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СКАЧАТЬ is quite obvious," returned Beetham, "that I followed no voices. In fact, I heard none."

      Eileen Enderby shuddered. "Well, I never could do it," she said. "I'm frightfully afraid of the dark. It drives me almost insane with fear."

      Sir Frederic Bruce looked at her keenly. For the first time in some moments he spoke. "I fancy many women are like that," he said. He turned suddenly to Mrs. Kirk's companion. "What has been your experience, Mrs. Tupper-Brock?"

      "I do not mind the dark," said that lady, in a cool, even tone.

      "Miss Garland?" His piercing eyes turned on the actress.

      She seemed a little embarrassed. "Why—I—really, I much prefer the spotlight. No, I can't say I fancy darkness."

      "Nonsense," said Mrs. Dawson Kirk. "Things are the same in the dark as in the light. I never minded it."

      Beetham spoke slowly. "Why not ask the gentlemen, Sir Frederic? Fear of the dark is not alone a woman's weakness. Were you to ask me, I should have to make a confession."

      Sir Frederic turned on him in amazement. "You, Colonel?"

      Beetham nodded. "When I was a little shaver, my life was made miserable by my horror of the dark. Every evening when I was left alone in my room, I died a thousand deaths."

      "By jove," cried Enderby. "And yet you grew up to spend your life in the dark places of the world."

      "You conquered that early fear, no doubt?" Sir Frederic suggested.

      Beetham shrugged. "Does one ever quite conquer a thing like that? But really—there is too much about me. Mr. Kirk has asked me to let you see, after dinner, some pictures I took last year in Tibet. I fear I shall bore you by becoming, as you Americans say, the whole show."

      Again they chatted by two and two. Miss Morrow leaned over to Chan.

      "Imagine," she said, "that picture of the great explorer, as a little boy, frightened of the dark. It's quite the most charming and human thing I ever heard."

      He nodded gravely his eyes on Eileen Enderby. "The dark drives me almost insane with fear," she had said. How dark it must have been that night in the hills outside Peshawar.

      After he had served coffee in the living-room, Paradise appeared with a white, glittering screen which, under the Colonel's direction, he stood on a low table against a Flemish tapestry. Barry Kirk helped Beetham carry in from the hallway a heavy motion-picture projector and several boxes of films.

      "Lucky we didn't overlook this," the young man laughed. "A rather embarrassing thing for you if you had to go home without being invited to perform. Like the man who tried to slip away from an evening party with a harp that he hadn't been asked to play." The machine was finally ready, and the company took their places in comfortable chairs facing the screen.

      "We shall want, of course, complete darkness," Beetham said. "Mr. Kirk, if you will be so kind—"

      "Surely." Barry Kirk turned off the lights, and drew thick curtains over doors and windows. "Is it all right now?"

      "The light in the hallway," Beetham suggested.

      Kirk also extinguished that. There was a moment of tense silence.

      "Heavens—this is creepy," spoke Eileen Enderby out of the blackness. There was a slight note of hysteria in her voice.

      Beetham was placing a roll of film in the machine. "On the expedition I am about to describe," he began, "we set out from Darjeeling. As you no doubt know, Darjeeling is a little hill station on the extreme northern frontier of India—"

      Sir Frederic interrupted. "You have been in India a great deal, Colonel?"

      "Frequently—between journeys—"

      "Ah yes—pardon me for breaking in—"

      "Not at all." The film began to unwind. "These first pictures are of Darjeeling, where I engaged my men, rounded up supplies, and—" The Colonel was off on his interesting but rather lengthy story.

      Time passed, and his voice droned on in the intense darkness. The air was thick with the smoke of cigarettes; now and then there was the stir of some one moving, walking about in the rear, occasionally a curtain parted at a window. But Colonel Beetham gave no heed. He was living again on the high plateau of Tibet; the old fervor to go on had returned; he trekked through snowy passes, leaving men and mules dead in the wasteland, fighting like a fanatic on toward his goal.

      A weird feeling of oppression settled down over Charlie Chan, a feeling he attributed to the thick atmosphere of the room. He rose and dodged guiltily out into the roof-top garden. Barry Kirk was standing there, a dim figure in the mist, smoking a cigarette. For it was misty now, the fog bell was tolling its warning, and the roof was wrapped in clouds.

      "Hello," said Kirk in a low voice. "Want a bit of air, too, eh? I hope he's not boring my poor guests to death. Exploring's a big business now, and he's trying to persuade grandmother to put up a lot of money for a little picnic he's planning. An interesting man, isn't he?"

      "Most interesting," Chan admitted.

      "But a hard one," added Kirk. "He leaves the dead behind with never so much as a look over his shoulder. I suppose that's the scientific type of mind—what's a few dead men when you're wiping out one of those white spots on the map? However, it's not my style. That's my silly American sentimentality."

      "It is undubitably the style of Colonel Beetham," Chan returned. "I read same in his eyes."

      He went back into the big living-room, and walked about in the rear. A slight sound in the hallway interested him, and he went out there. A man had just entered by the door that led to the floor below. Before he closed it the light outside fell on the blond hair of Carrick Enderby.

      "Just having a cigarette on the stairs," he explained in a hoarse whisper. "Didn't want to add any more smoke to the air in there. A bit thick, what?"

      He stole back into the living-room, and Chan, following, found a chair. A clatter of dishes sounded from the distant pantry, competing with the noise of the unwinding film and the steady stream of Beetham's story. The tireless man was starting on a new reel.

      "Voice is getting a bit weary," the Colonel admitted. "I'll just run this one off without comment. It requires none." He fell back from the dim light by the machine, into the shadows.

      In ten minutes the reel had unwound its length, and the indomitable Beetham was on hand. He was preparing to start on what he announced as the final reel, when the curtains over one of the French windows parted suddenly, and the white figure of a woman came into the room. She stood there like a wraith in the misty light at her back.

      "Oh, stop it!" she cried. "Stop it and turn up the lights. Quickly! Quickly—please!" There was a real hysteria in Eileen Enderby's voice now.

      Barry Kirk leaped to the light switch, and flooded the room. Mrs. Enderby stood, pale and swaying slightly, clutching at her throat. "What is it?" Kirk asked. "What's the trouble?"

      "A man," she panted. "I couldn't stand the dark—it was driving me mad— I stepped out into the garden. I was standing close to the railing when I saw a man leap from a lighted window on the floor below, out onto the fire-escape. СКАЧАТЬ