McClure's Magazine/Volume 55/Number 10/The Pool of the Sacred Crocodile

O the man who catches the eight-thirty train every morning and spends the day in his office in the city, the mere mention of such a thing as Black Magic is a cause for contemptuous laughter. To him Voodooism, devil worship and sorcery in all its forms are the figments of a diseased brain—the fictitious remnants of medieval superstitions. If there is anything in them at all, he will say, it can be accounted for by hypnotism: beyond that there is nothing but the foolish imagination of illiterate people.

It is as well that the man who catches the eight-thirty should think thus. Such things have nothing to do with Bulls and Bears: such things have no market value on the Stock Exchange. And yet, surely to even the most prosaic of train catchers, motoring maybe over Salisbury Plain, there must come some faint stirring of imagination as he sees the vast dead monument of Stonehenge. Can he not see that ancient temple peopled with vast crowds of fierce savages waiting in silence for the first rays of the rising sun to touch the altar, and bathe the victims in golden light for the last time? And then the wild-eyed priests, the human sacrifice, the propitiation of strange gods.

Thus it was in England two thousand years ago: thus it is today in places beyond the ken of England's train catchers. Stamped out wherever possible, retreating always before advancing civilization, there are still men who practice strange and dreadful rites in secret places.

Moreover, it is not good for a white man to dabble in those ceremonies. For they are utterly foul and evil—with a foulness far beyond mere crime. They are without every law, moral and social—and those who have dealings with them must pay a terrible price, even as Professor John Gainsford paid—Gainsford, the celebrated Egyptologist.

Most people have forgotten his name by now, though at the time the case aroused great interest. It may be remembered that, as the result of information given to them, the authorities raided a certain house on the right bank of the Nile about halfway between Cairo and Luxor. They found it deserted, but possessed of one very strange feature. In the center of the house was a large pool, filled with slimy, stagnant water. And when they had drained the water away they made a very sinister discovery. On the bottom of the pool, partially hidden in the filthy ooze, was a pair of spectacles. And the spectacles were identified as belonging to Professor Gainsford.

No other trace of that eminent savant was ever found and finally his death was taken for granted. It was known that he had left Cairo in a going south, with his niece and a friend. It was understood that one night he had landed close to this particular house, and from that moment had never been seen again. It was further given out that in view of his notorious absent-mindedness, his niece and her friend had felt no uneasiness at his absence and had finally returned to Cairo, thinking it more than likely the professor had gone back by train:

As I say, so much was known, and though strange rumors got about they seemed too absurd to pay any attention to. And the final conclusion was that the unfortunate gentleman had probably slipped into the pool and been drowned; and that, later on, his body had been discovered by some natives and been buried.

I let it rest at that—for I was the friend. I talked it over with Jim and with Molly Tremayne, his niece, and rightly or wrongly we made our decision. Be that as it may; I will put down now for the first time the real truth of what happened on that ghastly night. For Molly Tremayne is now Molly Leyton.

ROFESSOR GAINSFORD was the last man whom one would have considered capable of evil. His mutton-chop whiskers alone gave him an air of paternal benevolence, which was enhanced by the mild blue eyes continually blinking behind his spectacles. At Sheppard's Hotel he was a familiar figure, with his coat tails flapping behind him whenever he moved, and a silk handkerchief hanging out of his pocket. It was through retrieving that pocket handkerchief four times in half an hour that I first made his acquaintance—and incidentally Molly's.

It was one night at dinner that the professor first mentioned the subject. He had omitted to put on his tie, I remember, before coming down into the lounge, and Molly had driven him upstairs again to remedy the defect. I was dining at their table—it was not an unusual occurrence—and we started to pull his leg about it. As a general rule he used to take our chaffing in the mildest way, blinking amiably at us from behind his spectacles and promising to forget something more vital on the next occasion. And Molly was—and is—the most utterly adorable being in the world. At the moment she is leaning over my shoulder, so all married men will understand that last remark.

N this particular night, however, the professor seemed strangely preoccupied. He sat in almost complete silence all through dinner, but he kept shooting little birdlike glances at Molly, and was, in fact, so unlike his usual self that once or twice we looked at one another in surprise.

It was toward the end of the meal that we found out the reason of his peculiar manner.

“I have had an almost unbelievable stroke of luck this afternoon,” he remarked suddenly. “If it should prove to be true there is no telling to what it may lead.”

“Discovered a new beetle, Uncle John?” asked Molly, with a smile.

“I have discovered,” he answered solemnly, “that a secret cult, thought by every Egyptologist to have become extinct centuries ago, is still in existence. If it should prove to be the case, if this cult which as far as we know came into being about the eighteenth dynasty still lives and has carried on intact from generation to generation the hidden secrets of the ages, then I shall have made a discovery of staggering magnitude.”

“But how did you find out about it, uncle?” said Molly.

“By sheer accident,” he remarked. “I was in the bazaar this afternoon haggling with that arch-robber Yussuf over a scarab for which he wanted to charge me too much, when a native who was evidently not a Cairene strode into the shop. Being engrossed in the scarab, I paid no attention to him until suddenly I happened to glance up. And I saw him make a sign to Yussuf which instantly made me forget everything else. I could hardly believe my eyes, for the sign to Yussuf was the secret sign of the highest adepts of this almost-forgotten cult. Beyond possibility of doubt the sign made was the sign of the cult, and a glance at Yussuf confirmed my opinion that I was in the presence of an adept. He was cringing—positively cringing, and my excitement became intense.”

“And what did you do then, Uncle John?” asked Molly.

“I waited until he left Yussuf's shop, and then I followed him. At first he would say nothing, but gradually, as he realized that I was not merely a curious tourist, but one who knew as much if not more than he did about the history of his sect, he grew more communicative.”

The professor's hands were shaking with excitement.

“There seems not the slightest doubt,” he continued, “that there has been no break whatever in the priesthood for over three thousand years, though repeated efforts have been made to stamp it out.”

“Why is that, professor?” I asked.

He stared at me in silence for a moment or two.

“The orthodox has always persecuted the unorthodox,” he said at length. “It is the one enduring and constant trait in all religions. It is What is it, child? What are you looking at?”

I swung around quickly. Molly was staring into the darkness beyond the tables with frightened eyes, and I half rose in my chair.

“What is it, Molly?” I asked.

“A man,” she said, “a horrible-looking native was glaring at me with the most dreadful look in his eyes. He's gone now, but he looked awful.”

“I'll see about it!” I cried, getting up. But the professor waved me back.

“Tut, tut!” he said irritably. “What chance have you of finding a native out there? And even if you did, he hasn't done anything.”

But it seemed to me that there was nervous apprehension in the glance he threw at his niece. After a while the color came back to her face and she smiled.

“Sorry to be so stupid,” she said, “but it gave me quite a turn. He looked so malignant. Go on, Uncle John, tell us about your cult.”

I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to what he said. I was too occupied in watching Molly. For I was fully determined that if she saw the man again, I would go after him at once, whatever the professor said. But nothing happened and a little later we rose and went into the lounge.

There was a small dance in the hotel that evening and when the professor had retired to his room Molly and I took the floor.

“I can't tell you what that man's face was like, Dick,” she said. “His eyes seemed to bore right into my brain, and I felt as if he was dragging me toward him.”

I soothed her fears, and after a while she forgot him. So did I, together with the professor's new cult and most other things. Have I not said that Molly was and is the most utterly adorable being in the world? It was not until much later that I remembered him again.

I had gone to bed, when suddenly there came an agitated knocking on my door and I heard Molly's voice calling, “Dick! Dick!”

In an instant I had opened it to find Molly outside in a pitiful condition of fright. She was trembling all over, and before I knew what had happened she was in my arms.

“What is it, darling?” I cried. “What has frightened you?”

“That man—that awful native!” she gasped. “He's in the hotel. Oh, Dick—I'm terrified! I'd just got into bed, when something made me get up and go to the door. I simply had to, though I felt as if my legs weren't my own. I opened it, and standing in the passage just outside was the man. I can't tell you the look in his eyes.” She shuddered violently. “It was dreadful—horrible! He seemed to be gloating over me, and then all of a sudden he seemed to vanish.”

“Vanish!” I said. “My darling—you've been dreaming. You've had a nightmare.”

“But it wasn't a nightmare!” she cried. “Dick, I've come straight from my door to your room. I tell you he was standing there in the passage.”

SOOTHED her as best I could, and then I had to be firm. I admit that, personally speaking, nothing would have pleased me better than to stand there with her in my arms for two or three hours. But this world is a censorious place, and the hour was well past midnight. So very gently I insisted that she must either go back to her room, or else spend the night with some woman friend in the hotel. She finally decided to do the latter.

As luck would have it, the room of a little widow who was a pal of hers was almost opposite mine. And Molly went to her, having first driven every coherent thought out of my mind by kissing me.

“When men call me darling,” she murmured, “I always kiss them.” She was smiling up at me adorably.

“How many men?” I began furiously.

And then the widow's door shut.

UT this is not a love story, and such digressions are dangerous. I mentioned the matter to the professor next morning and somewhat to my surprise he took it quite seriously, shaking his head when I said I thought it was merely a dream.

“Possibly, Leyton,” he remarked, peering at me thoughtfully, “possibly not. But whatever it may have been, from what you say Molly seems to have been very much upset. I think a change will do her good.”

I suppose my face fell, for he chuckled to himself.

“What do you say to all three of us going to investigate what I was talking to you about last night at dinner?” he went on. “This cult—this ancient religion—let's start today and go to the place, the secret place, where it still flourishes. If you bring your influence to bear on Molly”—he looked at me slyly—“she won't refuse. Besides, it will do her good.”

“Have you any idea where it is, professor?” I asked.

“Between here and Luxor,” he answered. “We will take a dahabeah, and the exact place will be shown to me by the man I met in the bazaar yesterday.”

Now the prospect of a few days practically alone with Molly on board a dahabeah was eminently attractive, but I couldn't help pointing out something that seemed to have escaped the professor's notice.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, professor,” I said, “but do you think that even if we find the place the priests will let you see anything? I mean these religious sects guard their secrets most carefully from unbelievers and infidels.”

“Once we get to the Pool of the Sacred Crocodile,” he answered, and his blue eyes were staring at me with almost uncanny brightness, “once we get there, we shall have no difficulty. But Molly must come—you must see to that. I couldn't leave her here after this shock.”

“I imagine your niece would like the trip,” I answered. “Anyway, here she is now. So you'd better suggest it yourself.”

And it was while he was suggesting it to Molly, who steadily refused to meet my eye, that I looked up to see Jim Maitland strolling across the lounge.

“Hello, Dick,” came his cheerful voice. “I heard you were staying here. How goes it?”

I murmured an excuse and followed him to a table a little distance away.

“Who's the girl, old man?” he asked. “She's a corker for looks.”

“She's a corker in every way, Jim,” I answered.

He grinned suddenly.

“So that's how it lies, is it?” he said. “My congratulations, old Dick. Or is it a little premature? I see that so far you haven't squandered your substance at the jeweler's.”

“It's not actually fixed yet, Jim,” I said, a bit sheepishly, “but I'm hoping it will be very soon. We're going off today with the old bird—if we can fix up a dahabeah. He's her uncle, and he's sane on all points except Egyptology. Come and be introduced.”

TOOK him over to the professor and Molly and we sat down.

“I think it sounds like a lovely trip, don't you, Mr. Leyton?” said Molly demurely. “Will you be in Cairo when we return?”

“I—ah” I began, staring at her foolishly. “I ah”

“Wonderful conversationalist, isn't he?“ murmured Jim. “And where are you going, Miss Tremayne?”

“Toward Luxor, Mr. Maitland. My uncle wants to find some place with a most romantic name. It's called the Pool of the Sacred Crocodile. Isn't that lovely?”

Jim stared at her for a moment or two in silence; then with a slight frown he turned to the professor.

“What on earth do you want to go there for, sir?” he asked quietly.

“Do you know it, Mr. Maitland?” cried the professor eagerly.

“I know of it,” said Jim. “I know of it as the headquarters of one of the most secret and abominable cults handed down from ancient Egypt. And I can assure you, professor,” he went on, after a little pause, “that you will be wasting your time if you go there.” I frowned at him horribly, but strangely enough Jim seemed very serious. “No white man would ever be allowed inside their temple.”

“I think I shall be able to arrange it, Mr. Maitland,” said the professor, rubbing his hands together. “You see I am not quite an ordinary white man, and I am acquainted with one or two points concerning the ancient history of the cult, of which even one of their leading adepts seemed in ignorance. It will be a most interesting piece of research work—most interesting. In return for—for what I can give them I am to be allowed to have a copy of the ritual which has been handed down intact for three thousand years; ritual, Mr. Maitland, which no man living, save those priests, has ever thought of in his wildest dreams.”

“Well,” said Jim grimly, “all I can say, professor, is this: If one tenth of the rumors I have heard are true the best thing you can do will be to burn the book unread.”

UT the professor seemed not to hear. His little blinking eyes were fixed on Molly.

For a while the conversation became general, and it wasn't until an hour or two later that I was able to ask Jim what he had meant by being so serious. The professor was out arranging about a dahabeah; Molly was in her room packing.

“You darned tactless blighter!” I said, pushing a Martini in his direction. “What did you try to put the old man off for?”

“Dick,” he answered quietly, “you know that I'm not exactly an imaginative cove; you know that there are not many things on two legs or four that I'm frightened of. But I tell you that no power on this earth would induce me willingly to have anything to do with the sect whose secret temple is at the Pool of the Sacred Crocodile. There are stories of black magic and devil worship which make one pinch one's self to see if one is awake. There are stories of human sacrifice carried out with the most appalling rites. There are stories of dead men and women coming to life again and walking around the temple, to dive finally into the pool from which there is no return.”

I stared at him in amazement,

“But, great Scott, old man!” I cried. “Do you believe them?”

He didn't answer; he was looking over my shoulder through the open doors of the bar.

“Something has happened to Miss Tremayne,” he said quietly, and the next instant Molly was beside me.

“Dick,” she whispered, “he's in the hotel—that native. He was standing outside the door of my room again. Just now—as I was packing. I looked out into the passage, and there he was—staring, just the same as last night.”

“I'll go and see if I can find the scoundrel!” I cried, and dashed upstairs.

But the passage was empty; there was no trace of the mysterious native. And I was just going down again, when the door of the professor's room opened as I passed and he peered out, looking uneasily up and down the corridor.

“Hello!” I said. “I thought you were out making arrangements for dahabeah.”

“I have made them,” he answered curtly. “We start this afternoon.”

He shut the door again abruptly, and I went down to the bar feeling very thoughtful. For over the professor's head, reflected in a mirror on the other side of the room, I had seen a native. For a moment our eyes had met, then he had vanished. A vague fear took possession of me, and a sudden distaste for the proposed trip filled my mind. And then I cursed myself for a nervous fool. It was Jim's fault—talking all that bunkum. And the native I had seen in the professor's room had been some dealer with whom he was driving a bargain. After all, what could happen in the twentieth century to three English people in a dahabeah a few miles south of Cairo? The whole thing was preposterous. But, try as I would to shake it off, I knew it was there, at the back of my mind.

It was just before we left that Jim took me to one side.

“Whatever you do, Dick,” he said gravely, “don't let Miss Tremayne out of your sight or her uncle's, once you get to your destination. One of you must always be with her.”

“What on earth are you frightened of, Jim?” I demanded.

“I don't know, old man,” he answered: “That's the devil of it—I don't know.”

As he said—that was the devil of it. There are depths of cold-blooded villainy at which the mind jibs even when the proofs are at hand. And when there are no proofs it is small wonder that one's suspicions are not aroused.

Especially when there are other things to think about. As I have said, this is not a love story, but the professor was preoccupied, and Molly was—just Molly. And there was the little matter concerning the men who had called her darling to be threshed out.

The boat was a comfortable one fitted with a small motor engine and for two days we went slowly toward Luxor, tying up at night. We hardly saw the professor except at meals, and then he barely spoke. He sat sunk in thought, shooting strange little birdlike glances at Molly until she got quite annoyed with him. And his queer mood showed no signs of abating as time went on. It was toward the evening of the second day that he appeared on deck with a pair of field glasses. His hands were trembling with excitement as he searched the left bank of the river, and suddenly he gave a little cry of triumph.

“We are there!' he shouted. “We have arrived.”

He gave a frenzied order to the captain, who swung the helm over and steered toward a small landing stage which jutted out from the bank. Behind it, partially screened by a small orange grove, the outlines of a house could be seen, and on the landing stage itself there stood a native—motionless as if carved out of bronze.

SUPPOSE we must have been still a hundred yards away when we heard a frantic commotion among the crew. They were jabbering wildly together and it seemed to me that they were in a state of the utmost terror. In fact we bumped that landing stage badly, as the men—huddled together forward—refused to use a boat hook or make her fast. It was left to the captain and me to tie her up, and it struck me that though he was an educated man the captain himself had no liking for his berthing place.

His eyes continually came around to the tall native who had stepped on board the instant we came alongside, and when we had finished making her fast he went up to the little bridge and stayed there, while I went aft to join Molly. A few yards away the professor and the native were talking earnestly together, and Molly slipped her hand through my arm.

“Dick,” she whispered, “I'm frightened. Don't leave me. That man has been looking at me just like that brute did at Shephard's. I wish we'd never come. I believe your friend was right.”

I soothed her, though I didn't feel too happy in my own mind, for it came home to me very forcibly that in the event of trouble everything would devolve on me. The professor was an old man, and I placed no reliance whatever on the captain. In fact, it was not the first time in my life that I would willingly have paid a large sum of money to have Jim at my side.

Suddenly the professor came over to me.

“We are in luck,” he said, and his eyes were gleaming. “We are to be allowed to see the sacred crocodile at once.”

Molly drew back.

“I don't think I want to, Uncle John,” she said. “You go—and I'll-stay here with Dick.”

“Don't be ridiculous, child!” he snapped. “It is what we have come here for. You will see a sight that no white woman has seen for a thousand years—the inner temple of one of the sister cults of Ammon Ra. Come at once.”

He led the way, and after a moment's hesitation Molly followed.

“We'd better humor him, Dick,” she whispered, to stop with a little start as the crew set up a hideous wailing. It ceased abruptly as the native who had awaited us on the landing stage stepped over to them and said something in a fierce voice. Then he came back and led the way toward the house half hidden in the trees, with the professor shaking with excitement just behind him, and Molly and I bringing up the rear. She was still clinging to my arm, and I could feel that she was trembling.

“Dick, I hate it,” she whispered. “Promise you won't leave me.”

“I promise, darling,” I answered, slipping my right hand into my coat pocket. There is something very comforting about the feel of an automatic pistol at times

UR guide stalked slowly on toward the house. There was no sign of any one in the overgrown garden; there was no sign of life in the house itself. But when he knocked three times on the door it swung open, Slowly, of its own accord—and he stood aside to let us enter. In front lay a long stone passage, lighted with innumerable lamps and hung with priceless tapestries.

Braziers sent forth choking clouds of incense which almost stifled one, but in spite of the overpowering fumes there was another smell—a cloying, horrible smell. For a while I could not place it, and then it came to me. It was muck—a faint, but unmistakable odor of muck.

Our guide stalked slowly on, while the professor darted from side to side, staring at the hangings on the walls. He was in a condition bordering on idiocy, and even I was beginning to feel excited. And then another door opened slowly, and Molly and I stopped with a gasp of disgust.

For in an instant the faint smell of muck had become an overpowering stench. Wave after wave of it came through the door, catching one's throat with a sickening nausea. And once again the guide stood aside to let us pass through. It was the actual pool itself that lay in front of us.

It was hewn out of a sort of sandstone rock. A gallery some two yards wide stretched around the walls at the same level as we were standing; while directly opposite us, on the other side of the pool, a heavy curtain concealed what appeared to be another door. In each corner sat a motionless priest, cross-legged in front of a burning brazier, and swinging from the center of the roof was a marvelous old lamp which provided the only light. Cut into the walls were various Egyptian designs which roused the professor to the verge of frenzy. And finally just in front of us there stuck out over the pool a thing that looked like a diving board. It shone yellow in the light, and with a sort of dull amazement I realized that it was solid gold.

“The actual platform of death,” whispered the professor in my ear. “Thousands of victims have stepped off that into the pool. And to think that we are the first white people to have seen it!”

“Good heavens!” I muttered. “Human sacrifice.”

ASCINATED against my will, I stepped forward and peered into the pool below. And the next instant I heard Molly give a shuddering gasp:

“Look, Dick, look! Over there in the corner.”

Just rising above the surface was a thing that looked like a motionless bit of wood. Suddenly clear and distinct a bell chimed out. As if in answer to a signal there was a swirl in the black, oily liquid of the pool, a vast head and snout showed for a moment above the surface, and I had a glimpse of the most enormous crocodile I have ever seen. And the bit of wood was no longer there—only sluggish ripples and an overpowering wave of fetid muck.

With an effort I took my eyes away from the pool and looked up. The curtain opposite had been pulled aside, and a man was standing there staring at Molly. He was clad in some gorgeous garment, but it was not at his clothes that I was looking—it was at the sinister, evil face.

And as I looked I heard Molly's voice, which seemed to come from a distance, murmuring:

“Take me away, Dick! Take me away. There's that awful native again—the one who haunted me at Shephard's.”

And it was also the native whom I had seen reflected in the mirror in Professor John Gainsford's room.

He disappeared as suddenly as he had come and Molly gave a sigh of relief.

“Let's get out, Dick, for goodness sake,” she said urgently. “The smell of this place is too fearful. I can't stand it another moment!”

I was only too glad to agree. The door behind us was open, and we went through it, intent only on escaping into the fresh air. And not until we were clear of the entrance door, with the scent of the orange trees around us, did we breathe freely again.

“Dick—what an awful house!” cried Molly.

“It was pretty fierce,” I agreed. “By the way, where is the professor?”

Molly laughed.

“It would take more than a bad smell to get him away. I expect the old dear is perfectly happy in there, with his little drawings on the walls and things. But nothing on this earth would induce me to go inside again—nothing! Did you see that man, Dick—the one on the other side of the pool?”

“I saw him,” I answered briefly.

“What was he doing in Cairo? And why is he here dressed like that?” She gave a little shudder. “Dick, you may think it fanciful of me and silly, but inside that house just now I had the most extraordinary feeling. Apart altogether from that horrible crocodile and the smell—I felt as if I was in the presence of something incredibly evil. I hardly know how to express it, but it seemed to me as if there was some devilish influence brooding over that pool. I felt it before that man came in—but I felt it a thousand times more as he stood there.”

I nodded gravely.

“If half the rumors I've heard are true, dear, I'm not surprised. Personally I couldn't get beyond the smell, but some pretty dreadful things have happened in that house. You saw that gold inlaid board in front of you stretching out over the pool? Well, according to your uncle, thousands of victims have stepped off that platform into that pool—for the edification of that crocodile or—one of its predecessors.”

She shuddered again and I slipped my arm around her waist. Did I say that one point at any rate had been very satisfactorily settled during our trip from Cairo?

“Don't worry your head about it any more, sweetheart,” I said gently. “You've seen the crocodile and you've smelt the blighter, and that concludes your part of the entertainment. Let's go on board and get something to wash this filthy taste out of our mouths.”

We walked down to the landing stage and stepped on to the dahabeah. The boat seemed strangely quiet, but it was only after I had pressed the bell in the little dining room three times without any result that I began to feel uneasy. I went into the pantry and kitchen and there was no sign of either cook or steward. I went on deck again to find the captain, and his cabin was empty. Finally I went to the crew's quarters and peered in: there was not a soul to be seen. The crew had deserted the boat, lock, stock and barrel; even the captain had gone with them.

For a moment or two I stood there wondering what to do. I didn't want to alarm Molly needlessly, but it was manifestly impossible to keep her in ignorance of the situation for long.

Just then a step behind me on the deck made me look around. Molly was coming toward me with a letter in her

“It was on the sideboard, Dick,” she said, holding it out. “It's addressed to you.”

GLANCED at it. To my amazement the handwriting was Jim's. And the note inside was laconic and to the point.

“What is it, Dick?” she asked, looking at me steadily. I handed her the slip of paper without comment

“It's from Jim Maitland,” I said, when she had read it. “The man I introduced to you at Shephard's. And when Jim tells you to do something there is generally a pretty good reason for doing it. Unfortunately, the whole crew—including the precious captain—have chosen this moment to depart.”

I needn't have worried about alarming Molly; she heard the news without turning a hair.

“I wonder where Mr. Maitland is,” she said thoughtfully. “He must be somewhere about to have left that note.”

“He might have sent it,” I answered. “Though nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see him step over the gangway at this moment.”

“What are we going to do, Dick?”

“That's just the point, darling: what are we going to do? Steering this thing is a matter of special knowledge, and even if I had it I couldn't manage a boat of this size with only you and the professor.”

The same thought occurred to both of us simultaneously.

“I'll go and look for him, darling,” I answered, with a great deal more assurance than I really felt. “He's probably forgotten that we even exist.”

“Then I'm coming too,” she said quietly, and nothing I could say would dissuade her.

UT this time our fears proved groundless. Hardly had we entered the orange grove on the way to the house, when we saw the professor coming toward us. He was muttering to himself, and under his arm he carried a large book.

“We thought you were lost, professor,” I said, as he came up to us. “We were just coming to look for you.”

He peered at us vaguely, as if he hardly recognized us. Then, without even answering, he went past us and we saw him go below. And in the still evening air we heard the sound of a door shutting.

“You were right, Dick,” said Molly, laughing. “We simply don't exist at the moment.”

“I'm afraid we've got to,” I said gravely. “I can't help it if I do incur your uncle's wrath, my dear, but he must be told about the state of affairs. I'm going to have it out with him.”

I went below to his cabin and knocked on the door.

“Professor, I must have a talk with you,” I called.

I heard him muttering to himself inside, and after a while the door opened about two inches and he peered out.

“Go away,” he said irritably. “I'm busy.”

“You've got the rest of your life in which to study that book,” I said sternly, and put my foot behind the door to prevent his shutting it. “But what the duration will amount to unless you listen to me, I can't say.”

I intended to frighten him and apparently I succeeded, for he opened the door and I stepped into his cabin.

“What do you mean?” he said nervously.

“Well, in the first place the crew and the captain have deserted.”

“Oh! I know—I know!” he cried peevishly. “They'll all come back tomorrow.”

“How did you know?” I said, staring at him in surprise.

He blinked at me for a second, then looked away.

“One of the priests told me that they had gone,” he said at length.

In an instant all my worst fears came crowding back into my mind.

“Now look here, professor,” I said quietly, “please pay attention to me. I know nothing about the particular sect whose headquarters are in that house, but you've got to remember that we have on board here a girl who is your niece and who is going to be my wife. You've also got to remember that to all intents and purposes we are on shore, and that we three are alone. Now I have the best of reasons for believing that the very gravest danger threatens us tonight. I suggest, therefore, that we should cast adrift, and drift downstream.”

“Quite impossible, Leyton!” he cried angrily. “Out of the question. I'm amazed that you should even suggest such a thing. The most ancient ritual of the cult is being given tonight for my special benefit. I came here especially to see this actual ceremony! What danger are you frightened of? What danger can there be? You talk like a foolish, hysterical girl!”

Jim's words, spoken in Cairo, came back to me.

“I don't know, old man. That's the devil of it—I don't know.”

And now, confronted by the excited little man, I felt the most infernal fool. My fears did seem like the vaporings of hysteria. If only I had had one definite thing to go on. But I hadn't—with the solitary exception of the crew's desertion. That, and Jim's roughly-scrawled note. And to both of them the professor turned a deaf ear.

“Ridiculous!” he snorted. “The captain was allowed ashore to attend the celebrations which always accompany this ceremonial and the crew have taken French leave and gone too. That is no reason why we should run the boat on a sandbank. As for your friend's note” He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. And then suddenly his manner changed, and he smiled almost benevolently. “Believe me, my dear fellow, you exaggerate tremendously. Do you think for one moment that I would allow my dear niece to run into any danger? There is no suggestion that she should come tonight—or you. You can stay with her and guard her against any possible harm.”

And with that I had to be content. I heard him lock the door behind me, and I joined Molly on deck. Night had come down and the faint scent of the orange trees filled the air. On the bank everything was quiet, save for an occasional jackal in the distance; the house itself was silent as the grave. Briefly I told her what her uncle had said, and when I had finished she slipped her hand into mine.

“Don't let's worry, Dick,” she whispered. “Let him go to his old crocodile, while we sit and watch the sunrise.”

And after a while I forgot my fears. I forgot Jim's warning, I forgot everything except However, there is no prize for the correct answer.

{[dhr]} And now I come to the thing that happened that night at the Pool of the Sacred Crocodile. There will be people who will say that it is all wild hallucination—a drug dream. They are entitled to their opinion, even as I am entitled to mine.

It was just as Molly and I were beginning to think about dinner and had decided to go and forage for ourselves that Abdullah the steward suddenly appeared in front of us and announced that it was ready.

“Where have you been?” I cried angrily. “I searched all over the place for you an hour or so ago.”

E was profuse in his apologies and explanations, and though I was far from satisfied there was nothing to be done about it. Dinner was ready and we sat down to it.

“What about Uncle John?” said Molly, suddenly remembering that he had not come down.

It appeared that he had given strict orders not to be disturbed, and so we waited no longer. The cook, Abdullah's brother, was a good cook, and in spite of his absence earlier in the evening he had prepared a good dinner. In fact, by the time we had reached the Turkish coffee stage I was feeling quite at peace with the world. Turkish coffee was our cook's specialty and on that particular night he excelled himself. Even Molly remarked on it as Abdullah refilled her cup.

Of course it was in my coffee—the particular drug they used. What it was I don't know, though it must have been practically tasteless. But whatever it was, they put it in my coffee and not in Molly's. And as long as I live I shall never forget the supreme mental agony of those few seconds after the realization of what had happened came to me. Molly was staring out through the open doorway into the wonderful desert night. I could see her sweet profile and her tender smile.

And then I made a desperate effort to stand up. I stood there for a second or two clutching the table, making inarticulate attempts to speak. I can see now the look of frightened horror in her eyes as she gazed at me; I can hear the hoarse croak which I gave, and which was meant to be an imperative order to her to go to her cabin and lock the door. And then I crashed back in my chair, dragging the tablecloth with me.

“Dick! Dick! What's the matter?”

I heard her voice crying from a great distance and I made another futile effort to speak. But it was useless; she was getting hazier and hazier. Suddenly she gave a little scream, and shrank back against the side of the salon. She was no longer looking at me, but into the darkness outside.

“Uncle John!” she screamed. “Uncle John! Save me!”

And then she rushed to me and clung to my chair. Oh, the agony of that moment, when I realized that I couldn't protect her! Hazily, through the fumes of the dope, I saw the menacing figures she had seen coming to her out of the night. They stood on the other side of the table: the man who had been in Cairo in the center, the man who had met us on the landing stage on his right, and one I had not seen on his left. They were all three dressed in gorgeous robes and they all three stood motionless, staring at Molly.

I heard her terrified whisper, “Dick! Help me, Dick!” and I lay there sprawling, helpless. And still they stood there—staring at my adored girl. Hypnotism, of course—I realized that afterward. They were hypnotizing her in front of my eyes, and, poor child, it didn't take long. It cannot have been more than a minute before I saw her—my Molly—walking toward them with little short jerky steps. I could see her hands clenched rigidly at her sides; I could see her dear eyes fixed on the central man in a dreadful, glassy stare.

As she advanced they backed away—step by step—till they passed out of the range of vision. Only she was left, following them out into the night. And a moment or two later she, too, vanished. I heard her footsteps on the deck—then silence. She had gone—without any one to help her—gone to that devilish house. With one last glimmer of consciousness I saw again the sluggish ripples lapping the sides of the pool, the great head and monstrous jaws of the crocodile, the golden platform—the platform of death. And even as wave after wave of the drug surged over me, it seemed to me that I gave one desperate shout: “Jim—save her. Save Molly!” And then I slept.

HE lamp was smoking and guttering in its final gasp when I opened my eyes. For a moment or two I remembered nothing; I felt as if I had just awakened from some awful nightmare. And then the table-cloth which still covered me, the broken coffee cups, the débris on the floor brought me to my feet with a dreadful terror clutching at my heart. It was no nightmare—it was the truth! I pulled out my watch; it showed a quarter past twelve. And we had sat down to dinner at half-past eight. For more than three hours Molly had been in the hands of those devils.

I slipped my hand into my pocket, and cursed foolishly. Some one had taken my revolver. And there was no time to look for another weapon; there was no time for anything except to get to Molly at once.

And was there even time for that? As I raced through the orange grove toward the house the thought hammered at my brain. Was I too late? What had those devils done to her in the three hours I had lain unconscious?

A man sprang at me as I reached the door and I hit him on the point of the jaw with all my weight behind the blow. He went down like a log, and I felt a little better. Then I flung open the door and dashed into the passage, to pause for a moment in sheer amazement at the spectacle.

The braziers still poured forth their choking clouds of incense; the innumerable lamps were lighted as they had been that afternoon. But now the passage was not empty—it was crowded with natives. And one and all were bleeding from self-inflicted wounds. Then there came the deep note of a drum and I realized that it was drum madness—that strange phenomenon of Africa. A sickening, horrible scene—and in my mind the sickening, horrible thought that for three hours my Molly had been in this ghastly house—alone.

ODGING between the writhing men, I rushed to the second door. It opened without difficulty, and the next moment half a dozen men had hurled themselves upon me. I fought wildly, with the strength of despair. They held me—two of them to each arm, and what I saw almost snapped my reason.

Facing me were the three natives who had come to the dahabeah that night. They were on the other side of the pool, clad now in robes even more gorgeous than before. Behind them was the drum beater, rocking to and fro in a sort of ecstacy [sic], and ranged on each side of them were other natives intoning a monotonous dirge.

Below, in the pool, swirl after swirl of the noisome black water showed that the crocodile was waiting for the culmination of the ceremony. And the foul brute knew what that culmination was—even as the fouler brutes opposite knew—even as I knew. For standing on the platform with her eyes still fixed on the leading native was Molly—my Molly.

In a frenzy of madness I screamed her name. She took no notice, and once again I struggled desperately. If only I could get to her, pull her back—save her somehow. But they held me—there were six of them now—and when I shouted at her again one of them jammed my handkerchief into my mouth.

Suddenly the leader raised his hand, and Molly took another faltering step forward. One step more along the platform of death; one step nearer the end—the end where there would be no more board for her feet, only the pool below.

The drum beats became more frequent; the singers' voices rose to a harsh screaming. And, looking down, I saw the crocodile lashing the water with its tail. The huge jaws were open; I could almost smell the brute's foul breath as it waited for the end.

And then it happened. Jim—Jim the superb, Jim the incomparable—was there on the other side of the pool. Jim with a jagged wound on his cheek, and his clothes in tatters. Jim with his eyeglass—and a look of cold, devilish fury in his face.

I heard the dull smash of breaking bone as he hit the drum beater, and then I went mad with the sheer tense excitement of it. For Jim had gone Berserk. With a great shout he seized the center native—the leader—and with one stupendous heave he lifted him above his head. For a moment he stood thus, while the others watched in stupefied silence. Then with cries of fury they closed in on him, only to stop as his voice rang out, speaking their own language:

“If any one touches me, this man goes into the pool.” He threw back his head and laughed, and the natives watched him, snarling and impotent. “Go to her, Dick!” he cried, and the next instant Molly was in in my arms. I dragged her off that damnable platform—and then I looked back at Jim.

The sweat was gleaming on his forehead—the strain of holding that full-grown native was taking even his great strength. But once again he laughed.

“To the boat, old Dick. Good luck.”

And in his heart of hearts that great-souled sportsman thought it was good-by. For even now, heedless of his threat, the natives were closing in on him from each side, and suddenly one of them seized his arm.

“So be it!” he roared, and with a mighty heave he threw the leader of the cult into the pool below. There was one frenzied shriek of agonized terror; a dreadful swirling rush through the water; the snap of great jaws. And suddenly the blackness of the pool was stained a vivid crimson. To the crocodile it mattered not whether it was priest or victim

I waited no longer. Taking advantage of the momentary stupefaction, Jim had vanished and the next instant I was rushing Molly along the passage outside. With the cessation of the drum the natives there had become quieter and no one interfered with us. We reached the outer door and, half dragging, half carrying Molly, I ran on toward the boat. Behind us I could hear a frenzied babel of cursing and shrieking, but it seemed to come from the other side of the house. The whole pack of them were after Jim—and gradually the noise grew fainter and fainter. He was leading them away from us.

I darted on board to find the captain and two of the crew standing there.

“Quick, sir!” he cried and I realized that the engine was going. Already he was casting off, and I shouted to him to stop. Once Molly was safe I had to go back to help Jim. I took her below and laid her on the berth in her cabin. Then I rushed on deck again to find that we were in midstream.

“Orders, sir,” said the captain, coming up to me. “Orders from the Englishman with the eyeglass.”

I looked ashore: the bank was alive with lights. And then suddenly I heard the most welcome sound I have ever heard in my life—a great, hearty laugh, Jim's laugh.

“Stop the old tub, Dick,” came his voice.

And then I saw him, swimming out toward us. We went full speed astern, and half a minute later he swarmed up the side on a rope.

“Not a healthy spot, old Dick,” he said, with his hands on my shoulders. “Is the girl all right?”

“I think so, old man,” I answered. “Thanks to you. But I feel all dazed still. How did you get there?”

“All in good time,” he laughed. “At the moment a large whisky and soda is indicated.”

We went into the salon, and it was as my hand was on the siphon that a sudden awful thought struck me.

“The professor, Jim,” I muttered. “I'd forgotten all about him.”

“You needn't worry about the professor,” he remarked grimly. “The gentleman I threw to the crocodile was not its first meal tonight.”

“You mean they've killed him?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, they've killed him,” he answered. “And I can think of no white man who more richly deserved to die.”

And as the boat chugged steadily on through the soft Egyptian night, Jim filled in the gaps of the story.

“Of course I hadn't an inkling of the real truth when you left Cairo—but I was darned uneasy in my mind,” he began. “And after you'd gone off in this barge I started making a few inquiries. Not, I may say, among the powers that be, but from certain disreputable pals of mine. Didn't it strike you, old man, that you got this dahabeah with exceptional promptitude?”

“Now you mention it—I suppose we did.”

“The gentleman I put into the pool tonight fixed it, as he could fix most things when he put his mind to it. And on this occasion he fixed it as the result of the most diabolical bargain with Professor Gainsford which it is conceivable to think of a man making.

“Mark you, I didn't find it out in Cairo, but I heard enough to send me off by train. I got out at Minieh and then the game began. I tell you, Dick, I believe it would be easier to get the Grand Lama of Tibet into an A. B. C. shop in London than to get through the outer defenses of that foul sect. It's a good trek from the railway station and with every mile the reticence and secrecy grew more profound. Then I got hold of information that confirmed what I'd heard in Cairo. A great event was portending—some huge tamasha. You know how these things get about among the natives. But still L couldn't find out for certain what it was.

“Then you arrived, and I came on board to see you and make you clear out. But the boat was deserted.”

“We were up in the house itself,” I explained.

He nodded. “I know. I sat down to wait, and then they caught me napping. A native came to the bunk and told me he'd tell me everything. So I scribbled that note, and I followed him. He took me with great secrecy into the house, where some one promptly sandbagged me. And when I came to, I found myself trussed up like a fowl, occupying the place next to the skipper of this craft. And it was he who told me the truth.

“The professor had wished to obtain possession of some book of ritual belonging to this sect. And the native had agreed—at a price. The price was the sacrifice of your girl.”

“What?” I roared. “You mean that that infernal murderer brought Molly here knowing all along what was going to happen?”

“That is exactly what I mean,” said Jim gravely. “And that's what the professor believed. But, unfortunately for him, the native's mind is tortuous. The sacrifice of a white girl was his object, and he didn't mind what he promised to achieve the result. And having, as he thought, achieved it when you arrived, he changed his mind about the book of ritual. Which was unfortunate for the professor.”

E broke off suddenly and stared over my shoulder. Molly was standing in the door: Molly—sane and herself again—but with a look of terror in her eyes.

“Dick,” she said, “I've had the most awful dream. I dreamed that I was standing near that dreadful pool and there were natives all around. And suddenly they dragged Uncle John in and pushed him into the pool.”

“I'm afraid, Miss Tremayne,” Jim said gently, “that it wasn't a dream. Professor Gainsford is dead.”

She swayed and sat down weakly.

“Oh, the brutes—the brutes! Dick, why did we ever come here?” And then she stared at me with puzzled eyes. “But if it wasn't a dream—why, how did I see it? You can't mean that I was there and saw it! It hasn't really happened, has it?”

I went over and knelt beside her.

“Yes, darling,” I said gently, “it's all true. It's really happened. And but for Jim” I looked across at him; there are things which no man can put into words.

“Rot!” he cried cheerfully. “Utter rot, Dick. Though I admit it was touch and go till I found a sharp stone to cut through my ropes with. And now I think I'll leave you two.”

He beckoned to me to follow him on deck.

“I wouldn't tell her the truth about her uncle, old man. At least—not yet.” In the light of the dawn I saw his face, and it was very wistful. “She's a great girl, old Dick—great. You lucky, lucky devil!”

And with that Jim turned and went forward.