"All right, Axel," I said dully. "Here's your money."
He hesitated, watching me. "You going to stay here, Mr. Prescott?"
"Yeah," I said. "You can find your way out. I'll—wait awhile."
"Well, I'll leave the light with you," he said. "You can let me have it sometime, eh?"
He waited, and, as I made no answer, he departed, shaking his head.
Then utter silence closed around me. I took the knife out of my coat, tested its edge against my thumb, and settled back to wait.
Less than half an hour later the steel door began to swing open. I stood up. Through the widening crack I saw a bare, steel-lined chamber, empty save for a long, black object that rested on the floor. It was a coffin.
The door was wide. Into view moved a white, slender figure—Jean, clad in a diaphanous, silken robe. Her eyes were wide, fixed and staring. She looked like a sleep-walker.
A man followed her—a man wearing impeccable evening clothes. Not a hair was out of place on his sleek blond head, and he was touching his lips delicately with a handkerchief as he came out of the vault.
There was a little crimson stain on the white linen where his lips had brushed.
4. I, the Vampire
Jean walked past me as though I didn't exist. But the Chevalier Futaine paused, his eyebrows lifted. His black eyes pierced through me.
The handle of the knife was hot in my hand. I moved aside to block Futaine's way. Behind me came a rustle of silk, and from the corner of my eye I saw Jean pause hesitatingly.
The Chevalier eyed me, toying negligently with his handkerchief. "Mart," he said slowly. "Mart Prescott." His eyes flickered toward the knife, and a little smile touched his lips.
I said, "You know why I'm here, don't you?"
"Yes," he said."I—heard you. I was not disturbed. Only one thing can open this door."
From his pocket he drew a key, shining with a dull silver sheen.
"Only this," he finished, replacing it. "Your knife is useless, Mart Prescott."
"Maybe," I said, edging forward very slightly. "What have you done to Jean?"
A curious expression, almost of pain, flashed into his eyes. "She is mine," he shot out half angrily. "You can do nothing, for"
I sprang then, or, at least, I tried to. The blade of the knife sheared down, straight for Futaine's white shirtfront. It was arrested in midair. Yet he had not moved. His eyes had bored into mine, suddenly, terribly, and it seemed as though a wave of fearful energy had blasted out at me—paralyzing me, rendering me helpless. I stood rigid. Veins throbbed in my temples as I tried to move—to bring down the knife. It was useless. I stood as immovable as a statue. The Chevalier brushed past me.
"Follow," he said almost casually, and like an automaton I swung about, began to move along the passage. What hellish hypnotic power was this that held me helpless?
Futaine led the way upstairs. It was not yet dark, although the sun had gone down. I followed him into a room, and at his gesture dropped into a chair. At my side was a small table. The Chevalier touched my arm gently, and something like a mild electric shock went through me. The knife dropped from my fingers, clattering to the table.
Jean was standing rigidly near by, her
