hat which you mention."

"Splendid, now we are getting somewhere. Can you find me the book that
tells of it?"

Peter finished drinking his wine and setting the glass upon the table,
he slowly rose and faced Mirestone with a look of superiority playing
about his rustic features. "No, I am afraid not. You see, I have burned
the book."

Mirestone's face went white. "You burned it?"

"Yes," said Peter. "I don't wish to have anything to do with such black
magic. It is better burned."

"But you must remember the hex. Although the book is destroyed you still
have the information in your head, _nein_?"

"I could never forget it if I wanted to," replied Peter reluctantly. "If
I could burn my memory also it would be better."

Mirestone went back to the fireplace and placed several chunks of wood
on the blaze. A bright orange glow leaped out from the hearth and danced
mockingly over his pallid brow, hiding his lank jowls in the shadows
cast by the cheekbones. Like some grim spectre he rose up, towering
above the little Dutchman. Peter had only to look into his eyes to see
the imperative request that lingered behind the hollowed sockets.

* * * * *

Throughout the remainder of the night Peter, almost in spite of himself,
wracked his brain to bring back to mind everything that was mentioned in
the book about the hex of the white feather. The idea was clear enough,
but the minute details, the infinite possibilities for mistake, and the
exacting specifications concerning the experiment were blurred in his
memory. He knew that with time he could bring back everything that he
had read, but it would take deep concentration and, perhaps, many days
of trial and error to determine the right path that they must follow in
order to have success.

Mirestone, realizing that any distraction would break Peter's train of
thought, sat quietly in the corner finishing off the Dutchman's supply
of wine. He watched Peter closely through his slitted eyes, and it
seemed that his compelling stare was the only force that could drive the
frightened Peter on. Every so often Peter would glance up and see
Mirestone leaning back in the corner half concealed by the deep
shadows--only his partially opened eyes could be seen flickering in the
fiery glow of the hearth. Then he would cover his face with his large,
knotted hands, work the twisted fingers through his hair, and try to
bring back to mind the evil recipe.

The