The Novel of the White Powder | Page 7

might serve the doctor's
purpose.
"Very good," he said, "that will do, I dare say. I give you notice, Mr.
Leicester," he cried loudly at the keyhole, "that I am now about to
break into your room."
Then I heard the wrench of the adze, and the woodwork split and
cracked under it; with a loud crash the door suddenly burst open, and
for a moment we started back aghast at a fearful screaming cry, no
human voice, but as the roar of a monster, that burst forth inarticulate
and struck at us out of the darkness.
"Hold the lamp," said the doctor, and we went in and glanced quickly
round the room.
"There it is," said Dr. Haberden, drawing a quick breath; "look, in that
corner."
I looked, and a pang of horror seized my heart as with a white-hot iron.
There upon the floor was a dark and putrid mass, seething with
corruption and hideous rottenness, neither liquid nor solid, but melting
and changing before our eyes, and bubbling with unctuous oily bubbles
like boiling pitch. And out of the midst of it shone two burning points
like eyes, and I saw a writhing and stirring as of limbs, and something
moved and lifted up what might have been an arm. The doctor took a
step forward, raised the iron bar and struck at the burning points; he
drove in the weapon, and struck again and again in the fury of loathing.
A week or two later, when I had recovered to some extent from the
terrible shock, Dr.
Haberden came to see me.
"I have sold my practice," he began, "and tomorrow I am sailing on a
long voyage. I do not know whether I shall ever return to England; in
all probability I shall buy a little land in California, and settle there for

the remainder of my life. I have brought you this packet, which you
may open and read when you feel able to do so. It contains the report of
Dr. Chambers on what I submitted to him. Good-bye, Miss Leicester,
good-bye."
When he was gone I opened the envelope; I could not wait, and
proceeded to read the papers within. Here is the manuscript, and if you
will allow me, I will read you the astounding story it contains.
"My dear Haberden," the letter began, "I have delayed inexcusably in
answering your questions as to the white substance you sent me. To tell
you the truth, I have hesitated for some time as to what course I should
adopt, for there is a bigotry and orthodox standard in physical science
as in theology, and I knew that if I told you the truth I should offend
rooted prejudices which I once held dear myself. However, I have
determined to be plain with you, and first I must enter into a short
personal explanation.
"You have known me, Haberden, for many years as a scientific man;
you and I have often talked of our profession together, and discussed
the hopeless gulf that opens before the feet of those who think to attain
to truth by any means whatsoever except the beaten way of experiment
and observation in the sphere of material things. I remember the scorn
with which you have spoken to me of men of science who have dabbled
a little in the unseen, and have timidly hinted that perhaps the senses
are not, after all, the eternal, impenetrable bounds of all knowledge, the
everlasting walls beyond which no human being has ever passed. We
have laughed together heartily, and I think justly, at the 'occult' follies
of the day, disguised under various namesÑthe mesmerisms,
spiritualisms, materializations, theosophies, all the rabble rout of
imposture, with their machinery of poor tricks and feeble conjuring, the
true back-parlour of shabby London streets. Yet, in spite of what I have
said, I must confess to you that I am no materialist, taking the word of
course in its usual signification. It is now many years since I have
convinced myselfÑ convinced myself, a sceptic, rememberÑthat the
old ironbound theory is utterly and entirely false. Perhaps this
confession will not wound you so sharply as it would have done twenty

years ago; for I think you cannot have failed to notice that for some
time hypotheses have been advanced by men of pure science which are
nothing less than transcendental, and I suspect that most modern
chemists and biologists of repute would not hesitate to subscribe the
dictum of the old Schoolman, Omnia exeunt in mysterium, which
means, I take it, that every branch of human knowledge if traced up to
its source and final principles vanishes into mystery. I need not trouble
you now with a detailed account of the painful steps which led me to
my