The Weapons of Mystery Part 17

"Onward!" said a distant voice.

The temple vanished, and with it all my realization of life, save a vague fancy that I was moving somewhere, I knew not where.

I stood by a well-remembered spot. I was by the side of Drearwater Pond.

Around me was a stretch of common land, on which grew heather and furze. In front of me were noiseless waters, a dismal sight at the best of times, but awful as I saw them. Across the pond in the near distance loomed the dark fir trees. No sound broke the stillness of the night.

The wind had gone to rest, the moon shone dimly from behind the misty clouds.

I stood alone.

Each minute my surroundings became more real. I recognized more clearly the objects which had struck me during my first visit, while the stories which had been told came back to me with terrible distinctness. I remembered how it had been said that the pond had no bottom, and that it was haunted by the spirits of those that had been murdered. The story of its evil influence came back to me, and in my bewildered condition I wondered whether there was not some truth in what had been said.

What was that?

The waters moved; distinctly moved near to where I stood, and from their dark depths something appeared--I could not at first tell what.

What could it be? A monster of frightful mien? the ghost of some murdered man or woman? I could have believed in either just then. It was neither.

What then? A human hand, large and shapely, appeared distinctly on the surface of the pond. Nothing more, not even the wrist to which it might be attached. It did not beckon, or indeed move at all; it was as still as the hand of death.

I stood motionless and watched, while the outline of the hand became more clear; then I gave an awful shudder.

_The hand was red._

I gave a shriek, and for a time remembered nothing more.

I awoke to consciousness, fighting. At first it seemed as if I was fighting with a phantom, but gradually my opponent became more real to me. It was Kaffar.

I had only a dim hazy idea of what I was doing, except that I sought to wrest from his hand a knife. We clutched each other savagely, and wrestled there on the edge of the pond. Weights seemed to hang upon my limbs, but I felt the stronger of the two. Gradually I knew I was mastering him--then all was blank.

A sound of voices. A flash of light. A feeling of freedom, and I was awake!

Where?

Still by Drearwater Pond. No phantoms, no shadow, nothing unreal, save the memory of that which I have but dimly described. That was but as a terrible nightmare--an awful dream.

Where was Kaffar?

I could not tell. Certainly he was not near; but two other forms stood by me, one bearing a lantern.

"Is it you, Justin?" said a voice.

"It is I, Tom," I said, looking vacantly around.

"And where is Kaffar?" said another voice, which I recognized as Voltaire's.

"Kaffar? I--I do not know."

"But you have been together."

"Have we?" I said vacantly.

"You know you have. What is that in your hand?"

I had scarcely known what I had been saying or doing up to this time, but as he spoke I looked at my hand.

In the light of the moon I saw a knife red with blood, and my hand, too, was also discoloured.

"What does this mean?" cried Voltaire.

"I do not know. I am dazed--bewildered."

"But that is Kaffar's knife. I know he had it this very evening. Where is Kaffar now?"

"Is it true?" I remember saying. "Have we been together?" "That's his knife, at any rate. And what is this?"

Voltaire picked up something from the ground and looked at it.

"Kaffar's," he said. "Look, Mr. Blake; do you recognize this?"

I looked and saw a finely-worked neckcloth, on which was written in Arabic characters the words "Aba Wady Kaffar." It had every appearance of being soiled by severe wrenching, and on it were spots of blood.

My faculties were rapidly returning to me, yet I stood as one in a dream.

"You say, Mr. Justin Blake, that you do not know where Kaffar is, yet you hold in your hand his knife, which is red with blood. Here is his scarf, which has evidently been strained, and on it are spots of blood, while all around are marks indicating a struggle. I say you do know what this means, and you must tell us."

I reeled under this terrible shock. What had I done? Could it be that I had murdered this man? Had I? Had I?

"I do not know what it means," I said. "I think I am ill."

"Men usually are when they have done what you have," he said.

"Why, what have I done?" I said, in a dazed kind of a way. "Done!" he repeated. "You know best about that, in spite of the part you play.

Nevertheless, Kaffar has not gone without leaving a friend behind him, and you will have to show how you came by that"--pointing to the knife, which I had dropped with a shudder; "this"--holding up the neckcloth; "you must explain these marks"--pointing to footmarks near the water's edge; "besides which, you will have to produce my friend."

A terrible thought flashed into my mind. I had again been acting under the influence of this man's power. By some means he had made me the slave of his will, and I had unknowingly killed Kaffar, and he, like the fiend he was, had come to sweep me out of his road. Perchance, too, Kaffar's death might serve him in good stead. Undoubtedly the Egyptian knew too much for Voltaire, and so I was made a tool whereby he could be freed from troublesome obstacles. The idea maddened me. I would proclaim the story to every one. If I were hanged I cared not. I opened my mouth to tell Tom the whole truth, but I could not utter a word. My tongue refused to articulate; my power of speech left me.

My position was too terrible. My overwrought nerves yielded at last. I felt my head whirling around, while streams of icy water seemed to be running down my legs. Then I fell down at Tom Temple's feet.

For some time after that I remembered nothing distinctly. I have some idea of stumbling along, with Tom on one side of me and Voltaire on the other, but no word was spoken until we came to Temple Hall. Then I heard Tom say--

"He's better now. You go into the drawing-room as if nothing had happened, and I'll take him quietly up-stairs to bed."

I entered the silent house like one in a dream, and went with Tom to my bedroom, where I undressed like a weary child, and soon sunk into a deep dreamless sleep.