Page:Weird Tales volume 42 number 04.djvu/69

 Then, laughing at his horse-play, Marcia offered an arm to each of the two young men, and they marched out together, whistling in harmony, into the sunlit street.

Behind them, old Mr. Sproull—although he was not a very devout Catholic—crossed himself. He ran a finger around under his collar and inhaled noisily, aware all at once of the extreme stuffiness of his little shop. It was unusually close in here today, he thought; almost stifling. He scurried to a window and flung it open, gulping in lungfuls of cool autumn air as if, for some reason, he found it terribly hard to breath.

T WAS almost closing time, about a week later, when the bell over his door tinkled again and two of the attractive young threesome walked into his shop. Mr. Sproull scuttled forward to meet them, beaming in recognition. But his smile faded at sight of the grim expression on the blond man's face, and the stunned, swollen-eyed look of the pretty girl. She had been crying, the old dealer saw—and Bob, her fiance, was tight-lipped and cold with anger.

"Yes?" Mr. Sproull murmured hesitantly. "You were not satisfied with your purchase?" An odd look of hope leaped into his eyes. "You wish to return the spoons, perhaps? Of course, I shall be glad to refund your"

For answer, the blond young man thrust one of the delicate little monkey spoons under his nose, pointing to the tiny silver seal welded at the center of the handle.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" he snapped. The antique dealer blinked, and, putting on an old-fashioned pair of square lensed spectacles, peered at the spoon. The blood ebbed slowly from his face.

"I I don't understand," he stammered. "When I sold them to you, the inscriptions read: Schuyler Van Grooten, Born August 3, 1586, Died June 8, 1631. But now now it reads Alan Fentress, Born Sept. 14, 1924; Died Nov. 3, 1949  Why," he broke off, "that's yesterday!"

A sob burst from the girl, and she buried her face against her fiance's shoulder, weeping wildly. Bob glared at Mr. Sproull.

"Yes!" he said harshly. "And Alan was drowned yesterday—November 3rd, 1949! The death-date engraved on that damned How the devil did you get hold of Alan's spoon?" He towered over the old cripple threateningly. "You sadistic old! You took that seal off, didn't you? And welded the new one on, just to  to stir up some freak publicity and boom trade for your crumby little shop! But, Alan!" he ground out through clenched teeth. "Why did you have to pick on Alan? Because you knew he was moody and susceptible to suggestion? Because you knew he'd brood over your little hoax, not telling us? His painting wasn't going well lately so you thought it would be a cinch to drive him to suicide! Out there in the lake yesterday, he  he just stopped swimming and went under. When I got his clothes from the locker room, I found this damned spoon you changed! Like a death-sentence!"

Mr. Sproull gasped, looking first at the dead youth's angry friend, then at his grieving sister.

"Oh! Oh no!" he protested. "My dear young people, you surely don't accuse me of ? You're upset. Who wouldn't be? It's the curse," he said quietly. "Remember, I did my best to warn you"

"To plant your story, you mean!" the young man snarled. Glaring at him furiously, he lead the girl toward the door. "Come on, darling, I might have known we'd get no satisfaction out of this this cold-blooded old ghoul!  But let me tell you," he threw back furiously at the antique dealer, "when I locate the engraver who changed that inscription, or find out how you learned Alan's birth date  I'll come back here and kill you!"

The door slammed with an agitated jingle of the little bell. Mr. Sproull stood for a moment, wringing his hands miserably. He had liked those three light-hearted young people on sight, and would not for the world have wished harm to befall any of them. But there were forces a crippled old man could not combat! Forces older than any item in his musty little shop. Older than logic. Older than time

"Oh, dear heaven!" the hunchback