TABLE of CONTENTS

THE RED SPECK

THE YELLOW MOTH

THE FIRE BUGS

THE GREAT WHITE MOTH

CHAPTER I

With a lean brown hand limp as a rag, Drenton Denn helped himself to quinine enough to blow the roof off the head of an ordinary man.

"A blight upon the man who lured me to Madagascar!" he said, with his teeth clenched "You get me here as a war correspondent when there is no war to speak of and no facilities for getting my 'copy' away in any case. And how that I am down with the fever you calmly tell me that you have orders to send me back to the seaboard!"

Captain Le Boeuf quivered uneasily. He it was who had lured Drenton Denn from Paris with specious promises of what might happen in the way of graphic things to describe at Tamatave.

"It is only a hundred miles," Le Boeuf said, tentatively.

"But what a hundred miles!" Drenton groaned, "Even if I get over this fever I shall be good for nothing for days to come. It is impossible for me to return the way we came. And how a handful of Kanaka boys are going to get me down to Tara I can't understand!"

"But, my dear Denn, you can't stay here."

"Of course I can't. I must do my best to get back to the coast, and that right through an unfriendly tribe. Is there any truth in the rumour that the Hamas are led by a woman who wears Paris gowns and imports her own champagne?"

Le Boeuf showed his teeth in a dazzling smile.

"There is something in it," he said. "Do you remember that magnificent Hama girl--Sabina, they called her--who performed those marvellous snake and bird tricks at the Moulin Rouge two years ago?"

Denn nodded. He recollected the girl perfectly well and the sensation she had created at the him. The handsome chieftainess had taken to Denn somewhat, and quite a Platonic friendship had sprung up between them. Denn flushed slightly as he called this to his mind. He had touched the heart of the dusky Hama, and he had deemed it best to retire gracefully from Paris before anything foolish transpired.

"You think she is close here?" Denn asked.

"I am certain of it," said Le Boeuf. "Sabina quitted Paris directly trouble was threatened here to return to her own people. I shouldn't wonder if she gave you assistance in getting to Tara."

The next day Denn set out on his perilous journey. His escort consisted of eight Kanaka boys--lusty fellows, black as coal, and quite devoted to the service of a man who paid them liberally. Their rate of progress was exasperatingly slow, for they had to make a track through the virgin forest, and such implements as they possessed were from traders' stores.

At the end of the fourth day even Denn begin to despair. They had certainly not progressed more than eight miles, the dried fish and rice were getting low, and the water-bags looked crinkled and flabby. There was danger, terrible danger, of death from starvation and thirst in that primitive forest. The Kanakas could only trust then own instincts and steer in a blundering rule o' thumb kind of way.

With a grim face Denn watched the last grains of rice shaken out for the evening meal.

"To-morrow," he muttered, "we shall starve. What a fool I was to believe that yarn about Sabina!"

But to-morrow brought better things. The interlaced gloom of the forest grew less dense, and the sun shone golden through the network of boughs in front. Then the little caravan emerged into an open plain. A small river rolled along the valley, and on the slope or clearing, opposite a cluster of bamboo and matting, huts were gathered.

"Hamas," the head Kanaka boy, muttered. "If they are friendly--".

But there was going to be no 'if' about it so far as Denn was concerned. He rolled out of his litter and waded across the shallow stream. The earth seemed to move under him like a ribbon, for the nausea of his illness was still strong upon him.

From the largest of the huts a girl emerged, and stood contemplating the stranger with eyes as dark as those of a deer. Then, as Denn literally staggered up to her, she gave vent to a queer, frightened cry.

"It is my lord Denn!" she exclaimed. "Go back. Quick! Better anything than that she should see you."

All this in the queerest French from a girl dressed in a long linen robe with a gold band round her waist, and nothing more. Her hair was piled high upon her head, and skewered with silver bodkins.

"I'm off my head!" Denn muttered. "I've fribbled my brain up with too much quinine. What, is it really you, Zara?"

The girl so addressed quivered behind a smile. The last time Denn had seen her was in the guise of Sabina's maid in Paris.

"Why did you come here?" the girl moaned. "You were good to me, and I would save you if I could. Go--go before it is too late. Our queen.."

"Meaning Sabina, of course?"

"Yes, yes. She has it in her head that you played her false. Don't you know that she came to love you? And when a Hama loves......"

Zara threw up her hands to express a passion or a jealousy outside the span of mere words. Her eyes were full of terror.

"Flattering, if slightly embarrassing." Denn muttered. "But it seems to be too late to fall back upon one's base."

It was. Half a score of Hamas had gathered around the strangely assorted pair. Their attitude was one of armed neutrality. Take them all in all, they were not inviting to a man on a peace footing. Attracted by their clamour, a woman emerged from the largest hut there. She was a magnificent looking creature, tall and sinuous, in the full flush of her powers, and strikingly handsome.

The brightness of her eyes somewhat detracted from the passionate sensuousness of her full crimson lips. As she caught sight of Denn she started back, and a scream of joy escaped her. But the expression of her face seemed to prick Denn's spine like a red-hot needle. Behind the glad smile was the hungry look of vengeance deferred.

Then, as suddenly, Sabina's manner changed as she came forward. She took Denn's flabby palm in her own, and carried it to her lips.

"I knew you would come back to me," she murmured.

Sabina had become all smiles again. Nor had she forgotten much of the artificiality two years in Paris had given her. But the leopard cannot change its spots--Hama was still there.

"This is a meeting the most extraordinary," she said.

"Isn't it?" was Denn's banal reply. "I was with the French force towards Tamatave, and they sent me back. I was trying to get down to the coast this way. Will you try and get me down there?"

"Oh, Yes," said Sabina. "Oh, yes. Dead or alive, you shall be got to the coast. Yes, yes. To the coast alive or--dead."

Denn murmured his thanks. He did not care for this insistence in case of his premature demolition.

He suffered himself to be conducted inside the hut which Sabina made her own, and then, with what appetite he could, he despatched stewed goat and rice, washed down with native wine.

"I suppose my men are being looked after?" he asked.

"Your men had fled back to the woods," said Sabina. "It is my misfortune that I have a bad reputation in these parts. But they do not know that I have had advantage of what you call civilisation. And now, dear fly, how do you like the web of your spider?"

Again Denn felt the hot pain crawl along his spine.

"I know nothing of spiders," he said.

"Not yet, not yet, dear friend. But you will soon. To-night I show you something you do not deem of. The birds and snakes? Bah!"

CHAPTER I

Drenton Denn sat with a huge native cigar in his mouth, and what content he could on his keen, angular features. He was by no means a handsome man, but at the present moment he found himself wishing that nature had been still more niggardly physically.

By his side sat the woman whose wayward heart he had won. It pleased Sabina to be alternately passionate and disdainful.

And though Denn had dined, and dined well, no feeling of content embalmed him. The fever had been burned and blistered by the quinine out of his system, and his brain was once more clear, alert, and vigorous.

Denn sat in a kind of gallery looking upon a courtyard in which a circular wooden building had been erected. The sides of the building were wooden bars, and the roof was made of some kind of white cloth, or, rather, coarse matting. And above the netting was a thatch of straw.

Inside the building half-a-dozen sullen-looking Kanaka prisoners had been placed.

That some kind of punishment awaited them they seemed to know perfectly well.

In most forms these men had little fear of death but they knew the character of their captors, and from certain uneasy glances at the straw thatch they seemed to have a hazy kind of idea what was going to take place.

"What are you going to do?" Denn asked.

"That in a minute you shall know," Sabina laughed. It was not the kind of laugh that added to the gaiety of nations. "You used to admire my performance in Paris; you said you could not imagine anything more calculated to make your blood run cold. But you were wrong--and you are going to see that with your own eyes."

Sabina clapped her hands, and a Hama warrior crossed to the thatched cage, bearing a long-handled mop in his hand. With this he worried away at the thatch of the cage. Then the warrior retreated to a little distance and sat down.

The effect of this apparently simple manoeuvre was appalling. The prisoners jumped to their feet with the most heart-rending cries. In their frenzy of some unseen horror they beat their heads and breasts against the bars. Terror seemed to have robbed them of all sense of pain. There were sounds of blows upon flesh, and the cracking of bones. One poor wretch with a fractured knee literally danced in utter ignorance of his bodily torture. They might have been turned to raving lunatics by some fatal poison.

A sudden nausea came over Denn. "I don't understand it," he said.

"No, but they do," Sabina said, with a strange, glittering smile.

"And so will you only too well--presently. Now, watch carefully."

There was no need to give any such warning. Drenton Denn knew only too well that he was witnessing a rehearsal of the unspeakable horrors which were presently to be thrust upon him.

Presently the Kanakas grew quieter. On some of them had fallen the sullen apathy of despair. Other lead-coloured faces showed the fighting spirit. But all, all, kept their intent gaze turned upwards.

"Do you see anything now?" Sabina asked Denn.

He was too hideously fascinated to reply. He saw that the coarse white matting had become alive with little red specks no larger than grains of wheat. They might have been ants suddenly disturbed and angry with the intruders upon their suburban solitude.

But presently one or two of the tiny red specks dropped down a foot or two, and seemed to be suspended in the amber air. And by this same token Denn knew that he was watching the antics and gyrations of a large family of red spiders.

Presently there were some hundreds of them held up by shining needles of web from the floor. Then suddenly the air outside seemed to be alive with a cloud of purple humming-birds. From the way they feathered around the bars of the cage, they were evidently bent upon a raid upon the bloated scarlet spiders. A couple of Kanakas, armed with a long net, sufficed to scare the birds away.

By this time there were hundreds of spiders suspended from the thatch. They looked like scarlet peas or beans upon a thread. And the unhappy Kanakas watched them with starting eyes.

"In heaven's name," Denn cried, "what does it mean?"

Again Sabina smiled. Her eyes were like points of electric flame. Her face was as that of an avenging fury.

"All in good time," she whispered, "all in good time."

Presently the spiders began to drop like crimson hail. Like so many marionettes the wretched Kanakas danced round the cage. They tore at their arms and their shoulders; they shook themselves like wet dogs. Anything, anything seemed better than to come in contact with the bloated spiders.

Presently one prisoner gave a louder yell than the rest, and collapsed upon the floor.

He lay there for a moment or two gazing at the back of one hand and moaning piteously. Then the stolid fatalism of his race came uppermost, and he squatted against the side of the cage seemingly indifferent to his fate.

Within five minutes every Kanaka but one was on the floor. The last one was more agile than the rest, for he wriggled and twisted out of the way of the falling spiders in a marvellous manner.

But no man could be expected to dodge a rainstorm, and over he fell and was lost.

And then a painful silence followed.

For some little time this continued. Then the Kanaka who had been the first to fall rose to his feet. There was a queer jerky grin upon his face, his feet began to move in dance, and he broke out into mirth as extravagant and hideous as had been his previous fear. In less than five minutes every man there was carrying on in the same insane fashion.

Drenton Denn felt as if he had been suddenly plunged into a cold bath. The sudden transition had got even upon his strong nerves.

"Let me get out of this!" he cried. "I can stand a good deal, but I shall go mad if I stay here."

"You are coming to my hut," said Sabina. "We will talk of the old times, eh; the time when you cared for me. Then in two hours' time we will come and see the last scene yonder."

"Do you mean to say," Drenton asked, "that those infernal little spiders can produce terror and madness like that? In the name of all that is evil, what do you call the diabolical insects?"

No reply came from Sabina until the hut was reached. Once inside, the sound of that horrid mirth ceased.

"You appear to be curious," said Sabina.

"I have reason to be," Denn responded, "because I fancy that you intend to give me a personal experience."

The woman nodded three times quickly.

Under her white gown she trembled with a passion that rendered her almost speechless. When at length she spoke, she did so like one who has run fast and far.

"I hate you!" she gasped. "Oh, if you only knew! I fancied that you loved me and I was mistaken. You laughed at me."

"I haven't the slightest recollection of the fact."

"Ah, but in your sleeve, I mean. You cannot understand a hatred like mine. And I had to leave Paris with my passion eating my heart. When I think of you in the night I bite my flesh. See."

She drew back a flowing robe and displayed a brown arm seared and scarred as if from a bad burn. Her eyes flickered and danced.

"And now Fate has given you to me. The gods have answered my prayers, and sent you to me. I am going to kill you."

"Then do so, and let there be an end to it."

Sabina smiled. On the whole, Denn preferred her passion.

"Ah, no," she cried, "that would be too slow, too clumsy. A child might do that. Remain here till I return."

And Sabina swept from the room. Denn made no effort to move, for he knew perfectly well that he was closely watched. For and hour or more he sat there racking his brains for some method of escape. At the end of that time Sabina returned.

"Follow me," she said curtly.

Denn obeyed without a word. Sabina conducted him back to the gallery where he had watched the ghastly drama. So far as he could see now, the cage was empty.

Not quite. On the earth lay a knot of twisting figures, slowly rolling over and over each other like so many worms. Their eyes were dilated; there was no mistaking the agony they were enduring, but not a single sound came from their parched lips.

The dumb agony of it was absolutely revolting. The poor wretches were now suffering to such an extent that they were utterly incapable of making a sound. It was the archetype of human agony.

A physical sickness smote Denn. He noted every detail down to the blue tinge on the skin of the unfortunates, and the great yellow tumours that had formed on the spot where the fatal bite had bee given.

With sudden anger, Denn turned upon his companion. He would have deemed it no sin to take this beautiful tigress by the throat and squeeze the life out of her.

"You devil!" he screamed. "How you can stand there and see such awful suffering--"

His arm shot out, but Sabina had darted forward from his side. Denn was unarmed, and Sabina had a knife in her hand. With her beautiful sinuous strength and courage, she was no mean antagonist.

Denn took no thought that he was un-armed. If he could get that knife there might be a chance for him yet. He had not the least doubt that he was destined to endure the fate of those poor wretches, the agony of whose sufferings was, in sooth, enough to unnerve a bold man. He gripped Sabina by the wrist, and fought like a madman for the knife. Under ordinary circumstances Denn might have succeeded. But the fever had rendered him weak and low, and the issue was never in doubt.

"Coward, to touch a woman!" Sabina panted.

"When I see the woman," Denn said between his teeth, "I'll make amends."

He pressed Sabina's knuckles together--an old trick he had learnt in Tahiti--and the knife fell to the ground. The creature screamed, as Denn shot down like a swallow and grasped the blade. Then he darted as a hare to cover, a yell of triumph on his lip.

In the language of his own land, he was a little too previous. A gigantic Hama carrier rose out of the grass and sent the shaft end of his spear whizzing after the fugitive. It caught Denn full upon the temple, and brought him like a log to the ground.

In a confused kind of way he seemed to dream that he was being gagged and bound, there were voices booming in his ears as the diver hears them, he felt himself carried along over uneven ground, and then he floated away into a midnight land. For a long time he lay thus--lay as a child in a deep and placid sleep.

CHAPTER III

When Denn came to himself again he was lying flat on his back, looking up to a thatched roof, the underpart of which was covered with a coarse white matting. He was in a kind of cage, the bars being of stout bamboo. A cold perspiration broke our on Denn as he realised he was in the cage where the Kanakas had suffered their infernal torture. It wanted an hour or more to sunset, for the long forest shadows were falling. Denn was no longer bound; he was free to move about as he chose. A little table had been placed in the centre of the cage, and on it stood a lamp filled with palm oil.

"Sort of footlights," Denn muttered; "and I am the star actor, positively for this night only. Good heavens! Fancy jesting over it! And presently those infernal little red specks will be on me, and I shall die a death the horror of which is unknown to millions."

Denn glanced up to the roof. As yet the bloated crimson specks were not to be seen. In and out of the roof there darted a purple zigzag cloud of humming-birds. They passed through the bars like shadows; they clung to the thatch, twittering like swallows.

"If I could only have those little fellows for company," Denn muttered again, "I should not fear the red speck. Evidently these tiny little creatures prey upon the spiders. Strange that so awful a scourge should be conquered by so small a bird! And if they are not molested--"

But they were, and without delay. A sinewy brown Kanaka arm was thrust between the bars, and a net followed. Within a minute the last little purple shadow had vanished from the cage, and then on all sides from without coarse canvas blinds were let down, and Denn was alone, secure from public eye with the unknown horrors to face. The main fact of the solitude struck him like a blow.

There are limits to the strongest nature, and Denn had reached his. Not that he lost hope; he had been in too many tight places for that. But for the moment his manhood gave way; he covered his face with his hands, and he cried like a child.

But they were not senile tears. They were wrung from Denn by the knowledge of his utter helplessness. Then his mood changed. He set his teeth hard, resolved, if he had to die, to die hard.

The sense of utter solitude was in itself depressing. Doubtless the canvas blinds had been drawn to keep the birds out, and in all probability Sabina cared nothing to watch the torture of her victim in an early stage. She could witness it by lamplight later on.

There was a good hour to sunset, and a good two hours more before that demoniacal woman would feel inclined to rise to the occasion, and already, with the drawn blinds and the lamp, the atmosphere was growing oppressive. Denn was bathed from head to foot.

He would have given anything to have stripped himself of his clothing. But, so long as there was a chance for life, he had not the slightest intention of running any risk that way. Nor dared he extinguish the lamp.

"I couldn't do it," Denn told himself.

"An hour in the dark with those red little terrors all about me and I should be hopelessly insane. I'll stick to my clothes and I'll stick to my light till it is too late. But where are the horrors?"

The crimson specks were not far off. There was a sound as if somebody was attacking the thatch, and presently a tiny pink speck came straddling and tumbling over the coarse matting. A vigorous shake sent it down to the ground, where it lay close to Denn's feet.

He examined it closely and critically. It was like a split pea, red and hairy, with two tiny beady eyes and several legs like black tread. A tiny, innocent-looking insect enough, but capable, as Denn knew, of dealing out perhaps the most terrible of all deaths. Denn felt his hair rising up the back of his scalp.

"Good heavens," he cried, "it's the Specky Spider!* I dared not believe it till this moment, but I have felt it all along."

[* The Specky Spider is no figment of imagination. It really exists! F.M.W.]

He knew the spider by repute in Brazil and South Australia. He knew that its bite dried up the vessels of the blood, and produced and agony that could only faintly be imagined. And Denn also knew that when men got bitten by this insect they generally blew their brains out without further delay. For the bite is fatal, and the suffering--well, Denn had seen the suffering for himself.

Denn touched the spider with the toe of his boot. The insect squatted like a toad and attacked the leather. An instant later all that remained of it was a pink round blob upon the floor.

Denn glanced upwards again with a shudder that shook him to the very soul. In the instant that his attention had been directed to the floor, half a score of those terrors might have dropped upon him. The white cloth of the patch was thickly speckled with red by this time. The tiny insects ran about angrily. And soon, instead of a while cloth dotted with red, it was a red curtain with tiny white blotches upon it.

From previous experience--as a spectator, Denn knew exactly what was going to happen. Ere long there would be no room for the invading multitudes, and the weakest would go to the wall--i.e. they would drop to the floor like rain. And once they did so!

Denn forced himself not to think of it. The nervous effort was in itself sufficient to take all the strength out of his legs. And cause him to drop upon his knees. And all the time his anxious gaze was upward, upward! He meant to fight to the bitter end.

Then the spiders began to drop, holding on with their elastic needles until hundreds of them depended just over Denn's head. His senses reeled, and the world seemed to spin round like a top. Once he was down, he knew that it would be all over with him.

He crouched against the bars of the cage, so as to offer as little space as possible to the crimson army. One of the red dots fell upon his hair, and dropped upon his chest.

With a yell, Denn dashed it away. Despite his iron nerve, he was fast becoming desperate. He was losing his head. Half a dozen spiders were crawling up his coat.

Denn cried aloud. It seemed to him that somebody was creeping along without on the further side from the village. Then there was a ripping, tearing sound, and a long strip of the canvas blind was torn away. Denn saw the light of the setting sun.

He saw something more than that, a sight welcome as cool, sweet water in a weary desert. He saw a darting, hurtling flash of blue lightning, as scores upon scores of the purple humming-birds came flashing into the cage, their wings whirring.

They cleared the air as if by magic. A red spider had actually dropped upon Denn's cheek; and, before he could realise the sticky slime of the thread-like legs, a blue streak had plucked it away. In ten seconds there was not a spider to be seen.

Denn dropped forward on his face, a huddled heap of ragged humanity--pulseless, limp, and inert as a rope of sand. But he did not faint. He rose in time to note the pale face of Zara, Sabina's hand-maiden, looking at him through the bars, a knife in her hand. In the other she had what was still more precious--a revolver and package of cartridges, taken from a French soldier who had fallen by the way. At the same moment the tropical night fell like a cloud.

"Quick," Zara whispered. "She comes in a few moments. If you go straight forward down the valley, you will find your Kanakas awaiting you. They have lingered on the chance of your escape."

Denn needed no second bidding. The knife in his hand and the revolver at his belt gave him new strength. With desperate energy he sawed through three of the bamboo poles and crawled along the ground.

As he did so, a huge Hama confronted him.

There was a flash of a revolver barrel, a long squib of flame, and the big Hama pitched with a groan on to his face. Instantly the settlement was in an uproar. Denn could see Sabina framed with light standing in the doorway of her hut. She made a splendid mark. Denn's finger pressed the trigger.

But he did not fire; something restrained him. A moment later, and the opportunity was lost.

"I ought to have done it in the interests of humanity," Denn muttered as he darted like a flash down the valley. "It was my plain duty not to let that woman live. And yet......"

Denn raced away, but there was no reason to do so. The use of firearms had been too much for the Hamas, who had no taste for magic of that kind. And surely enough, as Zara had promised, he found his Kanakas awaiting him at the foot of the valley. They would have utterly failed to recognise him but for Zara, who had followed.

"No go back there," she exclaimed; "too dangerous. You get me down to Malcha, where I have friends, and that plenty reward for me." "But we don't know the way," said Denn.

Zara knew the route, however, and that did just as well, Denn feeling that he would be just as well off at Malcha as anywhere else. And before morning a comfortable distance was placed between Sabina and her late prisoner. It was not till the next day that Denn understood the queen looks of his dusky companions.

He glanced at his features in a transparent forest pool. His ragged moustache was its normal colour, but his hair was streaked like the coat of a badger. That one hour's agony had done it.

"After all," said Denn, "it was a cheap price to pay for what has been my most terrible experience."

THE END

THE YELLOW MOTH

CHAPTER I

Drenton Denn stood watching the points of flame dragging along the Cuban coast. Under the cloak of the night rottenness and corruption lay hidden. The cat was still playing with the mouse, and concrete humanity had grown jaded with the spectacle. The whole thing had mattered little to Europe so long as wheat was down firm at 40s. again.

But it mattered a great deal to Drenton Denn, seeing that he was a war correspondent of mark. Copy lay yonder back beyond the sandhills, facing Port Indigo--copy palpitating with new horrors and sensations. Slowly the Spaniards were being starved into submission, chaos and worse reigned in Port Indigo, and Denn meant to sketch the crimson horrors of it on his note-book, despite the rigid regulations forbidding the landing of a single man from the American fleet there.

For strange stories had come like fugitives across the bay to the blockading fleet. The infamous Don Macdona had made his headquarters in Port Indigo. He was holding high court there with the scum of the island. Sooner or later this hybrid tyrant and bloodsucker would fall into the hands of Uncle Sam, and be shot out of hand. Being a fatalist and a sybarite, he was plucking the flowers that time allowed to him.

Carpe diem. This picturesque polyglot reeked in the nostrils of a continent. Of all the gaudy insects born of the refuse heap there were none more gaudy than Macdona. Who he was or whence he came nobody knew or cared. Certainly he throve from the Cuban miasma. He had established himself in the deserted palace of the Cagas at Port Indigo, and there he had gathered a choice selection of adventurers and, incidentally, adventuresses about him.

All these things and more had Drenton Denn gathered from a native who had swum out to the Maryland battleship and there died the next morning, incontinently babbling o' strange things. Yellow moths and Macdona! And why yellow moth? In some way a yellow moth seemed to be mixed up with the new scourge devastating Port Indigo.

Under cover of the darkness lay some of the finest material that ever made the future of journalistic enterprise. Obviously Denn's duty pointed thither. For authority and service regulations your born correspondent cares nothing. Denn was going to see those yellow moths, the heralds of a new and strange disease, for himself.

Hang the sharks! And it was but a bare half-mile to the sandhills. Denn slipped over the forechains and dropped noiselessly into the oily tide. In the crown of his helmet was his note book and revolver. With any luck he could get all he required and be back again before daylight with Admiral Saxon not a penny the wiser.

So this wiry little Vermonter, lithe and lean and spare like the wild cat that he was, struck out for the sandhills. The object of sharks was uppermost in his mind. "Tragic death of a well-known war correspondent." A good headline, that. By the time Denn was settled the 'scare heads' setting out his own premature demise, his toes scraped the sand.

Port Indigo at last! No European has set foot there for years. Here was a fresh mine of iniquity, and never a rival on the premises.

Denn pushed boldly on into the town. The place was darkness, and desolation. A handful of fireflies darted and glistened. From one or two houses a shaft of light fell like a spear across the road. In one of these lanes of light lay something that seemed to palpitate. It bore an odd repulsive resemblance to a human corpse. It seemed to be cased in something yellow, that trembled as trees do on a hazy summer afternoon.

With some little tendency to nausea, Denn touched the mass with his foot. At once the shimmering yellow rose like a cloud and fluttered round Denn's head. A soft rhythmic beat filled the stagnant air.

Denn fell back with a shuddering cry. He stood in a veritable cloud of yellow moths, small furred insects with greasy bodies and protruding eyes. In the light of his new knowledge there was something peculiarly horrible in the sight. Every word uttered by the babbling fugitive of the Maryland came back to Denn now with a scorching lightning force.

The new scourge of Port Indigo was preceded by the yellow moth. The same fearsome insect was at once the victim's prophet and his pall. The moths fell like a cloud upon the object at Denn's feet.

The next moment he saw the door of a house open and a woman's figure standing out black against the light. With her hands uplifted she screamed despairingly for aid.

Denn crossed the road and in his best Spanish proffered his assistance. As the woman turned and entered a room somewhat handsomely furnished, Denn followed.

Standing in the centre of the room, apparently thrashing empty air with his arms, was a man of some forty years. His handsome features were knitted into a despairing terror.

"Is this some sudden madness?" Denn asked.

"Ah, no," the woman moaned. "The moth--cannot you see the yellow moth? One came this morning, and we knew the message. Not a door, not a window has been opened since morning, and yet here they are."

Once more Denn felt the old horror creeping over him. The room seemed to be filled with the little sulphur moths, the doomed man fought them down with his hands, a mass of smashed saffron formed a ring about his feet. And yet Denn could hardly see across the room for them.

"Can nothing be done?" Denn asked.

"Nothing. His sufferings will be over in a few minutes. Oh, my God!"

The Spaniard's courage seemed to suddenly fail him. The grotesque horror of it turned his soul to water. With a yell he dropped his hands by his sides and bolted for the street like a hare.

Denn quickly followed. He had not far to run, for the Spaniard had hardly propelled himself a dozen paces before he pitched headlong to the ground and lay there like a dog. As Denn turned the prostrate figure over he found the limbs already cold. The Spaniard was dead.

Almost instantly the yellow cloud had swarmed all over him. Denn turned to the woman, but she had already vanished. Beside herself with terror, she fled into the heart of the night, and Denn saw her no more.

A moment later a hand was laid on Denn's arm.

"You are American," a soft voice murmured in his ear. "Therefore you are a brave signor. I pray you to grant me your assistance."

CHAPTER II

A lancet of light streaming from a distant window fell athwart the speaker's face. The features were strikingly beautiful, glowing with the flush of youth and health. The girl too, was handsomely attired, yet there was something in the face, lovely as it was, that repelled Denn while it attracted him.

"Are you in danger?" he asked.

"Ah, yes," came the reply, "what danger I cannot tell you."

"And yet I should gather that you are a resident of the place."

"That is the truth, Signor. Still I am quite alone here. All that were near and dear to me have gone down before the yellow death. And I am afraid, I am sorely afraid, of Macdona."

"I quite understand," Denn said grimly, "also I have heard of the gentleman. What would you have me do for you?"

"The signor is an officer from a warship yonder in search of adventure?"

"I am in search of adventure," Denn responded drily, "and I must confess that my widest expectations have been fully realised. But I am not an officer--I am nothing more than a war correspondent."

"Could you smuggle me on one of the ships?"

Denn temporised. He knew perfectly well he could do nothing of the kind.

The stranger's name, it appeared, was Donna Inez Castalo, and she had a plan to propose provided that Signor Denn was willing to assist her.

"It is not safe to stand here," she said. "The spies of Macdona are everywhere. You will come to my poor home, and I will make you known to my old gouvernante, Donna Bella. Is it not so?"

"I follow you," said Denn.

A short walk brought the pair to a gateway leading to what seemed a house of some pretensions.

The place appeared to be furnished to the last degree of extravagance. Under the flare of many lamps the room was wild and bizarre to a degree. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of mad revelry.

Denn turned suspiciously to his companion.

"What does this pantomime mean?" he asked.

Donna Inez laughed.

"It means," she said, "that you are a guest of Don Macdona. You will pardon my leaving you alone for a time."

The opposite door closed with a click, and Denn knew that he was a prisoner.

A few moments later four stalwart half-breeds, fully armed, came in. That they were capable of anything in the way of picturesque criminality Denn saw at a glance.

"Don Macdona wishes to see you. Follow us," said the leader of the party.

Denn followed his guides along a flagged corridor and in the direction of the chamber came sounds of wild revelry. Then a door was flung open, and a dazzling scene burst upon the gaze of the American prisoner.

The spectacle was a striking one.

Some two score of people of both sexes lounged about a table, at the head of which sat a little man with an enormous head and diabolically clever face. Such was Macdona.

As Denn entered, he rose with a gesture of politeness.

"Welcome to our poor house and board," he said. "Donna Inez has prepared us for your coming. Are we right in assuming that you are the correspondent Drenton Denn? If so, you have been pleased to describe certain little inventions of mine, and as a return for your kindness I have saved up one of the neatest for yourself. In the meantime make yourself at home."

Denn poured himself out a glass of wine with a steady hand.

He was fully conscious of the strength of his nerves and the trustworthiness of his revolver. There was just a chance for him yet.

A moment or two later laughing and chattering broke out again, and a wild Spanish dance was in progress.

Denn sat at the table watching the graceful gyrations. Doubtless it had been exploited in his honour. The prisoner had one eye upon the whirling kaleidoscope, the other on the exits from the room.

"Escape is out of the question," whispered a voice in his ear.

A flaming Spanish beauty had dropped into a vacant seat on Denn's right hand. Her face was hard as marble, yet there was something of a friendly light in those liquid eves.

"I gather that you would help me if you could," said Denn.

"If only you could get as far as the door without being noticed! A plan may yet occur to you. If it does, make for the door, and I shall be there. Let us dance. Macdona is regarding us suspiciously."

Denn promptly flung himself into the mad humour of the thing. He was as a man dancing on the lips of a volcano, a veritable dance of death. Then above the revelry came the clang of midnight.

Denn paused involuntarily and glanced at Macdona. Had the latter forgotten his promise or did he desire to prolong the agony? At any rate he made no sign, and the dance continued.

Madder, wilder, noisier it grew. Denn was actually carried away by the spirit of the dance. He forgot everything else for the moment, until a pair of arms cast about his neck from behind, brought him, panting, to a standstill, and held him there like a vice.

Denn fought like a dozen wild cats, but his unseen antagonist had him at a terrible disadvantage. Then a softer, whiter arm stole across his lips, and a handkerchief drenched with some sweet pungent liquid was pressed over his mouth and nostrils. Denn held his breath grimly; he kept his lips sealed until his brain reeled and his heart seemed to be bursting his ribs asunder. Flesh and blood could stand it no longer, and Denn gasped and gurgled for air. Then he fell, like a tired child, into a sweet and placid slumber.

When Denn returned to consciousness he found himself trussed up with fine Manila ropes, like a fowl ready for the spit. He was still sick and hazy with the aftermath of the chloroform, but all the same he had no cause to grumble at the paucity of interest in the surroundings. On a stand in the centre of the room stood a glass case in the shape of a huge coffin. The crystal sides were heavily clamped with brass, and the whole thing was attached to the floor. There was a smile on Macdona's face as he indicated the singular machine.

"I dare say you are wondering what that thing is," he said. "I am going to tell you. It is a steaming apparatus. We are going to place you in there, and clap the lid on so that by means of certain mechanism you will gradually steam. The top of the concern is perforated so as to admit of a certain amount of air, thus preventing anything like a sudden despatch of the victim. In that trap you will have just room to stand upright, and from below the glass you will be able to judge what effect your performance will have on your audience. Pretty material for your journal, eh? Unfortunately, your graphic pen will not be in a position to describe it."

At the sign of Macdona two of the gang raised Denn aloft, and deposited him in the coffin, then the heavy lid was screwed down. Almost instantly a warm air seemed to fill the confined space. Denn's brain thickened for a moment, then as suddenly clarified again.

CHAPTER III

"For the next half hour," said Macdona, "the experiment is likely to be somewhat monotonous. Meanwhile, we can enjoy ourselves."

The whole party gathered round the table, and Denn appeared to have been forgotten.

With one or two elastic motions he freed himself of his cords. Then he pressed with all his force against the sides of the coffin. Any attempt to escape that way was out of the question, for the prisoners had absolutely no leverage, and the sheets of glass were thick.

Through the grating overhead he could imagine queer figures carved on the roof. It seemed to him that something was floating like a sunbeam there. It was a little butterfly surely.

The butterfly came lower and lower, until it passed into the uplifting blast of hot air rising from the coffin. Then the tiny gauzy wings shrivelled up, and the insect came through the grating and fluttered quivering down at Denn's feet. He took it gently in his hand.

With a mighty effort he restrained the wild scream that rose to his lips. He did not fear the advent of the scourge of Port Indigo for himself--he had not breathed his vitiated atmosphere long enough. But that for some member of the company death was at hand he felt certain. For on the palm of his quaking hand lay a yellow moth!

He was terribly, awfully frightened. Beyond the sides of his crystal prison house he could see that something had happened to check the flow of gaiety.

The picturesque group with one accord had stopped conversation. They seemed to be watching something. High up in the roof was a tiny, tangled yellow skein, alternately rising and falling, and gradually becoming more vivid.

"The yellow moth," Macdona muttered, "whence came they?"

Nobody replied, because nobody knew.

Still, they were face to face with the yellow messengers at last. A score of white faces were turned upwards. The Saffron skin had broken like the bursting of a rocket, and the roof was alive with ten thousand pairs of humming sulphur wings.

Two of the insects fell on Macdona's arm. With a shuddering scream he jumped to his feet and shook them off.

"Dear heaven!" he yelled, "not that. Anything but that."

Macdona plunged forward, then fell headlong on the floor. He seemed to be literally smothered with the deadly insects.

With a superhuman effort Macdona, thrashing wildly, freed himself from his tormentors for a moment. In that short space of time his features had undergone a strange transformation. His face was black in vivid contrast to the pallid blue of his lips.

Then, with one final yell like a chorus of despair from the bottomless pit, Macdona fell forward on his face and moved no more. A convulsive shudder ran through the assembly. The fascinating horror of the situation rendered it deaf and blind to anything short of cataclysm.

It was Denn's time, and seizing his revolver, he fired two shots.

The glass crashed in a million fragments, and strange as it may seem, the incident passed unnoticed. Denn saw that his fair friend had made her way to the door. Like the rest of them, she was awfully, horribly frightened, but some scattered grains of wit yet remained. Denn crept over in her direction.

"See, I have opened the door," she whispered. "Go."

"And you?" Denn demanded.

The woman smiled bitterly, and pointed upwards.

"I must stay," she said. "If I am marked for a victim, I must die. If not, I am safe here as anywhere else. Outside you may find a guard or so who will bar your exit; if so, shoot them down. Look."

Denn did look. As the woman spoke the room appeared to be absolutely filled with a dense yellow smoke. There were millions upon millions of the descending moths. It seemed that the whole of that infamous company were destined to be exterminated. Denn could hear an inferno of yells and cries, but nothing could be seen but the saffron cloud.

Flesh and blood could stand it no longer. He groped his way blindly to the door, and darted like a hare along the corridor.

A few seconds later Denn was alone in the deserted street. He could see the lights of the Maryland down in the harbour. Then he noticed two little sulphur spots upon his coat.

They were two of the yellow moths. Denn promptly emptied a match-box, and placed the tiny insects therein, then placed them in his hat.

All the same, he sped down the deserted street, filled with a desire to change Port Indigo for the gleaming deck of the Maryland. Not till he was up to his neck in the sea did he feel quite himself again. But fortune was kind, and a little later Denn crept into his cabin.

It was late in the afternoon before he bethought himself of the matchbox containing the yellow months. Sooner or later he would want to produce those gruesome little curiosities. Denn took them from his despatch-box, where he had placed them for safety, and slid back the lid.

The box was absolutely empty! There was just a queer odour and a suspicion of saffron powder, but that was all. Had these moths been real, or were they a temporary miasma bred by the presence of the yellow death? Denn did not feel called upon to decide.

"At any rate," he muttered, "when I come to tell this yarn I shall get one distinction out of it. I shall be known as the boss liar of the universe."

THE END

I

DRENTON DENN lounged into the editorial sanctum of the New York Post, his hands plunged into the pockets of a Norfolk jacket. In one corner of his mouth he wore a green cigar, which he took no trouble to remove. The great man opposite carried a short pipe between his teeth, also he was minus coat and vest. All the same, Peregrine Pryde was a great man, and some day might be president. Meanwhile he preferred to control the destiny of perhaps the smartest paper on earth.

"Halloa, you turned up again?" he remarked.

"Cuba," Denn said, parenthetically. He slanted a dingy straw hat over his left eye. "Got at scare article or two for you. Costly work, though. That last cheque of yours for exes went no way."

"Hang the money, so long as you get the stuff" said Pryde. "I'm glad you've come back. all the same. "That your dog?"

Denn nodded and slightly beamed in the direction of a rough nomadic terrier coiled up near his chair.

"Name's Prince," he explained; "does anything but talk, in which he has the advantage of you and me. Got a job for me, eh?"

"Rather. Wants lot of pluck and daring, but danger is one of your weaknesses. You've heard of the 'Fire Bugs,' of course? No! Well, at any rate, you are aware that the annual number of fires in New York are out of all proportion to those in London, for instance. Rumours have reached me from time to time that there is an organized gang of ruffians, who make it their business to set fire to premises in such a way that the brigade are unable to prevent anything short of total loss. Of course, the game is to insure a bogus stock, and then bleed the insurance companies."

"And I'm to find out whether this is true or not?"

"Oh, it's true enough," Pryde exclaimed. "One of the gang told me all that in this very office. That little bit of information cost our old man five hundred dollars, and cheap at the price."

"Why didn't the chap go to the police?"

"Said the sight of an officer always made him faint," Pryde said, drily. "Besides, there was money in coming here, and revenge, too, because Jacob Reski has quarrelled with the gang and means to expose them—or, rather, he proposes to leave the exposure to us. There's all the material for a big thing here; and I'm putting it in your hands to exploit."

Denn was interested. There was all the material ready for a pretty adventure, to say nothing of rare journalistic kudos at the finish. And Denn was always ready to sacrifice his dinner for an adventure. His sheer love of danger made him the pearl of correspondents that he was.

When the Post people lent themselves to these classic exposures money was quite a secondary consideration. With his straw hat tilted over his eyes, Denn rapidly thought the matter out.

"I shall have to take the role of a German Jew trader," he said. "You must set me up in business with a bogus stock and a big insurance. I shall leave you to make it all square with the insurance people. All I ask you to do now is to bring Reski and myself together."

In the course of a day or two the matter was arranged. In the purlieus of New York Denn discovered a Semitic gentleman anxious to return to Germany, and who was only too glad to dispose of his lease and stock for a consideration. The insurance people were naturally ready to fall in with any scheme calculated to put a stop to the progress of the "Fire Bugs." Not only did they issue a heavy policy to Nicholas Mayer—Denn's nom de guerre—but they also considerately dated the policy three years back, and gave Denn receipts for all premiums.

Denn deemed it prudent to potter about his newly-obtained premises for a few days before he took any further steps. Business troubled him not at all, for the simple reason that there did not seem to be any. And the sixth evening, after dark, Jacob Reski appeared.

He was a little man with a glittering, evil eye, and the liquid speech of a born histrion. Within the hour he had imparted to Denn information that caused the latter to long for immediate action.

"I'm afraid I can't assist you any further," Reski concluded. "I'll show you where Moses Part and the rest of the gang make their head-quarters. You'll easily manage it if you know your way about."

Denn hastened to assure the speaker that his bump of locality left nothing to be desired. An hour later, carefully disguised, he found himself seated alone in one of the most evil and unsavoury saloons in the Bowery. Some time elapsed before Denn began to spot his men. They were exceedingly shy and suspicious to begin with, but Denn was an adept at the game, and ere the evening had passed he had convinced them that he was as great a blackguard as anyone there.

It was an evening or two later before Denn dared to come to the point. Moses Part, a picturesque ruffian with one eye, gave him the lead. Altogether the "Fire Bugs" were five in number. Taking them by and large, a more repulsive quintette it would have been hard to imagine.

Denn listened to their exploits with a smile which concealed a longing to whip out a revolver and clear the party on sight. If all they said was true, the insurance companies must have been robbed of millions of dollars. Many fires resulting in serious loss of life were openly owned to by the ruffians around Denn.

"I've half a mind," he said, hesitatingly, "to get you to grease my little lot."

Moses Part pricked up his ears.

"And what have you got?" he asked, eagerly. "Ach, I knew it was coming. I guessed what you was after the first night you was here."

Denn admitted his store in Tiffany Street. There was practically no stock, though at one time the business had been a flourishing one, which statement Denn concluded with a cocking of his little finger.

"Have you a bolicy?" Part asked, nasally.

"For ten thousand dollars," Denn responded. "A policy three years old and all the premiums paid. You can see it for yourself."

Part's eye gleamed over this treasure. Everything appeared to be perfectly in order. And a policy three years old was a gem rarely handled by the "Fire Bugs."

"Mine friendt," he said, earnestly, " dose dollars was already in our bockets. Half for you and the rest between us. Not dat we trust you altogether, ach no. You assign your stock and bolicy to a friendt of mine first, and then we get to work. I will come to your little place to-morrow after dark and plan out the thing exactly."

II

DRENTON DENN's professional instinct led him on to a good thing as surely as a steady hound on the trail. And he was now on one of the biggest "scoops" of his career. How deep and wide were the ramifications of the "Fire Bugs" the New York authorities never dreamed. That there was something wrong somewhere they were vaguely aware, and more than one insurance corporation writhed uneasy before the spectral dividend. Arson was steadily gaining in popularity, being at the same time remunerative and exceedingly hard to prove. That an organized gang were working the thing scientifically was known only to the select few.

Nor was Drenton Denn aware what a big thing it was until he went carefully into figures. Per head of the population, the New York fires were as four to one compared to London, even with the latter handicapped by the deadly low flash-point, and the loss of life owing to the conflagrations was in a still more startling ratio.

Indeed, the "Fire Bugs" seemed to rather like sacrificing a life or two. It lent realism to the crime and averted suspicion. The more Denn dwelt on the matter, the clearer did he see that he was on the brink of a tragedy calculated to move continents.

With the omnivorous appetite of the Pressman he wanted everything for himself and his paper. The exposure of the doings of the "Fire Bugs" and the hunting down of the gang must be all his own. He knew quite enough now to cause the arrest and conviction of Moses Part and his merry men, but, as to their methods, Denn had yet a great deal to learn.

But that was all coming. In the part of Nicholas Mayer, Denn could see everything when his establishment in Tiffany Street was primed for the destroyer. The assurance policy had been duly assigned, and, this being done, Moses Part set to work at once. Two nights later a cart drove up to 611, Tiffany Street, and deposited certain innocent-looking packages at Denn's ostensible business premises. A little later on Part came along, followed by the rest of the infamous gang. The packages contained a drum or two of petroleum, some scores of yards of thick hay-bands, a few shallow wooden tubs, and a basket or two of corks. Evidently the "Fire Bug" business was an art.

"We'll get to work at once," said Part. "In a couple of hours' time there won't be much left of this crazy old show."

Denn watched the proceedings with the greatest interest. The four men worked silently together as if drilled to the part. There were three floors to the house altogether, and it speedily became evident to Denn that the idea was to set them aflame instantaneously.

In the centre of the shop—or warehouse, rather—situated at the back of the premises, Moses Part placed one of the flat, shallow tubs. Into this one of his confederates proceeded to pour a quantity of petroleum. On the top of the blue spirit he sprinkled corks until the surface was covered. Then the end of the fluffy hay-band was placed in the tub and dragged across the floor. Into the hay-band naphtha had been rubbed. Like a scaly snake the hay-band was carried up the stairs and twisted in and out of the banisters until the next floor was reached, and here another tub of paraffin, corks and all, was similarly placed as below. Once more the same programme was gone through, until the hay-band ended in a tub of petroleum on the top floor. Around these two latter tanks Part and his men collected shavings, pieces of paper, cardboard boxes, and the like.

"All done," Part growled. "There's only one more thing now."

Dunn looked up at the speaker. His hooked nose was curved over his thick upper lip in a horrible smile. It seemed to Denn that his eyes were aflame with anger. Then Part looked down again, and the evil flame died out like a passing fire.

"What's that?" Denn asked, suspiciously.

"It's to set fire to the show," Part hastened to respond. "That's all."

Denn remarked that he hadn't quite got the hang of it. He was vaguely conscious that things were not altogether right, but as a conscientious journalist he could not afford to neglect detail. The popular voracity for detail he fully understood.

"Come down to the basement, and I'll show you," said Part. "What we want to get is a fire in three places at once."

"I think I understand," said Denn.

Again that terrible smile came flashing over Part's face.

"I'm sure you will presently," he muttered. "Leading up to yonder tub is a slow match. This will burn for half an hour before it reaches the petroleum, and give us all a chance to get away in safety. Directly the flame gets to the oil those casks begin to blaze, and the sides of the tub are on fire also. As they burn down the blazing oil runs all over the floor. Meanwhile the hay-band carries the flame rapidly upstairs to the next tub, and so on to the top floor of the house. Within ten minutes there are three roaring fires going on three floors. You see, my friendt?"

"Precisely," Denn responded, not without enthusiasm. "A most ingenious idea! No wonder that your movements are hard to follow."

"And there is nothing else we can tell you?"

Denn looked up suddenly. There was an ominous change in the timbre of Part's voice, a ring that clearly spoke of danger. And it seemed to Denn that the rest of the gang gathered threateningly around him. As he glanced to the door, Part smiled grimly.

"There is nothing else," said Denn.

"So; then you are completely satisfied? Now you know everything of the method of the 'Fire Bugs.' As what you call merely a guarantee of good faith, and not for publication."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Ach! What a question to be asked by Mr. Drenton Denn!"

Every muscle in Denn's body drew taut and trembling. He wasted no time in words, for he was essentially a man of action. Almost before Part had ceased to speak, Denn had flown at him like a cat. A small, compact fist, shod with knuckles like steel, caught Part fairly on the point of the jaw, and down he went like an empty sack.

Denn flashed round, and another ruffian dropped sideways before a tremendous blow behind the ear. Denn slipped for the door. As he did so a foot shot out and locked his instep, and Denn staggered and fell. Instantly the other two dropped a-top of him.

It was a hopeless struggle from the first—a grim silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of three panting bodies, and the · whining barking of Denn's dog quivering in a distant corner. Denn fought with all the tenacious courage of despair, till a bash, fairly between the eyes. caused the stars to flash and dazzle, and induced a tendency to drowsiness.

When Derm came to himself again his hands were securely fastened by a thong of rawhide, as also were his feet. Part, with an ugly grin on his face, and a mat of blood in his beard, was busily engaged in hammering two strong staples into the black, oaken floor.

"What's your game?" Denn asked, between his teeth.

"You'll find that out presently," Part retorted. "We've known who you were for a day or two, for all your clever disguise. And so you thought you were going to fnd out our secrets, and give us away as you did Dick Daly's boys? Ach, you are a very clever man, but not clever enough to know we should keep a close watch on Jacob Reski. And when he went to your office—"

"Enough said," Denn interrupted. "What are these staples for?"

"To fasten you down to the floor. Oh, we are going to give you every opportunity of seeing how it's done. And we are going to wind part of that hay-band round your body so that the fire will pass all round you on its way to the next floor. A bit painful, perhaps, but it's going to be done, And when the house is burnt down and you with it, we shall just go and collect your insurance money, Mr. Denn."

Denn checked a sudden desire to speak. Then he smiled grimly. If he was to he tortured first and burnt alive afterwards, he would die with one satisfaction in his heart. The man who called to collect the insurance money on that assignment would have an unpleasant surprise.

Bitterly Denn cursed his own imprudences. He might just as well have had assistance close to hand in case of accident. But professional pride and jealousy, the desire to do everything off his own bat, had been his undoing. There was no help for it now. Of fear, Denn gave no sign whatever. Nor was he afraid. The dominating emotion was rage and anger at his own folly.

"Very well," he said, "do your worst. For the present I am quite helpless. I am not afraid of you."

"Oh, you're not that," muttered Part. "Seems a pity to waste so good a man. I only wish I'd got a dozen like you."

III

DENN offered no opposition to the scoundrels. Such a thing would be futile and childish, and might, moreover, result in a tap on the head that would render him independent of this mundane sphere for all time; whereas, whilst there is life there is hope, and some chain of fate might yet temper the wind. Denn's nature was, above all things, buoyant.

The loose slack of hay—band was twisted round and round him up to the shoulders, so that presently he would be in a zone of seething flame, and utterly powerless to arrest its progress on its errand of destruction. He would have to lie there quivering with the anguish of the diabolical torture until the collapse of the house would bring merciful oblivion.

At the expiration of five minutes Denn was stretched out on the floor taut and rigid, his feet and shoulders extended painfully by the raw-hide straps that were attached to the staples in the floor. His arms were pinned to his sides. There was a touch of the tortures of Tantalus in this. The hope that Denn might get his hands free would only add to his mental agony. Part regarded his handicraft with grim satisfaction.

"I fancy you'll do now," he said. "If you do manage to escape you'll have something to write about that will do the Post good. Quite comfortable? "

Denn's eyes flashed like frosty stars. "I cannot sufficiently thank you for all this attention," he snapped. "Do you think I am going to show the white feather, you dog? Go and leave me to die like a man. Be off with you."

Part backed away, with a mocking bow.

"Good night," he said. "It's a cold evening, and perhaps I ought to have thrown a rug over you. Now, do you think you will be warm enough?"

Denn laughed aloud—he would have been puzzled to say why. In dire peril as he was, the grim humour of the speech was not lost upon him. Then he heard footsteps echoing over the bare floor, and the sullen bang of a door.

A sudden change of mood came over Denn. He tugged at his bands until a chafed crimson outlined his wrists; then he desisted, and burst into a fit of tears. Terrible tears they were—tears of blood, of anger, and not of fear. Denn wept out of sheer passionate impotence. Something warm lapped up the brine from his cheeks. The slobbering, caressing touch soothed Denn strangely, though he would have found it hard to say why. There was some comfort in the unexpected presence of his terrier, but under the circumstances a dog was not altogether an ally in the face of danger.

"How did you get here, Prince?" Denn asked.

The dog whined and quivered from head to foot. His canine intelligence told him that his master was in bad case.

"You are a comfort, certainly," Denn Went on, "the same as a chaplain might be to a convict on the morn of his execution. Your presence, Prince, may enable me to retain my senses—always a valuable possession even to a man in extremes like myself There is just a chance even for me. You are a clever dog, an exceedingly clever dog, Prince, but there are limits to your sagacity. If I could only make you understand the necessity of gnawing away these thongs of mine, all would be well. As it is, you can do nothing for me."

Out of the tail of his eye Denn noticed the sullen red spark of the slow match Creeping on towards the tub of paraffin. In the intense silence of the place he could hear the splutter of saltpetre. Surely it must be more than an hour since Part's departure.

The flame crept along like a snail. Denn watched it in a dazed, fascinated kind of way. The slow monotony of it was getting on his nerves. He caught himself almost longing for the flash and the flare which sooner or later must come from the tub.

Then another paroxysm of frenzy shook him to the soul. When the desire to struggle had passed away, Denn was dripping from head to foot. He smiled in bitter mockery of himself. Never had his senses been so preternaturally clear as they were at that present moment.

Taking his master's struggles as part of a game, Prince had commenced to frisk around, barking loudly. Denn's endeavours had caused the hay-band to wriggle slightly, and upon this Prince pounced, shaking it as if it had been a rat. The acrid taste of the paraffin was not pleasing, but Prince went at it again quite angrily.

"Good God!" Denn cried. "The one hope lies there!"

There was a fizz and a flash, and immediately the room was filled with a huge yellow flame. A dense black smoke rose to the ceiling; fatty, smutty flakes fell like black snow. The first tub of petroleum was on fire, and broke the silence with a sullen roar.

Denn grated his teeth together. He saw the end of the hay-band slide from the edge of the tub and lie on the floor. There was just a faint chance that it might not have caught the flame.

But that hope was instantly dissipated. A hissing blue flame came dancing along in Denn's direction. Just for a moment the whole universe reeled around him. The reaction threatened to swamp his senses.

But only for a moment, and then his intense nervous energy returned to him. A buoyant and virile nature like Denn's is not easily crushed out. Hope, hope—there was always hope whilst life lasted.

That he was about to be burnt, and badly burnt, Denn knew perfectly well. The shock might kill him. But though this poor human machinery of ours is easily thrown out of gear, it is surprising what humanity can endure and still draw the breath of life.

Denn could not die; he would not faint. The petroleum still blazed fiercely; the blue popping flame from the corks rose and fell. The dense cloud of smoke drifted round the room, eventually finding an outlet by means of a window or skylight rather high up in one corner. Part and his gang knew their business thoroughly, and fully appreciated draught as an aid to their endeavours.

As the blazing point of flame struck his leg, Denn shivered. Near and round him went the blaze, scorching his clothing and leaving a huge white bladder spirally round his frame.

The agony was intense: so keen, and incisive, that Denn was dripping from head to foot. Still he retained his senses. As the zone of fire rose to his waist he controlled himself by an almost superhuman effort to be still. Then he deliberately held his hands to the blaze. There was a smell of singed leather, and immediately the thongs that bound his wrists gave way. Only the lierce exultation in the knowledge that he had won something kept Denn going.

When his hands were free Denn threw his arms apart. With his hands above his head he had no great difficulty in getting his shoulders free.

Hope spurred him on like generous wine. He had only to rid himself of the green thongs that confined his ankles to the staples, and he would be free. Unfortunately, these bonds had not suffered from the flames. Try as he would, Denn could not rid himself of these. He had no knife in his pocket, and to try to loosen the light, damp knots with fingers like white bladders was impossible.

"Done, after all," Denn groaned. "I'm as fast bound here as a convict fettered to the floor of his cell."

All this had been, more or less, the work of seconds. He saw now that the first tub of oil was burning away, and the lighted fluid was flowing over the hard oak floor. On the other side the hay-band was carrying a red cone of fire towards the staircase.

As it progressed, Prince followed, barking furiously. A sudden idea occurred to Denn : there was just a chance yet.

"Worry, worry," he cried. "Rats, rats; pull him down, Prince!"

The dog barked more furiously than ever. He grasped the hay—band some way beyond the point of flame, and began to tug vigorously. Prince had evidently made up his mind not to be defeated. His sharp teeth mumbled and worried at the rope: there came a sound of something tearing, and then—the band parted!

A terrible, hoarse cry came from Denn's throat. Prince set up and howled. Denn called the dog to him and kissed the shaggy head.

"My lad," he said, hoarsely, "I guess you've about saved my life. You shall have a gold collar set in diamonds and jewelled in sixteen holes. What nonsense I am talking! At any rate, there will be no fire now, since you have cut off the communication. Yonder flowing petroleum wont do much harm upon the hard oak floor. If you could only worry the thongs off my ankles for me—"

Denn said no more. The floor seemed to rise miles upwards and then fall again, shooting the hapless man down into bottomless space. Ten millions of stars danced before his eyes; there was a roar like the sea in his ears.

The reaction had come, and Denn had fainted. Prince sat there still and silent, his black nose quivering. The small body of the terrier absolutely bristled with excitement and expectation.

IV

WHEN Denn came to himself it seemed to him vaguely as if several years had elapsed since he had slipped from consciousness. He passed his hand over his chin to feel for his beard, as Rip Van Winkle might. But no beard was there, and no flame was in the room either. The "Fire Bugs" had made a misealculation so far as the ground floor was concerned, for the paraffin in the tub had burnt away with no greater effect than a deep excoriation of the stout oaken boards. A smell of burnt wood came pungently to Denn's nostrils, but the air was clear of smoke and the danger past.

The pain Denn suffered from his wounds was something dreadful. But nothing could crush down the fierce exultation at his heart, the knowledge that by sheer grit and fortunate chance he had baffled his enemies.

Still, Denn was not out of the wood yet. The thongs about his ankles still held him prisoner to the staple. Had his hands been less swollen and blistered he might have freed himself, but with all his pluck he could grasp nothing whatever, so far as his left hand was concerned. The right was not so badly scorched.

"It's very disheartening," Denn muttered. "Those fellows are not far off, and ere long one or more of them are certain to turn up and investigate into the postponement of the fireworks. Then where shall I be?"

All the same, Denn did not relax his efforts. An hour passed with no very definite results, and then a draught of air proclaimed the fact that the front door had been cautiously opened.

Prince sat up quivering, his ears a-cock, and his teeth displayed in a snarl.

Denn cuffed him gently.

"Down," he whispered, "down, sir. Not a sound."

Prince crouched obediently. Denn lay sideways as if dead. A figure crept in, making no noise, in his india—rubber slippers. He approached Denn and stood over him. The latter never moved.

"He's done for," Part, for he it was, chuckled grimly. "The charred remains of the unfortunate proprietor were found mit der ruins! That is what the papers will say. No suspicion after that. I suppose that hay-band must have parted in some way. A match will put that all right. Good-bye, Mr. Drenton Denn."

And Part spurned the prostrate figure with his foot. A fraction of a second later, and a yell of agony rang through the house. The hidden vein of ferocity lying dormant in every man rose in Denn at this moment.

There was just one tiny chance of safety, and Denn grasped it. Like lightning, he grabbed Part by the feet and buried his teeth like a dog in the ruffian's tendon Achilles.

With his other foot Part lashed out savagely. Denn caught him by the instep and brought him crashing to the ground. Not for an instant did the tension of those jaws relax on Part's heel.

"Mein Gott, what agony!" Part screamed.

"And it's going to be agony," Denn mumbled, "until you cut the strip that binds my ankles. I've got you at a disadvantage now, you hound, and I mean to keep it. Out with your knife and do as I tell you."

Trembling with anguish in every limb, Part drew a knife from bispocket. As he was fumbling with the green hide, Denn dexterouslyi managed to extract Part's revolver from his hip pocket.

Denn's limbs were free at last. Stiff and sore as he was he managed to regain his feet, only to see Part rushing upon him knife in hand. But he was instantly covered with his own revolver.

"Stand back or I fire," Denn cried. "It's my turn now, my friend. You have some matches in your pocket, of course. On the window-ledge you will find some candles. Light one."

Part sullenly obeyed. There was something crisp and metallic in Denn's voice that precluded any debate upon the point. If Part had only known how sick, and dazed, and dizzy Denn was feeling, his discomfiture might have been less. As it was, the ruffian was completely cowed.

"Now take a scrap of paper and a pencil. There's one on the table. Of course, the other ruffians are awaiting your return in the den of the Bowery. Now write what I tell you. Say: 'Something wrong at Nicholas Mayer's. Come to me all of you as soon as you get this!' By heavens, if you don't do as you are told I'll let daylight into you." Part obeyed, sullenly. The letter was folded and addressed to his second in command. Denn opened a window looking on a side street, and hailed the first likely-looking gutter-snipe that passed.

"Do you Want to earn a dollar?" he asked.

The arab raised no particular objection, and was sent on his errand. He was simply to deliver the note, and nothing more. A police-oliicer lounging down the street looked at Denn suspiciously.

"Anything wrong here?" he demanded.

"You've got it first time," Denn responded. "There's something so wrong here that all America will be ringing with it in a day or two. Go on to Patrick Road police-station and send four of your best men here. And for the love of Heaven, lose no time about it."

Ten minutes later four stalwart men were gathered round about Denn and his discomfited companion, listening to the former's tale.

Denn fainted twice during the recital, but he minded that not in the least now. All the same, he had been terribly afraid of this sickness during the time that he had found himself alone with Part.

Hardly was the recital finished when Part's satellites came bursting into the house, eager to know what was wrong. Before they could realize the nature of the cruel trap laid for them the whole gang were secured. The chief officer would have grasped Denn eagerly by the hand.

"No, thanks," the latter said, hastily. "I'm not feeling quite up to social amenities of that kind. You have your men and you have your evidence, and when you find that insurance policy, your case will be complete. And you now have the satisfaction of ridding New York of perhaps the cleverest gang of pestiferous scoundrels that ever disgraced civilization. God knows how many innocent lives have been sacrificed to satisfy their greed."

"And meanwhile, Mr. Denn," said the inspector, "you—"

"Will go straight to Barnabas Hospital," Denn said, promptly. "I want a strong tonic to pull me together, and a smart type-writer will do the rest. Once the Post is in possession of all these facts, I shall take a rest. And I want you to know that I need it."

The Post had it all the next morning, thanks to Denn's pluck and determination. At what time New York was thrilling over these revelations, Denn, with head shaven and temperature up to 103, tossed on his hospital bed babbling of strange things. The "special" was there all the same. And as to the subsequent career of the "Fire Bugs," are they not written in the annals of the New York police, so that he who wills may read?

THE END

§ I

THE thing savoured of mystery and possible adventure, and Drenton Denn, Special Commissioner, was ready for the fray. Anything was better than loafing in the forest behind Shaz waiting for the transports that never seemed to come, in company with Glasgow, who was engaged in the up-country trade and had just returned from one of his adventurous expeditions.

"Here is the back door of Central Africa," remarked Glasgow. "There is no occasion to knock. Will you come in?"

"Got anything fresh on show?" Denn asked.

Glasgow smiled. Not in vain had he taken his life between his teeth for the last five years. The brawny Scot was burned a deep copper bronze; his beard was ragged as a goat's.

"I can promise you the sight of a thing or two you have never seen in your life before," he said. "And this is about the last trip I shall make through the great forest of Ulu. It has been dangerous work, but I have done pretty well. What do you think of this?"

From a cowhide bale amongst his stores Glasgow produced a feather. It was a magnificent white plume, some two feet in length and of the most perfect texture. It was soft, almost elusive, to the touch, and as Glasgow shook it out the thing gleamed like a gossamer spray of falling water.

Denn was loud in his admiration.

"My word," he cried, "the finest ostrich tail in the world is a mere scrubbing- brush compared with this. Got any more?"

"Got ten thousand of them in that bale. Oh, you can laugh. Though that feather when shaken out covers a small table-cloth, you can put half-a-dozen of them in your waistcoat pocket easily. See."

The exquisitely beautiful plume was rolled up into a ball no larger than a marble. When shaken out the shimmering gloss and dainty loveliness of its down were absolutely unimpaired.

"Takes eight of them to weigh an ounce," Glasgow went on. "Nothing injures it. I calculate these things will make a sensation in England."

"You can pile up the stamps on that," Denn replied. "I'd give a trifle to see the bird that feather came from."

"Man, that feather came from no bird at all. What kind of creature it belongs to I know no more than the dead. The Ulu natives are on the best of terms with me now; they bring me these feathers, but whence they come I can get no information. My man Chan will do anything for me, but one question touching feathers sends him muttering an incantation to some Obi god and reduces him to sulky silence for the day."

Denn sat up briskly, despite the heat that beat down in waves.

"Bully for you," he said. "I'll come to Ulu with you and I'll see that bird, or whatever it is. This is going to be an adventure after my own heart."

Glasgow was quite agreeable. He little realized the peril and danger his volatile companion was breeding for him, otherwise the cautious Scot would have traversed the forest alone.

"Have you never tried to see the bird?" Denn asked.

"Not I," Glasgow replied. "I came out here for money, and I have made it by leaving the natives alone. There are queer things, evil things, out yonder, and there are bones of white men bleaching in the sun who have sought to know too much. Curiosity doesn't pay yonder."

They started at dawn the next morning, leaving the camp in charge of two trusty natives, and taking Chan, Glasgow's faithful servant, with them. The latter was a fine specimen of his class, yellow of skin and lithe of limb, with hair straight and black as ebony.

It was cooler in the forest, but the track was narrow, and there were many snakes about. Denn could hear them writhing and wriggling in the dry scrub, and caught the sullen flash of scales from time to time. He had no regret for his leather gaiters.

"That chap of yours will get into trouble in a moment," he muttered to Glasgow. "Seems like asking Providence to tread on the tail of one's coat to come through a snake-infested jungle like this with nothing on but a loin- cloth. Hanged if that isn't a cobra."

It was. The wicked head was raised, the hood uplifted to strike at Chan as he strode carelessly on at the head of the procession. Denn felt the hair pricking and bristling on the back of his scalp.

"Look out, you fool!" he yelled. "Don't you know a cobra when you see it?"

Chan turned with a sweet yet pitiful smile. As he did so the cobra struck, and Chan caught him coolly by the throat. The next instant the slimy back was broken and the limp body cast aside.

"Well, I'm dashed!" Denn exclaimed. "But the brute struck you."

The statement was correct. There were two red punctures in the thick of Chan's thigh. Already the limb was commencing to swell. Half an hour at the most and Chan would cease to be. Denn's face was expressive of sickening horror. Glasgow smiled, and Chan showed two glistening rows of teeth in the grin of the man who courts approval successfully.

"No make fuss," he said; "me all lite in minit gone by."

From his loin-cloth he took a tiny brown substance about the shape and hue of a dried bean. This he wetted with his tongue, and proceeded to rub the bean more or less carelessly on the punctures, after which he resumed his onward march with absolute easiness.

"Some fetich, of course," Denn muttered. "But nothing can save him."

Denn resigned himself to melancholy and the development of the tragedy. But, in his own vigorous metaphor, the tragedy didn't develop worth a cent. The hours went on and the camp was fixed for the night, and, like the monks and the friars at Rheims, Chan did not seem one penny the worse. Denn watched Chan with a glassy eye. Pipes once lighted and the native moved out of earshot, Denn began to speak.

"It seems to me you have missed a pretty short cut to fortune," he said. "Chan's got an infallible cure for snake-bites. If you could get hold of the recipe, you could afford to give those feathers away."

"If I could get hold of it. But I can't. All the Ulu natives carry one of those little brown beans; in fact, I have one myself. Chan gave it to me, and he took his life in his hands in so doing, let me tell you. The thing is mixed up in a way with the feathers, and some religious ceremony with a little tin god of sorts tacked on to the end of it. It's a kind of freemasonry. I'd give all I possess to obtain that recipe, but I know when I am well off, and so keep my fingers out of that pie. If you take my advice you will keep this discovery to yourself."

Denn fell back on a policy of silence. As a matter of fact he had not come all this way to see and be dumb. The New York Post did not pay him the salary of an ambassador for that. Besides, it was a distinct duty to humanity to obtain that recipe.

A six-bladed knife and a promise of an apocryphal revolver later on shook Chan's dense religious fanaticism to the marrow. Denn was fishing for secrets it was peril to the soul to reveal, and Chan was troubled. Still, Heaven was far off as yet, and the revolver was so near.

"No dare tell," said Chan. "God Gnew make the juice that keep the snake fangs out. God Gnew have the papyrus in um belly and the priests guard it in the temple at Ulu. Every full moon they make more juice in the temple, then um put papyrus back in Gnew belly again."

"Let me have a squint at that show and you shall have a silver watch, Chan."

Chan shivered and his lips grew grey. His bony knees clattered together and his mouth watered.

"Say that again and me kill you," he said, hoarsely. "Big fool white man; he not know what he talk about palaver so."

And Chan flatly refused to say any more. Still, he was clearly shaken to the pith of his soul, and many a longing glance did he cast at the chain Denn had displayed across his canvas shirt. That the poison was getting in its work the astute Yankee knew well. He had quite made up his mind to see that ceremony. Secret rites, freemasonry, and papyrus in the internal economy of a god called Gnew! The smartest "special" on earth was not to be baffled by a fanatical native with no clothes on. Denn said no more till over in the valley towards night on the third day the huts and stockades of Ulu rose in sight.

Denn stood up alongside Chan.

"What about that watch?" he whispered.

Chan's teeth clicked and his lips quivered with a sort of nervous paralysis. His eyes gleamed as a cat's might in the dark. Then he fell to sobbing, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks. It was not a pretty spectacle, and Denn was not without a sense of shame.

"So it's to be," he said. "The question is, when?"

Chan's lips framed rather than said, "Tomorrow afternoon."

§ II

GLASGOW lay in the hut assigned to him with the air of a man who mourns for wasted hours and yet bears the loss of them philosophically.

"No business done to-day," he said. "They've got one of their bobberies on, some fool nonsense or other at the temple which takes place once a month. They're quiet and peaceful chaps as a rule, but when the periodical madness comes on they are apt to be dangerous. It is only by lying low and not evincing the slightest curiosity that I have got on with the Ulus so well."

"I should have pulled all the inside of the business out by this time," said Denn.

"Yes, and by this time you wouldn't have any inside to pull out," Glasgow replied, drily. "I'm going to have a siesta."

A minute later and Glasgow was asleep. Denn crept quietly out of the hut and made his way to the spot where he had arranged to meet Chan. Not a single Ulu was in sight anywhere.

Chan was looking downcast and troubled, with a furious gleam in his eyes that caused Denn to slap his hip-pocket significantly.

"None of your confounded nonsense," he said. "This is a case of no song, no supper. The question is, how are you going to disguise me so that I can watch the circus procession without any chance of being fired out of the show?

"You go as pilgrim," Chan explained, sullenly. "Pilgrim come from beyond Shaz to the shrine of Gnew. Holy things for pilgrims to do like Mahomet fellows down Cairo way say of what call Mecca."

"That's all right. But I don't look like a pilgrim to any considerable extent. What are you going to do with my face?"

Chan proceeded to unfold a long robe made of coloured grasses fashioned like a sack. This he placed over Denn's head, leaving him with two holes wherewith to see. A pair of moccasins of the same material completed his outfit.

"There pilgrim's dress for you," Chan remarked. "Taken from a dead pilgrim, un had cholera. No other one get. Perhaps you die cholera too."

Denn shuddered slightly. A natural desire to tear the flimsy structure in fragments came over him.

"There is a drawback to every pleasure," he said, grimly. "What time do the doors open?"

With a swift critical glance at his companion, Chan pointed the way. Up to the present a strange silence had been observed, and no single Ulu could be seen. Then a queer, grotesque figure came forth into the main street of the village and commenced to blow vigorously on a horn.

From the huts, up from the grass, out of the shelter of the forest, men and women seemed to rise as from the dead. The fierce mob, uttering yells and cries, pushed forward. Their gleaming eyes and set faces were eloquent of the frenzy of fanaticism that possessed them.

An ugly crowd—no mistake about that; a crowd drunk with religious fervour, which is a dangerous thing to the scoffer even in civilized climes. No reason to warn Denn that he would be torn limb from limb on the slightest suggestion of his presence.

It was therefore some comfort to him that there were hundreds of pilgrims besides himself. He and Chan were soon in the thick of the stream, and a greasy, evil-smelling stream it proved to be. As the crowd surged along the cries and yells ceased and a strange, strained silence followed. They were eager and yet strangely reluctant, as a man who is compelled to witness an execution. Fear and curiosity were mingled. Denn could hear his companions breathing heavily, like runners who have come far and fast.

Presently the procession arrived at a huge mass of rocks that thrust themselves out from the hillside. Carried on by the living stream, Denn found himself hustled down a flinty gorge and thence through a pair of massive bronze gates, beautifully modelled and finished.

"Well, this beats everything," he muttered. "Now, where on earth do those magnificent gates come from? Nothing finer was ever cast in Greece or Rome. It seems to me I'm going to have value for my money."

The gates closed right up to the rugged arch of the roof. Inside was a huge natural temple, faintly illuminated by a dozen or more windows cut through the living granite. And each one of the windows u as filled with the most delicate bronze tracery.

The place was so vast that there was room and to spare. Denn found a gloomy corner, where he stood with Chan by his side so that he could observe everything without being seen. No previous adventure had been more fascinating than the present one.

Denn's keen eyes took everything in. One surprise tripped over the heels of another so fast that the American grew quite accustomed to the whirl of sensations. He looked down from the roof to the floor at his feet. He saw that he stood ankle-deep in some white feathery substance that glistened purely in the filtered light.

The whole temple was carpeted with the marvellous feather that Glasgow had shown him a day or two before. There were literally hundreds of them, the pilgrims and Ulus trampling them under foot as if they had been grass. As Denn bent for closer inspection Chan grasped his arm.

"Nothing touch; dead certain fool white man," he whispered.

Denn accepted the hint. And, indeed, there was something else to occupy his attention beyond the beautiful feathers. At the back of the temple there stood a gigantic idol of unusually repulsive aspect. In the centre of the forehead was one gigantic eye behind which a lamp had been lighted. The whole thing was grotesque to the last degree.

At the feet of the idol on a platform a mass of priests, or medicine-men, had gathered. They were old and withered, every one of them, and clad from head to foot in some coarse white cloth. On a table at the foot of the idol Denn could see a wicker basket containing a dozen or more cobras in a state of lively indignation.

Then the priests began to sing, grouped in a semi-circle. At first their chant was low and wailing and monotonous, and to Denn's great surprise he recognised it as familiar and Gregorian. A dreamy sensation of having been there and having done it all before came over him.

"Nothing new under the sun," he muttered. "White men must have been here before. Otherwise, how on earth did those gates get here?"

Presently the chant grew louder and more fierce. Up and up it rose until there was one screaming cry of passion and supplication, till finally the rocking, reeling priests prostrated themselves before the altar.

Instantly the whole assemblage did the same. Denn felt himself dragged down by Chan's powerful hand. After the fearful din the silence was strange and almost painful. And yet Denn had never seen anything more thrilling and impressive before.

Denn lay half smothered in those luscious clinging feathers, soft as down and diaphanous as sea-foam, wondering what was going to happen next. He had some dim conception. of the way in which the ceremony pointed. This music was doubtless an incantation and an appeal for mercy from the god. They were waiting before they had courage to proceed.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then the leader of the priests raised his head cautiously. Another and another, till at length they were all on their feet once more. Loud yells of triumph followed.

Slowly, by reason of the weight of his years, the chief priest proceeded to climb up the frame of the great idol. He looked like a white fly on the head of a Sphinx. The action was nothing in itself, apart from the feebleness of the chief performer, and yet it was followed by almost painful silence. Then the arm of the priest was plunged up to the elbow in an orifice in the idol, to emerge a moment later waving a faded strip of parchment.

Instantly the throbbing silence was broken by a manifestation of mad delight. The pilgrims tossed, and rocked, and yelled in a species of intoxicated delirium. Denn knew enough to grasp the meaning of this. The parchment was doubtless the sacred papyrus containing the recipe for the snake cure. Probably these poor folk always gathered there under the impression that some day the great god might destroy the papyrus in a fit of rage.

However, here it was, passed from one priest to another and perused eagerly. Then fires were lighted on the platform, and upon them gourds were placed, and filled with some liquid that caused a great and acrid smoke to rise. Whilst the gourds were boiling and bubbling the priests danced around them with a solemn, stilted step that tried Denn's gravity to the utmost. The absolute wooden stolidity of those around him did not tend to seriousness on the part of the volatile American.

Presently the dance ceased and no further smoke arose from the gourds. The contents of the whole of them were poured into a large brass vessel to which water was added. A big reddish lump like putty was extracted from the brass pot and handed from priest to priest for inspection.

A great burst of triumph followed. The religious function had been eminently successful. Denn felt that the end had come. Then, as he looked about him, he became conscious of the fact that night was coming on. A minute later and it shot down like a blanket on the place.

As if in a paroxysm of fear the whole of the audience made a rush for the gates. Chan plucked at Denn's sleeve.

"Come!" he whispered, hoarsely. "The white dumb devil! Quick!"

Denn eluded the grasp. If there was anything more to be seen he made up his mind to see it. He drew back into a dark corner so that the stream of frantic, perspiring humanity might pass him by and leave him high above the flood.

The flood went roaring on. Denn, by the feeble light in the eye of the idol, watched the stream ebb away. He saw the papyrus restored to the body of the god, and the stuff the priests had made carried away. And he also saw as the pilgrims hurried out that every eye was turned upwards with shuddering fear.

"Something gone wrong with the works," Denn said, sotto voce, "or why should they clear out like that with the darkness? Doubtless the ceremony took more time than usual. If I do happen to come across the white dumb devil I shall have had a pleasant afternoon."

By this time the place was absolutely quiet. Denn felt no uneasiness. Chan, of course, would imagine that he had been swept out with the crowd. Even when Denn discovered that the great bronze gates were fast and that he was a prisoner he felt no fear.

If the worst came to the worst he could remain there for the night and trust to luck to slip out when the temple was open in the morning. That nobody would molest him till dawn he felt certain, for the fear of the darkness had been on priest and layman alike.

Therefore Denn felt at leisure to explore about him as he pleased. It did not take him long to discover that behind the great idol was a huge cavern going right away into the hillside. So far as he could see the whole floor was carpeted with those peerless white feathers. They had been trodden under many a score of grimy feet, and yet they were still as light as thistledown and seemed to shake off corruption as water runs off a rose.

"I never saw anything more exquisitely lovely," said Denn. "I would give a trifle to see the creature they came from. Now, I wonder if this bird or beast lives in the cavern behind me? It looks like it."

It did indeed, for high above Denn's head, where no human being could possibly go, one of the feathers hung on a jagged ledge of rock.

"Extraordinary thing," Denn went on. "It must be a bird, unless there is such a thing as a flying beast. Upon my word, it begins to look like it. If the creature is here I shall most assuredly drop a card on him."

The idol still glared down at Denn. The idea of taking possession of the papyrus instantly possessed him. It might be useless; on the contrary, it might be in a formula known to science. There was just the chance.

As Denn started forward to carry out his intention something seemed to glide by him and brush his cheek softly, gently, as the touch of a mother's hand. And yet the rush of air that followed was as a strong breeze. In the feeble light of the gleaming eye high overhead something darted like a swallow in the twilight. It was vague, ghostly, yet tangible.

Denn forgot all about the papyrus. A treasure was there beyond rubies, but it slipped from the American's mind. The great white shadow swooped down and stood still in the air quivering before Denn's astonished eyes.

What was it? Something greater than an albatross, more massive in the body and wider across the wings, which vibrated so swiftly that their motion was impossible for the eye to follow. Not a bird or a beast, but a great white moth with an eye soft and mournful, and yet so vaguely terrible that Denn stood paralyzed before it.

This, then, was the dumb white devil that Chan had spoken of. But surely the thing was harmless. The soft, mournful eye, the noiseless, snowy wings, pointed to a gentle, timid thing. Yet as it quivered closer and closer to Denn he backed away. He had heard before of a huge moth unseen by any white man's eye, and here it was.

He backed farther and farther away. The thing followed in the same terribly noiseless manner as if it were floating on the air. Denn could see into the soft, mournful grey eye, he could catch a faint perfume like musk, and with a flash the wings were about him.

There was no pressure, no cruel claws cut into the flesh, no serried teeth met in the flesh of the affrighted man. A certain weight bore him to the ground, and then his eyes and throat and ears seemed to be filled with something that seemed like warm snow, exquisite and glowing to the touch and yet soft as satin.

Denn fought it off as best he might. As a matter of fact, he knew quite well that he was being suffocated to death in a mass of feathers. Try as he would he could find no way out of the white sea surrounding him. He gripped for the body, but only succeeded in burying his arm to the shoulders in the tangle of silken plumes. He could hear a heart beating under it all. Still, it was no time for speculation. A little longer of this and Denn's interest in mundane matters would be finished.

He fought and gasped and struggled for breath. His heart was hammering painfully against his ribs, a cold sweat broke out over him. He began to feel himself floating away on a boundless sea towards oblivion. The strong man was growing weak as a little child.

Then, without warning, the white, fluttering mass lifted. Denn, dazed and confused, lay on his back, looking upwards. He saw the cause of this diversion. High over his head he could see, not one of the great moths, but two of them. They were darting round one another in dazzling flashes faster than a swallow cleaves the air, and yet without the slightest noise. Denn crept away to the shadow and made his way on all fours to the gates.

He looked up again. As he did so he saw the two moths come with a flashing wheel and dazzling circle in full contact with each other. For an instant it seemed as if they had burst like two bombs, for a white cloud, growing wider, enveloped them. As the cloud commenced to fall it resolved itself into a shower of feathers,

The moths were fighting a duel. Great as the rain of plumes had been, there was no sign of loss of plumage in either insect. Again and again they came together with the same wheeling motion, and again and again the showers of diaphanous plumes flecked downwards. Then, as they charged once more, one of the moths avoided the other and darted with amazing swiftness into the purple gloom beyond the great idol. A fraction of a second later and the other moth had disappeared also.

Denn crouched there, gasping and panting. Idol, papyrus, the boon to mankind, everything was forgotten in the mad desire to be beyond those bronze gates. Tangible dangers Denn knew and appreciated—dangers he could grapple with and hold on to; but the silent terror of this danger frightened him. Small wonder that the Ulus had fled at the coming of the night.

Doubtless in the caverns beyond were hundreds of those ghostly moths. And they might return to the attack at any time. One was bad enough, but to be beset by a score of them—to be buried under the crushing weight of those white plumes that filled eyes and throat and ears—

Denn cast the thought shuddering from him. The thing was to get away now before danger returned. Still, that was easier said than done. There was no escape save by the great bronze gates, glittering now in the moonlight that bathed the whole place in a silver flood.

Denn looked outside as a prisoner does through his bars. As he did so a figure crept out of the long grass. To Denn's delight he saw the white, fearful, sweat- bedabbled face of Chan.

"White dumb devil not there?" he whispered.

Denn hastened to reassure the other. Chan pressed on one of the ornaments of the great gates, and they slowly yawned open far enough for Denn to step through. There was no further danger now.

"Fool white man no want any more go yonder," said Chan, recovering himself, as the temple was left behind. "Guess you stay there when others gone. White dumb devil stay in, hide in daylight, and only come out at night. Lots um in cavern yonder. You see um?"

Denn responded that he had done so. Then he fell to asking questions. Some years before, he found, the big white moths had come to this temple. More than one priest had been found mysteriously suffocated before the real truth had come to light. Then it was discovered that the big white moths only dared to come out after sundown, and there was consequently no occasion to leave the temple. After dark it was a different matter. Hence the flight of the Ulus and pilgrims at the fall of night, the ceremony having taken longer than usual.

"But where do those moths come from?" Denn asked.

Chan pointed towards the distant hills.

"Over there," he said, "in the valley of caverns. No dare go there after dark. Many mans killed there. Sen um self every times. No go there time some more not for revolver no, not for silver watch."

Denn laughed at the pointed speech. He laid upon Chan's shoulder a hand that still shook slightly.

"No occasion for the hint, my simple savage," he said. "You shall have the best watch and the best revolver that money can procure."

Chan smiled and he sighed. For he was fearful for the anger of the gods, and his soul was heavy within him.

THE END