering through the
doorway; and as we stepped out I heard again that ominous whirring.
Close upon his heels I followed in a narrow path, through what seemed
to be a large courtyard, overgrown with thick grass. Presently he
stopped, and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a door
in a back wing of the house. Reaching out until his hand touched me, as
if to make sure that I was there, he swung the door open and we
stepped into a dimly lighted apartment. My mysterious guide turned up
the wick of a lamp that was burning on a table in the centre of the room.
It was a library, with great shelves of books reaching from floor to
ceiling along its walls. A large galvanic battery, globes, charts and
other contrivances that belong to the equipment of a scholar surrounded
the table. This table was used for writing evidently, for there were pens
lying on it and a human skull used as an inkstand, the fluid being held
in the cavities of the eyes. I had seated myself in a chair and was
waiting for some sign from the little old man who had brought me there.
But where was he? Turning around I looked about me on all sides. He
had left the room during my momentary preoccupation. I had scarcely
seated myself again when a door opened and a venerable man, with
snow-white hair and a smooth-shaven face that was pale and wrinkled,
walked slowly toward me. I rose to my feet and advanced a step or two.
He came forward without speaking and looked steadily into my eyes.
Slowly and sadly he turned his gaze upon the floor, apparently in deep
thought. A sigh broke from his lips as if some memory, stirring in the
caves of thought, had driven it forth.
The man who stood before me had deep-set gray eyes, almost
concealed by long shaggy brows not yet entirely white. His lips were

thin, and drawn