The Mystics | Page 9

but just that, whatever his vengeance, it
should be accomplished in the grim, unconscious presence of the dead
man.
Stepping into the room, he paused and looked about him, seeking some
suggestion. As he stood there, his eyes, by a natural process of
inspiration, fell upon the fire that glowed and crackled in the grate; and
with a sharp, inarticulate sound of satisfaction he strode forward to the
hearth, knelt down, and prepared for his work of destruction.
[Illustration: "HE ... GATHERED THE FIRST SHEAF OF LEAVES
INTO HIS FINGERS"]
As he crouched over the flames a fresh gale swept inland from the sea,

seizing the house in its fierce embrace; and the red tongues of fire
leaped up the chimney in the instant answer of element to element.
Instinctively he bent forward, opened the book and gathered the first
sheaf of leaves into his fingers. Then, involuntarily, he paused, as the
bold characters of the printed words shot up black and clear in the
fierce glow.
Almost without volition he read the opening lines:
"Out of obscurity will He come. And--having proved Himself--no man
will question Him. For the Past lies in the Great Unknown. By the
Scitsym--from which none but the Chosen may read--will ye know
Him; and, knowing Him, ye will bow down--Mystics, Arch-Mystics,
and Arch-Councillor alike. And the World will be His. For He will be
Power made absolute!"
"For he will be Power made absolute!" Something in the six simple
words arrested Henderson, suspended his thoughts and checked his
hand. By an odd psychological process his rage became chilled, his
mind veered from its point of view. With a curious stiffness of motion
he drew away from the fire--the book held uninjured in his hand.
"He will be Power made absolute!" he repeated, mechanically, as he
rose slowly to his feet.
CHAPTER III
On a certain night in mid-January, exactly ten years after Andrew
Henderson's death, any one of the multitudinous inhabitants of London
whom business or pleasure carried to that division of Brompton known
as Hellier Crescent, would undoubtedly have been attracted to the
house distinguished from its fellows as No. 8.
Outwardly, this house was not remarkable. It possessed the massive
portico and the imposing frontage that lend to Hellier Crescent its air of
dignified repose; but there its similarity to the surrounding dwellings
ended. The basement sent forth no glow of warmth and comfort, as did

the neighboring basements; the ground-floor windows permitted no ray
of mellow light to slip through the chinks of shutter or curtain. From
attic to cellar, the house seemed in darkness, the only suggestion of
occupation coming from the occasional drawing back and forth of a
small slide that guarded a monastic-looking grating set in the hall door.
And yet towards this unlighted and unfriendly dwelling a thin stream of
people--all on foot and all evidently agitated--made their way
continuously on that January night between the hours of ten and eleven.
The behavior of these people, who differed widely in outward
characteristics, was marked by a peculiar fundamental similarity. They
all entered the quiet precincts of the Crescent with the same air of
subdued excitement; each moved softly and silently towards the
darkened house, and, mounting the steps, knocked once upon the heavy
door. And each in turn stood patient, while the slide was drawn back,
and a voice from within demanded the signal that granted admittance.
This mysterious gathering of forces had continued for nearly an hour
when a cab drew up sharply at the corner where Hellier Crescent abuts
upon St. George's Terrace, and a lady descended from it. As she handed
his fare to the cabman, her face and figure were plainly visible in the
light of the street-lamps. The former was pale in coloring, delicately
oval in shape, and illumined by a pair of large and unusually brilliant
eyes; the latter was tall, graceful, and clad in black.
Having dismissed her cab, the new-comer crossed St. George's Terrace
with an appearance of haste, and entering Hellier Crescent,
immediately mounted the steps of No. 8.
The last member of this strange procession had disappeared into the
house as she reached the door; but, acting with apparent familiarity, she
lifted the knocker and let it fall once.
For a moment there was no response; then, as in the case of the former
visitors, the slide was drawn back and a beam of light came through the
grating, to be immediately obscured by the shadowy suggestion of a
face with two inquiring eyes.

"The Word?" demanded a solemn voice.
The new-comer lifted her head.
"He shall be Power made absolute!" she responded in a low and
slightly tremulous voice; and a moment later the door opened, and she
stepped into the hall.
The scene inside the house was curious