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It was a corpse, standing before me like some propped-up thing
from the grave.
The Corpse on the Grating
By Hugh B. Cave
In the gloomy depths of the old warehouse Dale saw a thing that drew a scream of horror to hit dry lips. It was a corpse—the mold of decay on its long-dead features—and yet it was alive!
IT was ten o'clock on the morning of December 5 when M. S. and I left the study of Professor Daimler. You are perhaps acquainted with M. S. His name appears constantly in the pages of the Illustrated News, in conjunction with some very technical article on psycho-analysis or with some extensive study of the human brain and its functions. He is a psycho-fanatic, more or less, and has spent an entire lifetime of some seventy-odd years in pulling apart human skulls for the purpose of investigation. Lovely pursuit!
For some twenty years I have mocked him, in a friendly, half-hearted fashion. I am a medical man, and my own profession is one that does not symphathize with radicals.
As for Professor Daimler, the third member of our triangle—perhaps, if I take a moment to outline the events of that evening, the Professor's part in what follows will be less obscure. We had called on him, M. S. and I, at his urgent request. His rooms were in a narrow, unlighted street just off the square, and Daimler himself opened the door to us. A tall, loosely built chap he was, standing in the doorway like a motionless ape, arms half extended.
"I've summoned you, gentlemen," he said quietly, "because you two, of all
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