"Soon she's going to get out of that vat!" Gregg bleated. "Jeannette, forgive me—God, forgive me—but I will not—I cannot—I dare not stay here to see her then!"
The sound of the shot brought the watchman stumbling along the corridor. He crashed against the office door. It banged open in a shower of falling frosted glass. The watchman's flashlight severed the darkness, and printed its white circle on the face of Asa Gregg.
He had fallen back into the chair, a blackish gout of blood running from the hole in his temple. He stared sightlessly into the light with his tyes that were two gnarls of shrunken brown flesh, like knots in a pine board.
Asa Gregg was blind . . . had been, since that night three years past when the acid splashed. . . .
Four Wooden Stakes[1]
By VICTOR ROWAN
There it lay on the desk in front of me, that missive so simple in wording, yet so perplexing, so urgent in tone:
Jack:
Come at once for old-time's sake. Am all alone. Will explain upon arrival,
Having spent the past three weeks in bringing to a successful termination a case that had puzzled the police and two of the best detective agencies in the city, I decided I was entitled to a rest; so I ordered two grips packed and went in search of a time-table. It was several years since I had seen Remson Holroyd; in fact, I had not seen him since we had matriculated from college together. I was curious to know how he was getting along, to say nothing of the little diversion he promised me in the way of a mystery.
The following afternoon found me standing on the station platform of the little town of Charing, a village of about fifteen hundred souls. Remson's place
- ↑ From WEIRD TALES for February, 1925.
