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will ever see that which is written here—but because I have been accustomed to write down the things which are me—those inner thoughts and impulses which possess and dominate me.

Then followed pages describing her life in the cave—and of night journeys through the woods when her mate would delight himself in voicing wild cries—sounds which she came to love. Wildly she rejoiced with him, and laughed as she thought of the terror these resounding cries brought to the simple folk in the valley below them.

Strangest of all, she thought, was his understanding of her slightest wish without the medium of words.

On one occasion she was trying to arrange her long hair, but the hairpins she had brought to the cave had, one by one, been lost. It was impossible to arrange the hair with none, and she had been vexed. That very night he brought her some hairpins and two side-combs. The latter she recognized—they belonged to Lucy Duval! Again she wondered how he had obtained them; and laughed as she considered Lucy's probable fright.

Another time she had shivered with the cold, for the cave had been damp—the next night he brought clothing, and several woolen blankets.

Whatever he might be to others, he was her chosen man. He could not live her kind of life—gladly she would live his.

Then came an entry on the very last page.

""The storm! How it has rained, and rained, until somewhere the flood has changed the course of some small stream, and now we are imprisoned—the water has risen to the roof of the cave, and we can no longer leave it in the boat. The flood came quite suddenly, last night, while we slept.

"Perhaps it may subside in time—but probably it will not. I shall write no more. Good-bye, little book, and good-bye to all—everything! In dying I can reflect that at least I have lived. So very many never do!""

I closed the book. At last my strong desire to know had been gratified. In the yellowed manuscript which I held in my hand was inscribed the last chapter in the mystery of The Thunder Voice.

Now that curiosity was satisfied, the professional instinct asserted itself. I reflected on the peculiar warped trait which so often causes a woman gifted with all the refinements of civilization to become infatuated with a male who is, in every sense, a barbarian.

I recalled the season at Earlscourt exposition in London when a dozen black, repulsive-featured cannibals had been exhibited. The over-zealous attentions of a concourse of well-dressed women of apparent refinement, who daily surged about them, caused their removal from the exhibit.

No, there was nothing very remarkable in the infatuation confessed by Margaret Kingsley. At least it was not remarkable to those who observe life with wide-open eyes.

the thoughtless section must have received impressions. You will remember that, following his melancholia, McKay desired above all to talk of Larson, and in dwelling on this the usually inactive hemisphere probably received its impressions."

"Do you believe that he will always remain as Larson?" I asked.

"It is my belief that he will. He says that he is Larson, and he acts the life of Larson. Impossible as it may sound, I believe that exactly six years from the day of his execution, McKay, as Larson, will die—a victim of auto-suggestion and the vividness of his imagination."

ozoic marshes, a dainty morsel for her kitten.

And so—farewell!

UCH a weird tale!" the nurse shuddered, as the interne finished the manuscript. "Let us drive over to Cheshire Manor and—"

"Do you believe this story?" interrupted the interne, tapping the manuscript with his fingers, and skeptically lifting his eyebrows and smiling.

"No, of course not!" exclaimed the nurse, "but—the drive won't do us any harm, and—I would like to make sure."

As they stopped their car before the somber old mansion they were struck by the strange silence of the place. Not a servant answered their ring. And after a time, since the door stood open, they entered and began to ascend the stairs.

A strange, weird, lonesome sound floated down to them—the yowl of a cat.

They stopped for an instant and looked at each other, and then, reassured by the sunlight, and both being matter-of-fact professional people, they pressed on. At the head of the stairs they faced a long passage at the end of which was an open door.

"Look! That is the bedroom he wrote about," whispered the nurse, grasping the interne's arm.

They walked softly down the passage to the door and looked in. On the bed lay the man they sought, glassy-eyed, with fallen jaw and livid face—dead!

On his breast stood a great yellow amber-eyed cat, who faced them with an arched back and menacing snarl. Involuntarily, they drew back. The cat sprang past them and down the passageway to the stairs, uttering the same weird cry.

"My God!" gasped the nurse, with pallid lips. "Did you see? About that cat's neck—and it was a Tartar cat; I know the breed—about that cat's neck was—was the Topaz and Jade collar—that—that he wrote about!"

the death of Lillian Daly, a very devout girl of Chicago, the report spread that a "sacred heart" could be seen on the wall of the room wherein she had died and that if any afflicted person should touch this heart he or she would be instantly cured. At once the house at 6724 Justine Street was visited by numbers of ill persons, all eager to experience the magic cure. Two priests from neighborhood parishes visited the house, but said they could not see the apparition.

spot for love-making was chosen by a wealthy undertaker of Chicago, whose stories of "petting parties" in a morgue, wine parties in a mortuary chapel and "shimmy" dances in an embalming room caused a woman to file suit against him for $50,000. The woman claims he attacked her reputation.