what's that got to do with it? You might as well say if you got sunstroke, for instance, that old Paxton's fried chicken caused it!"
7
"You don't mean to say that you're coming too?” asked Birkett, when, about 10:30 that night, I followed him out of doors to his waiting car.
"But of course!" I answered lightly. "You don't put me down as a coward aswell as a believer in fairy-tales, do you?"
"You're a sport anyhow, d'Abre!" he said warmly. "And I'm very glad you're coming to see for yourself what one of our midnight joints is like. It'll be a new experience for you."
"And for you," I said under my breath, as he started the engine and passed out from his dim-perfumed garden to the dusty white highroad beyond.
A full moon sailed serenely among silvery banks of cloud above us; and in the quiet night river and valley, rocky hillside and dense forest had the sharp, strange outlines of a woodcut.
All too soon we reached the warning sign, "Dangerous Road," and passed from a silvery sleeping earth to the stagnant gloom of that tunnel-like highway.
But hateful as it was, I could have wished that road would never end, rather than bring us, as inevitably it did, to that ominous green-and-black sign of our destination.
The sound of a deep rhythmic chant greeted us as we went up the steps, and we saw that the roadhouse was lit from end to end, not with the mellow, welcoming radiance of lamp or candle, but with strange quivering fires of blue and green, which flickered to and fro in mad haste past every window of the inn.
"Some illumination!" remarked Birkett. "Looks like the real thing to me! Do you hear the Sons of Enoch practising their nursery rimes? Coming, boys!" he roared cheerfully. "I'll join in the chorus!"
As for myself, I could only stare at the moonlit garden in horror, for my worst fears were realized, and I knew just how much I had dreaded this moment when I saw that the seven tall trees—those sinister devil-trees—were gone!
Then I turned, to see the huge bulk of the innkeeper close behind us, his head thrown back in silent laughter, his eyes smoldering fires above the ugly, cavernous mouth.
Birkett turned too, at my exclamation, and drew his heavy eyebrows together in a frown.
"What the devil do you mean by creeping up on us like that?" he demanded angrily.
Still laughing, the innkeeper came forward and put his hand familiarly on my friend's arm. "By the Black Goat of Zarem," he muttered, "you are come in a good hour. The Sons of Enoch wait to receive you—I myself have seen to it—and tonight you shall both learn the high mysteries of their ancient order!"
"Look here, my fine fellow," said Birkett, "what the deuce do you mean by crowing so loud? I've got to meet these nigger minstrels of yours before I decide to join them."
From the house came a great rolling burst of song, a tremendous chant with an earth-shaking rhythm that was like the shock of battle. The ground rocked beneath us; gathering clouds shut out the face of the watchful moon; a sudden fury of wind shook the massed trees about the house and grounds until they moaned and hissed like lost souls, tossing their crests in impotent agony.
In the lull which followed, Birkett's voice came to me, low and strangely subdued: "You're right, d'Abre! This place
