ighted circle, shaking his
fists in the air, and, to judge by the movements of his lips, uttering
most awful imprecations. He looked gaunt and ill. I dreamt no more,
but awoke conscious of a sensation as though some dead weight, which
had been pressing upon me had been suddenly removed."

Dr. Cairn glanced across at his son significantly, but the subject was
not renewed throughout breakfast.

Breakfast concluded:

"Come into the library, Rob," said Dr. Cairn, "I have half-an-hour to
spare, and there are some matters to be discussed."

He led the way into the library with its orderly rows of obscure
works, its store of forgotten wisdom, and pointed to the red leathern
armchair. As Robert Cairn seated himself and looked across at his
father, who sat at the big writing-table, that scene reminded him of
many dangers met and overcome in the past; for the library at
Half-Moon Street was associated in his mind with some of the blackest
pages in the history of Antony Ferrara.

"Do you understand the position, Rob?" asked the doctor, abruptly.

"I think so, sir. This I take it is his last card; this outrageous,
ungodly Thing which he has loosed upon us."

Dr. Cairn nodded grimly.

"The exact frontier," he said, "dividing what we may term hypnotism
from what we know as sorcery, has yet to be determined; and to which
territory the doctrine of Elemental Spirits belongs, it would be
purposeless at the moment to discuss. We may note, however,
remembering with whom we are dealing, that the one-hundred-and-eighth
chapter of the Ancient Egyptian _Book of the Dead_, is entitled 'The
Chapter of Knowing the Spirits of the West.' Forgetting, _pro tem._,
that we dwell in the twentieth century, and looking at the situation
from the point of view, say, of Eliphas Levi, Cornelius Agrippa, or
the Abbe de Villars--the man whom we know as Antony Ferrara, is
directing against this house, and those within it, a type of elemental
spirit, known as a Salamander!"

Robert Cairn smiled slightly.

"Ah!" said the doctor, with an answering smile in which there was
little mirth, "we are accustomed to laugh at this mediaeval
terminology; but by what other can we speak of the activities of
Ferrara?"

"Sometimes I think that we are the victims of a common madness," said
his son, raising his hand to his head in a manner almost pathetic.

"We are the victims of a common enemy," replied his father sternly.
"He employs weapons which, often enough, i