Burn, Witch, Burn!

the six-story sheer drop to both streets. On the side of the Drive there is nothing but the open space

above the park. Opposite the other side is a church.

"It is at this side you must watch," I heard Ricori say; he pointed to the church. "You can turn the lights on

now, Doctor."

He started toward the door, then turned.

"I have many enemies, Dr. Lowell. Peters was my right hand. If it was one of these enemies who struck

him, he did it to weaken me. Or, perhaps, because he had not the opportunity to strike at me. I look at

Peters, and for the first time in my life I, Ricori-am afraid. I have no wish to be the next, I have no wish

to look into hell!"

I grunted at that! He had put so aptly what I had felt and had not formulated into words.

He started to open the door. He hesitated.

"One thing more. If there should be any telephone calls inquiring as to Peters' condition let one of these

men, or their reliefs, answer. If any should come in person making inquiry, allow them to come up-but if

they are more than one, let only one come at a time. If any should appear, asserting that they are

relations, again let these men meet and question them."

He gripped my hand, then opened the door of the room. Another pair of the efficient-appearing retainers

were awaiting him at the threshold. They swung in before and behind him. As he walked away, I saw that

he was crossing himself vigorously.

I closed the door and went back into the room. I looked down on Peters.

If I had been religious, I too would have been doing some crossing. The expression on Peters' face had

changed. The terror and horror were gone. He still seemed to be looking both beyond me and into

himself, but it was a look of evil expectancy-so evil that involuntarily I shot a glance over my shoulder to

see what ugly thing might be creeping upon me.

There was nothing. One of Ricori's gunmen sat in the corner of the window, in the shadow, watching the

parapet of the church roof opposite; the other sat stolidly at the door.

Braile and Nurse Walters were at the other side of the bed. Their eyes were fixed with horrified

fascination on Peters' face. And then I saw Braile turn his head and stare about the room as I had.

Suddenly Peters' eyes seemed to focus, to become aware of the three of us, to become aware of the

entire room. They flashed with an unholy glee. That glee was not maniacal-it was diabolical. It was the

look of a devil long exiled from his well-beloved hell, and suddenly summoned to return.

Or was it like the glee of some devil sent hurtling out of his hell to work his will upon whom he might?

Very well do I know how fantastic, how utterly unscientific, are such comparisons. Yet not otherwise can

I describe that strange change.

Then, abruptly as the closing of a camera shutter, that expression fled and the old terror and horror came

back. I gave an involuntary gasp of relief, for it was precisely as though some evil presence had

withdrawn. The nurse was trembling; Braile asked, in a strained voice: "How about another

hypodermic?"

"No," I said. "I want you to watch the progress of this-whatever it is-without drugs. I'm going down to

the laboratory. Watch him closely until I return."

I went down to the laboratory. Hoskins looked up at me.

"Nothing wrong, so far. Remarkable health, I'd say. Of course all I've results on are the simpler tests."

I nodded. I had an uncomfortable feeling that the other tests also would show nothing. And I had been

more shaken than I would have cared to confess by those alternations of hellish fear, hellish expectancy

and hellish glee in Peters' face and eyes. The whole case troubled me, gave me a nightmarish feeling of

standing outside some door which it was vitally important to open, and to which not only did I have no

key but couldn't find the keyhole. I have found that concentration upon microscopic work often permits

me to think more freely upon problems. So I took a few smears of Peters' blood and began to study

them, not with any expectation of finding anything, but to slip the brakes from another part of my brain.

I was on my fourth slide when I suddenly realized that I was looking at the incredible. As I had

perfunctorily moved the slide, a white corpuscle had slid into the field of vision. Only a simple white

corpuscle-but within it was a spark of phosphorescence, shining out like a tiny lamp!

I thought at first that it was some effect of the light, but no manipulation of the illumination changed that

spark. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. I called Hoskins.

"Tell me if you see something peculiar in there."

He peered into the microscope. He started, then shifted the light as I had.

"What do you see, Hoskins?"

He said, still staring through the lens:

"A leucocyte inside of which is a globe of phosphorescence. Its glow is neither dimmed when I turn on

the full illumination, nor is it increased when I lessen it. In all except the ingested globe the corpuscle

seems normal."

"And all of which," I said, "is quite impossible."

"Quite," he agreed, straightening. "Yet there it is!"