Front matter (continued 4)

"I was nearly scared to death," she confessed. "I did not miss Niki until we were well on our way to the island. Mr. Zzyx showed by his actions that he wanted me to tie up the boat, and go ashore with him, but I wouldn't budge. If he had remained there, at the dock, a minute longer, I would have yelled, screamed—jumped overboard. But—" she concluded, as she tightened her grasp of my arm, "never mind what I felt—Bob mustn't suspect."

In other words, she was still concealing her fear of Mr. Zzyx lest something might happen to spoil McGinity's news stories, and remove him from our midst. For some weeks now, he had been assigned by his paper to "cover" Mr. Zzyx's every movement, and to report all the news developments in connection with Henry's theories about Mars. This necessitated his remaining at the castle.

The Daily Recorder, however, long since, had announced in its editorial columns that while it printed all the news concerning the recent Martian revelations, the publishers assumed no responsibility for their veracity, and their readers were left to render a verdict in accordance with the facts. This was a little raw on Henry, I thought.

Anyhow, the incident of the runabout was forgotten in the excitement of the following day, when the Swedish-born Mayor of New York, His Honor, Oscar Swenson, gave an official reception for Mr. Zzyx at the City Hall. And what happened there became local history.

There was a large crowd outside our lodge-gate as we drove off, in an open car; and all along the way, in the suburbs, and through the city, to the downtown district, police reserves had to be called out to control the vast throngs which lined our route.

It was a triumphal procession through the city. Mr. Zzyx waved to the people in response to their loud huzzas. From the clouds of ticker-tape and confetti that descended upon us, he collected a great quantity. He and Henry, sitting in the rear seat, were knee-deep in it by the time we reached the City Hall. On our way, while the procession was held up by cross-town traffic, I bought a raspberry lollypop from a street vendor for Mr. Zzyx. Henry frowned on this as very undignified, but Mr. Zzyx sucked it with great enjoyment. His actions reminded me of a small boy at his first circus.

The day was perfect—the air cool and crisp. We found City Hall plaza one vast sea of faces. As we passed through a barrage of cameramen, a Swedish chorus burst into song; and we had no sooner taken our places on the steps, beside the Mayor, scores of other city officials, and many notable invited guests, when several hundred Swedish gymnasts entertained us with feats of physical prowess.

I wished that Jane and Pat had come with us, but they both had elected to remain at home, and enjoy the happenings at the City Hall through the medium of the radio and television.

Mayor Swenson is a tall, gaunt, rosy-cheeked Swede, but his head only reached to the shoulders of Mr. Zzyx when they stepped in front of the microphone and television transmission instruments. Niki had accompanied us as the Martian's bodyguard, and never left his side. He carried an automatic pistol, ready for any emergency, as I learned afterwards.

It was not my first experience of an official reception at the City Hall, but many years had intervened since I attended the last one. Although I was very familiar with the great changes that had taken place, politically, in the city administration, this first close personal contact with the Mayor, the Board of Aldermen, and the various Commissioners, was in the nature of a shock. There was not one single Irishman in the Aldermanic board, nor even a Jew. The board was composed mostly of Chinese, Turks, Filipinos, and Bulgarians, and one Eskimo, who had entered politics after graduating with honors from Princeton University.

Amid this gathering of mixed nationalities, Mr. Zzyx was an outstanding figure. As time passed, he grew restless, and kept running a long, hairy finger around his immaculate collar as though it choked him. He was attired in a formal cutaway coat and striped trousers, topped with a silk hat, which he wore at an angle that gave him a rather rakish appearance. He looked to me exactly like a huge, over-stuffed piece of furniture, with the hair sticking out.

A breathless hush fell upon the thousands as the Mayor raised his hand to command silence. His voice sounded a bit squeaky through the loud speakers, not thunderous, as I had anticipated. I took notes of his speech, which follows:

"I t'ank it's about time I introduced the city's distinguished visitor from Mars." (A pause until the cheering had subsided.) "I bane t'anking as I stood here that Mr. Zzyx is probably the most unique visitor the great city of New York has ever welcomed, officially, yah?" (More applause.) "Some of you no doubt bane t'anking that he is a great fakir. My wife and me, we bane having an argument about this. My wife, she t'anks he's just a big monkey that's got loose from some zoo." (Laughter.) "When I ask our good friend, Mr. Henry Royce," (Mayor's voice lost in a tumult of cheers)—"when I ask him what he bane t'anking about Mr. Zzyx, and his coming in a rocket, on a beach out on Long Island, he only shakes his head, and says he knows next to noddings; and I t'ank he's just as much fooled as the rest of us. But whether our distinguished guest comes from Mars or the moon, I bane t'anking we must hold fast to our traditions, and bestow on him the key to our great city of fifteen million people—yah? Therefore, it is with the greatest pleasure that I confer such an honor upon Mr. Zzyx, the jungle man from Mars."

So saying, the Mayor handed an important-looking scroll to Mr. Zzyx, who took it, and immediately unfolded it and began to look for pictures. Not finding any, he passed it over to Henry, at whose signal, Niki stepped forward to superintend Mr. Zzyx's introduction at the microphone.

Our Martian visitor made a better showing at the microphone than I had expected. I did not know then that for several days previous to the reception, Niki had coached him in the use of the instrument. First, he peered curiously into it, then he stuck his finger in, as though he had seen some imprisoned insect inside.

Suddenly, he began to chatter, and then, just as suddenly, he stopped. Hearing his own voice amplified through the loud speakers seemed to have startled him. After Niki had patted him reassuringly on the arm, he burst into chatter again, concluding with the only word he could pronounce—"Spaghet!" He seemed to spit the word into the microphone, which sent the crowd into convulsions of laughter and cheers.

That practically ended the official city reception. After stepping into our car, Mr. Zzyx further amused the crowd by smoking a cigarette, and tipping his hat to the ladies, another trick Niki had taught him. On the return trip to Long Island, he was greeted with even greater acclaim than had been shown him earlier in the day.

We found Pat in a state of excitement. Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk, she said, had telephoned during our absence, to announce that she was giving a dinner for Mr. Zzyx on the following Monday. After dinner, she planned to take Mr. Zzyx to the opening performance of the winter season at the Metropolitan-Civic Opera House.

Naturally, Pat was excited about this; we all were. Mrs. Van Dyk is the last word in fashionable exclusiveness in New York society; even European royalty is more accessible.

XIX

Mr. Zzyx behaved beautifully at the very brilliant dinner given in his honor by Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk at her town residence, the last red brick mansion of a remote period, except our own, still left standing in Washington Square. A dinner made more memorable than it otherwise would have been by the distinguished array of guests. Among them, Henry's beloved and revered old friend, the venerable Episcopalian prelate, Bishop William Buckingham, who had grown a bit queer in his dotage.

"A very novel idea on the part of our hostess," the Bishop remarked to Henry after dinner, in the smoking-room, while I sat by, listening and silent. "This sort of thing was done, years ago, at Newport, a monkey-dinner, as I recall reading about it, and the clergy and the newspapers made an awful row. Certainly times have changed when we can sit down to dinner with a man-ape without the flicker of an eye-lash. After this, I shan't be at all surprised to have one of my old parishioners invite me to dine with a white rabbit. Mrs. Van Dyk sets the fashions in New York, you know."

"After all," remarked Henry, "brutes and humans really belong to one great family by common descent."

"Hold your miserable tongue, sir!" the Bishop responded, perkily.

"Not until I've extended an invitation to your reverence, to attend the banquet the Exploration Club is giving for Mr. Zzyx on November thirtieth," Henry rejoined.

"The Exploration Club! How extraordinary!" the Bishop exclaimed. "The most exclusive club of its kind in the city. What's up?"

"Oh, just another revelation concerning Mars," Henry replied, nonchalantly. "You will come, won't you?"

"Do my best to oblige," the Bishop replied.

At that, I felt my ears pricking. I already knew that Henry, Olinski and McGinity, had something new about Mars up their sleeves, which was to be disclosed at the banquet at the Exploration Club. What it was, I had no idea. And I found out nothing that night. The conversation between the Bishop and Henry was cut short by the return of Mr. Zzyx and Niki, who had taken our Martian visitor to the lavatory immediately after dinner, to tidy him up a bit before we left for the opera.

A few moments later, we joined Mrs. Van Dyk, and her house guest, Lady Gwynne of London, in the drawing room. The other dinner guests had gone. Both were ready for the opera, Mrs. Van Dyk in a stunning ermine wrap, and Lady Gwynne in sables.

We had no sooner entered the room, when, to my horror, Mr. Zzyx went straight up to our hostess, and began to chatter, and stroke her ermine coat. Then he walked over to Lady Gwynne, and repeated the action on the sable wrap. I could see that they were both terribly frightened.

Henry took the matter in hand at once, and drew Mr. Zzyx aside, tenderly, as a father would treat a child of doubtful sanity. After quieting him with a cigarette, he left him in Niki's care, and approached Mrs. Van Dyk.

"A bad break, I'm afraid," he said to her, "and I apologize for this breach of propriety. After all, Mr. Zzyx is part animal, and I'm afraid the high instinctive animalism in him was beguiled by the sight and smell of ermine and sable."

"A gesture of Martian jungle courtship," Lady Gwynne suggested.

Henry shook his head. "No; I don't think so," he said. "Mr. Olinski, my associate, and I, have definitely proved that he is not influenced in any way by what we mortals call sex appeal. Otherwise, he would be very objectionable to have about. Pretty clothes, sparkling gems and furs attract him just as toys intrigue small children. While instinctively curious, and perhaps a little bold, he means no harm."

"Let's hope he'll keep up this high standard of behavior," the Bishop remarked. "Undoubtedly a tremendous brute force lies sleeping under his apparent docility. A pretty go, if this brute force is ever aroused in him."

"I hope to God that'll never happen," said Henry, gravely.

And then Mrs. Van Dyk spoke. "We can't expect him to measure up to Park Avenue social standards," she said. "A little clowning now and then is relished by the best of men. Indeed, I've known men in my own set to go much further than the mere stroking of a lady's fur coat."

"Exquisite!" laughed the Bishop.

"How droll!" Lady Gwynne commented.

"As a creature from another planet," Mrs. Van Dyk continued, "I feel very honored in having Mr. Zzyx as a guest in my house."

Henry sighed gustily, and said: "Very friendly of you, Mrs. Van Dyk."

And then the Bishop said: "Well, let's push on to the opera."

The Metropolitan-Civic Opera House was packed that night with one of the largest crowds in its history. I was convinced upon our arrival that the throng was there, not to hear Verdi's opera "Otello," but to see Mr. Zzyx. The evening newspapers had heralded our coming, and we encountered a large crowd outside the opera house, and were met by a barrage of cameramen's flashlights as we entered. Once inside, the crush about us was so great, we had considerable difficulty in reaching Mrs. Van Dyk's box, in the parterre. Although grand opera now was democratized, the "diamond horseshoe" still remained. Opera, I'm afraid, will always remain the pet hobby of the fashionably rich, just as racing will ever be regarded as the sport of kings.

Two uniformed city policemen stood on guard, in the corridor, outside the box. Mrs. Van Dyk, regal in black velvet and sparkling with jewels, occupied the corner nearest the stage. Mr. Zzyx sat in the other corner, with Henry sitting between. Behind them, Bishop Buckingham was sandwiched between Lady Gwynne and Jane, while I hovered, standing, in the rear, too nervous to sit down. Niki was at my elbow.

We had missed the first act. Five minutes after we had settled ourselves in the box, the curtain rose on the second act. Fashionable women, like Mrs. Van Dyk, seem to make it a point to be late at the opera. I doubt if our hostess had ever heard the first act of any opera in the entire Metropolitan-Civic repertoire, during her long ownership and occupancy of the box.

During that five minutes, every eye in the house appeared to be turned on Mr. Zzyx, who, fortunately, was now in a state of lassitude, which always overtook him after a heavy dinner. Apparently undisturbed by the sensation he was causing, he devoted himself, first, to a curious scrutiny of the packed masses in the balconies, then he looked down at the arena below, and, finally, rested his gaze on the two rows of boxes, filled with superbly gowned and bejeweled women.

I was curious to see what effect grand opera music would have upon him. What little music he had heard at the castle had come from our radio, and in this he had displayed only a mild interest. His attitude toward such music as he had heard rather dispelled the theory that had been advanced, that if direct radio communication was ever established between the earth and Mars, the interchange of ideas would necessarily have to be through the medium of music, on account of the lack of a common language.

Here, at last, was a chance to try music at its best on an inhabitant of Mars. I wondered what the reaction would be. Mr. Zzyx watched the musicians curiously as they trickled into the pit, and the noise of the tuning up seemed to interest him immensely. Finally, when the house went dark, he appeared quite excited. Then the baton of the conductor rose, and the first crash of the orchestra came like a thunder-clap.

Mr. Zzyx leapt to his feet, and started to climb over the edge of the box. For a frenzied moment, I thought he was going to dive head first into the midst of the spectators below. But Henry quickly grabbed him by his swallow-tails, and pulled him back into his chair. The incident did not attract the general attention it might have done if the auditorium had not been darkened.

While Henry patted Mr. Zzyx on the shoulder to quiet him, Mrs. Van Dyk leaned over, and said: "I don't wonder at him trying to jump out of the box. To many, grand opera is a perfect hullabaloo, and devastating. That's why so many people go out between acts for a cocktail."

Presently Mr. Zzyx fell to listening, with his mouth open. At first, I thought he was wholly lost in the delight of the orchestral movement—drums and horns were silent now—and the beautiful singing on the stage. Then, like a flash, it occurred to me that it was the dark-skinned Otello who was claiming his attention, not the music or singing.

I watched him, studied him attentively, as the opera swept on to its violent climax—the smothering to death of Desdemona—by the enraged Otello. After the final curtain, while the audience was recalling and applauding the singers, I noticed he looked a little wild about the eyes; a sort of inward brooding.

Was it possible that he had grasped the significance of the story, as it had been unfolded before him on the stage? Could the climax of the opera put ideas into his head beyond his purely natural instincts? The force of ideas even stronger than his own inherent brute force, which might quicken him to the fury of some deed of incredible violence?

But I had no time for surmises. Yet, as we passed out of the opera house, in an atmosphere of acclaim and some disorder, almost mechanically, I jotted down the details in my memory of what I had observed in him. From the look in his eyes, I felt some terrific instinct had been aroused. It gave me a strange and eerie feeling, but I made no mention of it to Henry.

Within ten days I was glad to have paid attention to such details. Little did I suspect then that a black, threatening cloud was gathering over our heads, or that more mystery, intrigue—even death—was closing in about us.

XX

Life at the castle followed its usual routine during the interval between Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk's dinner and opera party, and the banquet at the Exploration Club, in Mr. Zzyx's honor, with one exception, which I shall mention further on.

I was delighted to see that McGinity shared the place of honor allotted to our family group at the banquet, and justly so, because he had put Henry's discoveries and theories over in the biggest possible way. Later in the evening, I found he had other honors accruing to him.

It was not until I was seated with the family party at the head of the long U-shaped table, that I noticed the motion picture screen at the far end of the dining room. Then the full significance of those secret visits to a large film studio in Long Island City, on the part of Henry, Olinski and McGinity, began to dawn upon me.

Gradually worming the secret out of McGinity, who sat on my left (Jane was on my right) I was in possession of the complete facts of the Martian revelations, shortly to be disclosed to this most highly honored body of explorers and scientists, by the time the soup course was over.

After Olinski had deciphered the Martian written message contained in the mysterious scroll, found in the rocket, McGinity had put the information contained therein into scenario form. A screen production, backed by Henry's money, had been staged by one of the largest and most progressive film corporations, at its Long Island City studio, with Henry and Olinski acting in an advisory capacity.

I am telling this circumstantially, because the part McGinity played in writing the scenario made the first real contribution to the solving of the strange mysteries that enveloped us, and because it explains how I myself in a small way became involved in the untangling of the web.

As we sat placidly at the banquet table, my last thought was that within twenty-four hours we would be plunged into a series of events, which savored of the sort of thing associated with sensational fiction, or exciting melodrama on the screen.

At odd moments, I cast my eye across the table at Mr. Zzyx. His prolonged sojourn under our roof had become a "beastly vulgar business," quoting Jane's own words. Daily, we were growing more resentful of his impenetrable stupidity, and utterly bored with his gross and ugly presence. Often I felt myself in the mood to wring his neck.

It was also perfectly clear to me that Henry was beginning to tire of shouldering the responsibility of this big, lumbering creature, but so far he had kept it to himself. I felt angrier with him that I had ever been in my life, yet I was angry rather for him than with him. It was so utterly unlike him to allow the family's unpleasant associations with Mr. Zzyx to continue, when a word from him would have ended it.

The exception to our usual routine at the castle, during the week, related to our guest from Mars. He was beginning to act very queerly. I was of the opinion that a sort of madness was creeping on him, brought on by the unnatural state in which he was living, the strange food he ate so ravenously, and the constant excitement to which he was subjected. One of the spookiest things he did was to move about the castle during the night. Niki might be on guard, and Mr. Zzyx's own bedroom door locked and bolted, but with uncanny skill both were circumvented.

His first real outburst had come on the Friday night, preceding the banquet. He began throwing things at Niki, and did considerable damage to the furniture, pictures and walls in the State Apartment. When I questioned Niki, he had dismissed the affair lightly, with the excuse that Mr. Zzyx had been suffering from insomnia, and was not himself.

Certainly he was not himself at the Exploration Club banquet. During the dessert course, I saw that he had not touched his charlotte russe, and was making holes in the table-cloth with his fork. His pet hobby, while dining, was to roll his bread into little balls, toss them up in the air, and then catch them in his mouth as they fell, something I considered inexpressibly vulgar and disgusting.

I was astonished that Henry, or Bishop Buckingham, who was a member of our party, did not rebuke him for making holes in the cloth; but both seemed preoccupied. In a state of anxiety, I glanced around at Pat, who was sitting on McGinity's left. It was not strange to find that they both were practically oblivious to their surroundings.

The speech-making was now going on, having begun shortly before coffee was served. The speakers were long-winded and tiresome. I am neither a student, nor a philosopher, but I would like some exponent of the doctrine of psychology to explain why men talk so much and at such great length at banquets. I've often wished that some bright person would organize a society for the suppression of after-dinner speakers.

For fully half an hour, now, a little, rabbit sort of man, with big ears and completely bald, and wearing tortoise-shell spectacles, had been telling of his pursuit of prey, biped and quadruped, in distant places, with minute detail of how he had killed one of every species of beast and bird and fish in the world. The guests were showing signs of impatience. Mr. Zzyx began making horrible grimaces, when Henry tapped him warningly on the arm. Then he started to amuse himself making those little bread balls. I became uneasy myself for fear he might throw one of them at the speaker, something I wanted to do myself but did not dare.

Then, suddenly, to my stunned astonishment, Mr. Zzyx picked up the untasted charlotte russe, which is custard in a form made of sponge cake, and hurled it at the speaker, who was directly opposite him. His aim was true, and the little rabbit man got the charlotte russe full in the face.

The guests roared with delight as the mighty hunter dug his features out of the spattering custard, while Henry shook Mr. Zzyx sternly by the arm, and whispered: "You ought to know better!"

Bubbling with mirth, I leaned over to McGinity, and said: "Too bad he got it in the face." To this, the reporter replied: "The main thing is that he got it."

After the bespattered speaker had gone to the lavatory to wash his face, the toastmaster rose, and said: "Now that Mr. Zzyx, our honored guest from Mars, has enlivened our dinner, we shall proceed to the surprise event of the evening.

"No one is asked to accept these new disclosures about Mars which our friend, Mr. Olinski, decoded from the mysterious writings of the scroll, discovered in the rocket, as infallible," he continued. "Even our fellow-scientist, Mr. Royce, who is accountable for this, and other recent events of a scientific nature, which literally have rocked the world, declares an uncertainty still exists in his own mind, and that he is simply making public the information that has fallen into his hands, from strange and unknown sources. In other words, he wishes me to make clear to you all that he's not trying to put something over on us. So, now, let's see what we shall see!"

The film, in four reels, was in the nature of a travelogue, beautifully colored, and interspersed with sound and music. Henry was the pictorial lecturer. McGinity's clever hand was seen in the numerous whimsies and dramatic highlights. Many scenes were genuinely stirring.

Mr. Zzyx, closely guarded by Niki in the darkened dining room, watched the picture unfold with fascinated interest. At times, he would gesticulate, strangely, like one familiar with the subject matter, and utter primitive sounds, as though he wanted to speak, and tell us more startling things about his home planet.

This newly acquired and first-hand information of present day life on Mars, presented in picture form, supplemented by the free play of imagination on the part of the director, proved infinitely more valuable as educational entertainment than the cold facts would have been if delivered from the lecture-platform.

The picture divulged, first of all, that life on Mars had originated and evolved the same as on the earth, with the white division of the human species exercising supreme authority over the affairs of the planet.

Secondly, it showed that the strange, geometric markings on the planet, as studied by astronomers on earth, are not a canal system, or even man-made. The lines, or bands, which some of our astronomers believed to be canals, constituting a system of irrigation, are really deep wide canyons, ten to twelve miles in width at the rim, and descending 2,000-3,000 feet below the sterile plateau-surface of the planet, with cultivated vegetation in the bottom-lands.

The rims of these canyons are fortified with very high and very wide stone walls, a military defensive work, with watch-towers, designed as a protection for the white people who inhabit the canyons from attack by their ancient enemy, the ape-men, who swarm over the tropical regions in countless numbers.

These fortifications somewhat resemble the Great Wall of China, and create a distinct boundary line. Following the course of the canyons, and extending over the surface for many thousands of miles, like a network, it is easy to understand how they were mistaken for the lines of canals, or waterways, as viewed from the earth through our great telescopes. Apparently these canyons were formed by volcanic disturbances in the early ages of the planet, which shivered and rent its surface into these stupendous fissures in the rock.

As a refuge from the bitterly cold nights peculiar to Mars, and the constant cyclonic sand-storms, the canyons make an ideal place of abode. The wind, it seems, blows eternally on Mars, kicking up a fearful dust from the reddish deserts, and making the planet a veritable dustbowl.

I must give Schiaparelli credit, however, for his discovery of the canals, in 1877, for these canyons do really serve as water routes. Running through them are great aqueducts which tap the arctic and antarctic regions, into which the Martians pump water from the melting snow and ice caps. As there are no seas on the planet, and very little rainfall, this water is stored in huge reservoirs, and used largely for irrigating the bottom-land of the canyons, thus rendering them extremely fertile.

Around these reservoirs the white inhabitants cluster, not in cities, but in vast cliff-dwelling communities, the sides of the canyons being honey-combed with homes. The wind-power of the planet is converted into electrical energy in immense funneled power-houses, just as we harness water-power on the earth. The current generated by this method is used to turn the wheels of industry, propel the passenger and freight trains which rumble through the tunnels in the cliffs, connecting the various communities, operate the elevators and escalators uniting the tiers of cliff homes with the fortifications at the rim and the bottom-lands, as well as supplying light and heat for all of the inhabitants.

I have always been puzzled as to how the Martians looked and dressed. The picture interpretation of their daily life revealed tall, stalwart men, with leathery complexions, owing to the lack of moisture in the atmosphere, and graceful, really beautiful women, with classic features, enveloped in veils from head to toe as a protection against the climate. Men, women and children, all garbed and living as the ancient Grecians, with the difference that to their colorful spectacle of life is added the enjoyment of the benefits of scientific inventions.

I marveled at their magnificent temples, set in great plazas, in the bottom-land of the canyons, over thermal springs. Temples largely of glass construction, with airspace between the double walls, which are lined with a transparent substance, resembling cellophane, evidently to keep out the stinging cold of the nights. Grouped about each temple were universities, libraries, museums and coliseums, also of glass, and modeled after the highest forms of what we, on earth, call modernistic art, but which is now regarded on Mars as a relic of ancient art.

As I gazed at the swift moving scenes, I was deeply impressed by the similarity between Mars and Thibet, in Asia, in point of rarity of air, climatic severity, and the superiority and authority of priests. Since the Martians worship fire and water, and venerate as twin goddesses their two tiny moons, which revolve so closely to their planet, I could see how this excessive number of priests was really necessary for the propagation of the State religion. Furthermore, the entire intellectual and cultural life of Mars is vested in the priesthood, and naturally all education and refinement center in the temple areas, just as the industrial and agricultural activities seem to converge at the great reservoirs.

All products, watered by irrigation, are grown under glass; and stored summer sunlight, a process as yet unknown to science on the earth, is used to melt the nightly deposits of frost which accumulate the year round. Horses, cattle and sheep were shown peacefully grazing in glass-enclosed corrals, which are electrically heated at night.

I observed particularly how all the homes in the sides of the canyons had glass fronts, which made the towering steep rocks look like the façade of a modern New York skyscraper. The power of the sun is not so great on Mars as on the earth, consequently the practical utilization of glass for living purposes is quite necessary for the conservation of the sun's light and heat. The materials of which glass is made abound on Mars, the great plateaus having a natural bed of glassy volcanic rock.

If I were here sedulously to outline all of the startling revelations concerning Mars I saw in this picture, it would take many pages; much easier it will be to outline just a few more of the more important disclosures. Unfortunately, there are a few taboos as far as the moral law of our earthly civilization is concerned.

For instance, a specialized offspring is being produced on Mars to save the white race from extinction. Respiratory diseases and their frightening toll of lives, caused by the climatic extremes and the particles of sand in the air, have long been a national calamity. For the begetting and production of the young, the healthiest and most beautiful women of the planet give themselves up to the State as a patriotic duty. Their mates are carefully selected for their mental and physical fitness.

These eugenic babies are born in special establishments attached to the temples, and reared at the expense of the State. The unmarried mothers were shown as they took part in the ceremonials of the temples; some appeared as dancers, while others attended the sacred fire and water shrines, also engaging in the weaving of fine tapestries and in rich embroidery work.

As this strange phase of Martian life was unrolled to our view, I suddenly remembered Jane, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but the room was too dark to observe what effect this scene was having upon her. I must say that at no time did it seem vulgar and lewd; everything was conducted in perfect good taste and propriety.

I was surprised to find that the Martians are ruled by a dictator, a form of government of which I very much disapprove. A very despotic dictator, who has the supreme power to frame the laws and order punishment. And instead of labor unions, they have labor units—units of agriculture, engineering, science, and so on, each with a leader responsible to the dictator.

There's this to say about the Martians. Despite all the handicaps imposed by nature, they manage to enjoy themselves. Fête days in the temple areas are very frequent. In the coliseums they hold thrilling chariot races and gladiatorial combats between trained ape-men from the jungles, who use short swords.

I was rather horrified to learn that slavery is common among them, which will account for the almost constant warfare between them and the ape-men. The herculean task of building their fortifications, which covered many centuries, was made possible by the employment of the ape-men as slaves. The process of evolution seems to have slowed up in the Martian tropics, leaving black, hairy creatures, in form and in intelligence intermediate between the highest ape and man. These ape-men worship the enormous wolf of the deserts, a war-like beast, in peculiar rites of sacrifice and the blood-covenant, which is an outspring of totemism, a stage in all human development.

In retaliation for the slave raids of the whites in the jungles, these ape-men move against them in vast armies, and with surprising agility, over the dead regions of the planet. When they leave their natural location, they live upon the fruits and berries which grow in the many oases scattered over the deserts, where thermal springs are found.

I could well imagine the frightful and devastating effect of these ape-men armies once they were victorious over the whites. The picture showed them attacking the fortifications, and being driven off with showers of bombs filled with deadly gases. When they succeed in plundering the temples, they carry off the cloistered white women as captives to their jungle lairs.

Besides the ape-men and the hazards of climate, the white population is also harassed continually by the foraging beasts, reptiles, birds and insects from the waste regions and the jungles, who destroy the plantations and devour the horses and cattle. To meet the perils of the marauders, the whites maintain a standing-army, scientifically-equipped. Quartered in the canyon fortifications, the army uses a system of wireless-signaling from the watch-towers, to warn the people when in danger of attack.

Getting a first view of these monsters of the Martian deserts and tropical zone, a chill ran down my spine. Many of them were what we term prehistoric monsters—the tapir, tree sloth, and dinosaur. I gasped in horror at the sight of the insects from the jungles—beetles having the bulk of baby elephants, and ants big and strong enough to carry a man on their backs. And what at first I believed to be an airplane, turned out to be an enormous, monstrous bat.

As the film moved swiftly onwards to its completion, the breathless interest of the assembled scientists and explorers was concentrated on the last episode, which proved to contain the most amazing revelation of all.

The rays from the motion picture projector now seemed to flash upon the silver screen like messages of hope. Hope for our white brethren, on a faraway star, beset on all sides by danger, and threatened with extinction. With increasing excitement, I watched, through a happy haze of light, the great transformation that was now taking place in that bright point of light that studs our darkling sky—the planet Mars.

XXI

There, fast unreeling before our eyes, were undeniable evidences of the changed conditions that our radio broadcasts had wrought on Mars. I had no misgivings now about our short wave programs reaching that planet. We saw the Martians listening in to our daily broadcasts, and becoming not only quite in sympathy with our American ideas but benefitting therefrom.

Intercepting musical and talking programs from New York, London, Paris, Rome, Bombay, Tokyo and Melbourne, and out of the strange babble of voices and senseless prattle, soon, presto! evolves a translation of the English language. Think of it!

But how, out of all this jumble of unintelligible words, which meant nothing to them at all, did they succeed in translating the English language? We shall see!

When the group of American scientists sent a message to Mars, in the International Morse code, by directing a powerful beam of light on the planet from the summit of the Jungfrau, in Switzerland, the beam was brought into the range of the telescope of a young priest-astronomer in one of the Martian temples. Having already made superficial translations of the English language, as it registered on the temple radio receiving set, this youthful Martian incarnation of an earthly Marconi, succeeded in deciphering the code as registered by this beam of light. The result was a rather crude transcription into the English language, but sufficiently intelligible to exchange radio communications, in code, with the earth.

Our short wave programs and code messages, it seems, have long been registering on Mars, but their source was unknown until this beam of light from the Jungfrau was picked up and decoded. The belief, long persisting among the priest-scientists, that there were human beings on the earth, known to them as the Blue Sphere, as intelligent as themselves, it was perfectly natural that they should begin at once to try and contact, by wireless, the planet from which they had caught the beam of light.

For some reason or other, not made clear, they had failed. Perhaps their signaling was mistaken for static on our radios, and was unrecognizable among the weird chattering and apparitions, which scientists claim are caused by the auroras and echoes of radio signals sent from the earth. Certainly no one had the sense, or intelligence, to pick them out of the static, and decode them, until Henry and Olinski began their experiments.

It amazed me to learn that the radio had been developed by the priest-scientists on Mars long before it became generally used on the earth. But it had never been popularized. Its use there had been confined solely to the temples in religious ceremonies, to awe the superstitious masses, as the voice of their unseen gods, and in linking up the various governmental and military outposts. The idea of making it an instrument of popular education and entertainment first came from the earth's music broadcasts, with the result that life on Mars has become almost completely revolutionized.

It was my theory, then, that this clever, young Martian priest-astronomer, who had first decoded the beam of light signals into English, was the originator of the rocket-to-earth idea, and the author and transmitter of the radio message, which had thrilled the world, on the night of the public demonstration in Radio Center. There was every likelihood, too, that he had composed and penned the cuneiform message contained in the scroll, which had been so skillfully translated to the screen for our entertainment and edification.

My amazement grew beyond bounds as the last episode of the travelogue progressed, and I realized how completely Americanized the Martians were becoming through the medium of our radio broadcasts. The short waves from the American stations seemed to register stronger on Mars than those of any other broadcasting stations in the world. And there was the stark truth, galvanized into life on the screen.

Martians flocking in thousands to the temple areas, to listen in, by means of loud speakers, to our educational broadcasts and national programs, as interpreted by their priests. Our school curriculum, talks on farming, science, finance and politics being discussed at symposiums. Applications of American rules of health and hygiene already in force, and largely decreasing the death rate.

Symphony orchestra concerts and grand opera broadcasts relayed from the temples to loud speakers in all public squares of the various communities. The younger generation learning to dance, with partners, to jazz music. Martian youngsters hearing bedtime stories for the first time in their lives—and learning of such important, earthly make-believe characters as Mother Goose and Mickey Mouse. Baseball rapidly displacing chariot racing and gladiatorial combats as a popular amusement.

Furthermore, the masses were beginning to enjoy luxuries hitherto unattainable; the Martian markets being flooded with soaps, tooth-paste, perfumes, hair dressings, cold cream, face powder and cigarettes, all patterned and manufactured after the American products, advertised so extensively in all short wave broadcasts reaching that planet. Martian women were being amazingly transformed into pinkly powdered persons, smartly rouged and lipsticked, slender lined, and giving out a fascinating scent.

The most astounding revelation was contained in the fact that the whole political, social and economic order of the planet was being threatened by the new ideas caught from the American short wave broadcasts. Armed with this new knowledge, the political order of the planet, a form of despotism, was facing disruption, the people actually demanding a democratic form of government, patterned after the American plan.

Even the State religion, the idolatrous worship of fire and water, and the twin moon goddesses, was being undermined. Flashing across the sidereal abyss that yawns between the earth and Mars, had come the first message of Christ. Christian cults were springing up in all parts of the planet despite the drastic action on the part of the State, to forestall the accomplishment of the people's designs, and the overthrow of their ancient religion. Hundreds of pagan priests had become converts to Christianity; they were deserting the temples, and sallying forth to preach a new gospel of salvation.

The slavery of the ape-men was being attacked by the Christians as inhuman. Thousands of slaves owned by the whites had actually been freed. Christian missionaries were penetrating the jungles. A truce had been declared in the warfare that had long been raging between the white race and the ape-men. Mediation was already in progress. A movement for peace and good will among men, and charity for all, was sweeping the planet. Better days were coming to Mars....

The picture was over all too soon; enthusiasm ran high and oratory flowed freely. It marked the close of a great day in the life of Henry. The toastmaster moved his fellow-diners to thunderous applause when he declared: "This event will go down in scientific history as one of the greatest achievements of man." Subsequent speakers showered flowery encomiums on Henry, whose courage and capital had made the occasion possible. Even the sceptics conceded that it all seemed feasible.

The startling disclosures, together with the pictorial creation and grandeur of their interpretation, had held me spellbound. I was impressed as never before in my life; convinced now, in fact, that the information contained in the scroll of life on Mars, extraordinary and incredible as it seemed, was genuine. "Henry's a great man," I thought. My faith was pinned on him now; I didn't care what any one else thought. Transplanted for more than an hour, into a region of wide spaces, as I watched the film unroll, and grasping ultimately the idea that order and efficiency, among human beings like ourselves, could reign on another planet as well as our own, it took me several minutes to come out of my trance, after the close of the picture.

When I did, finally, just as the lights were turned on, I no longer saw a populous planet, with its strange and romantic people being dominated by American ideas, but Pat and McGinity hurriedly disengaging hands. I pretended to take no notice of them. Yet I smiled to myself. While the procession and pageantry of life, in a faraway world, had been weaving their patterns on the screen in astonishing illumination, these two had been holding hands under the table. New worlds might be created, and others grow dim and crumble, I thought, but love would go on just like that—holding hands under the table.

Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps McGinity was just patting Pat's hand to soothe her. She hadn't been well lately; her face had grown pale and anxious from the strain and excitement under which we were living.

McGinity turned to me. "Well, what d'you make of it?" he asked.

"Wonderful!" I replied.

"Oh, I wouldn't have missed seeing this, not for worlds!" Pat chimed in. "I feel as though I'd been up in the clouds, among the stars. It was so thrilling, so overpowering, I don't really feel let down yet. How do you feel?" she added, looking at McGinity.

"Me?" McGinity answered. "Oh, I feel as if I'd fallen down a couple of flights of stairs."

"I've seen great revelations in my time," I remarked, "but this is the most triumphant—" I stopped. The reporter's rather cryptic remark was puzzling me. I glanced at him quizzically. He did not look right, somehow; too much gravity and anxiousness in his pose and countenance, considering this crowning moment in his life. "Something displeased you?" I inquired. "You look worried."

His reply, though vague, immediately aroused my curiosity. "I'd like to see you, alone—tonight—after we return to the castle," he said, in a low voice. "I want to talk over something with you."

That ended our conversation. He excused himself, and hurried away to telephone to the Recorder. Newspapers, not only in New York but throughout the country, and the rest of the world as well, were prepared to devote columns to the momentous event; far more important, to my mind, than the radio message from Mars, and the landing of the Martian rocket, with its strange passenger, for here were actual revelations direct from the planet, proving conclusively that it was inhabited by human beings, who were subject to the same laws, the same temptations and passions which affect ordinary humanity.

It was amusing to see the small regiment of reporters present, rushing off to their different papers to write their stories, as soon as the picture had faded from the screen. McGinity, being more advantageously placed, was ahead of the rest of them in that he had filed his story for the Daily Recorder earlier in the evening. After he had telephoned to his office, and given word for its release, and told what had happened at the banquet table, excerpts from the speeches, etceteras, he was free to accompany us to Sands Cliff.

He had something to tell me. What? It might be nothing, and it might be a good deal. The time of surmising came to its end. Within a few minutes after our arrival at the castle, we were closeted together in his apartment. Middle of the night though it was, I felt excited and bouyant, and filled with a sense of adventure. Lighting a cigar, I settled down in an easy chair, and waited.

The reporter walked up and down the room with his hands plunged deep in his trousers' pockets, and his head bent downwards. He appeared to be tracing the designs in the rug beneath his restless feet. Suddenly, he pulled himself out of his concentrated mental effort, stopped dead, and turned to me.

"Mr. Royce," he said, "do you believe all this stuff that's been happening?"

"Yes," I replied, promptly. "That is, in a way. Why, what do you think?"

For a moment he stood gazing at me in silence, intently. Then he asked: "I wonder if you think what I think?"

"Well," I answered, "if you want to know, I think that if all this that's been happening was contrived and worked out by a human mind, then a human mind can discover what it's all about."

He stared thoughtfully at me a moment before he spoke. "It wouldn't surprise me a bit if you've hit on something," he said at last.

"Yes?" I said. "I'm afraid I don't see it yet. I'm just telling you what I think."

"Exactly," said McGinity. "Now, you think something, and I think something. Very good. If we're both convinced on one point, why not join hands, and follow a new line, which may lead us out of all this mystery to something in the way of solution?"

"That," I replied, instantly, "is just the very thing we shall do!"

"Of course, you must know, as well as I do, that it's all highly improbable, utterly impossible," the reporter observed.

"I suppose it is," I answered, "yet the Science Editor of the Times declared only last Sunday that radio signaling to Mars was 'technically possible.'"

"Granted," agreed McGinity; "but that's another question. What concerns us now is what has already occurred—to prove that it isn't true, without injuring your brother's standing as a scientist."

"I've never known a man so positive as Henry is on this Martian radio signaling and rocket business," I said. "He believes it's all true, and I see no reason whatever to think that it isn't. While there's considerable scepticism in the outside world, no one has yet come forward with a clue—not a single clue—to prove that Henry and Olinski are all wrong, or are being duped."

"Would it surprise you very much if I produced—a clue?" McGinity asked.

"It certainly would," I replied.

The reporter then did a most surprising thing, which gave a startling and dramatic turn to our conversation.

"I've been convinced all along," he said, as he walked over to a secretary, in which he unlocked and opened a drawer, "that there was a human agency—a master mind—at the bottom of all this. In what way, I didn't know—couldn't guess. But, now, I'm sure of it."

From an inner receptacle of the drawer, he produced the scroll, which was found in the rocket, the contents of which Olinski had so skillfully decoded, and he had put into scenario form. He laid it on the table before me.

"Take a look at that," he said.

Carefully unrolling the scroll, I inspected it closely through a reading glass. The tiny cuneiform writing was no more intelligible to me than the hieroglyphics on Cleopatra's Needle in Central Park. It was inscribed on what I judged to be papyrus, the writing-paper of the ancient Egyptians. No doubt the papyrus-plant also grew on Mars. As I looked it over carefully, I detected a curious, subtle scent, like some rare perfume. The roller, I took to be ebony.

I smiled dryly, and made a move to hand it back to the reporter. "I'm afraid I can't make anything out of it," I said; "at least, nothing suspicious, or in the way of a clue."

He waved it off. "You're not finished with it yet," he said. "Try holding it up against the light. Study it again—carefully."

I did as he directed, unrolling the scroll a little at a time, and looking through it, against the bright light of the reading lamp. Suddenly, I stopped—startled; my eyes seemed to pop.

McGinity's voice broke in on the silence.

"You see it?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, my voice trembling. "I see it."

"Very well," he said. "Now, we know where we are."

XXII

There was not much to see when I unrolled the scroll, and inspected it against the lamplight, as McGinity had directed, but what there was assured me that the reporter was right when he said that he had made a find. Now, we knew something.

For a moment, the discovery completely overwhelmed me; I felt a little giddy. It affected me personally, more closely than anything I had ever had to deal with, mainly because of Henry. A sort of vision rose before my eyes. I saw the whole thing about Mars exposed, and my brother crushed in ignominy.

What the reporter had found was in line with what had been running in both our minds, the conviction that a superior intellect was at the bottom of all this Martian mystery, and its various resultants. It revealed a carefully conceived, highly ingenious conspiracy; a cruel and cold-blooded fraud, done in such a fashion as to leave no clue, which would make the tracing of the adroit and utterly unscrupulous perpetrator concerned, very difficult, if not impossible.

But here was a clue, thanks to McGinity's power of observation and reportorial inquisitiveness, even if it was only the ghost of one, that might put us on to the track of the perpetrator. A water-mark, a small translucent design, appeared in the body of the parchment paper, which proved that the scroll had not been made on Mars, but on earth. There it was, as plain as day: "Royal Bond—Made in U. S. A."

McGinity's reportorial and detective instincts combined—all newspaper reporters seem to have been born with a detective complex—quickly sent him again to the secretary, this time to look for a Manhattan telephone book; and while he was thumbing hastily through its pages, I took another squint at the water-mark, in the parchment scroll. I could hardly believe my eyes.

"What we want to find out now," the reporter said, "is the name of the manufacturer of that particular brand of parchment paper. Hello!—here it is. 'Royal Parchment Paper Company, 158 Beekman Street.'"

"Indeed?" I said, as calmly as I could.

"Now, one of us must take the scroll, and call on this firm, the first thing in the morning," he suggested. "They may be able to throw some light on the matter."

"I'll go," I quickly volunteered.

"Good," said McGinity. "Our job now is to find and bring to light the actual perpetrator of this fraud. This water-mark in the parchment may put us on his trail. That's about the situation, isn't it?"

"As far as I'm concerned," I replied, "that is the situation. But I'm afraid we're facing a many-sided problem. You must remember that we are dealing with events so stupendous that they can hardly be conceived by the human mind."

"But we're in possession of one thread now that may guide us through the maze," said McGinity, settling down finally in a chair opposite me. "I admit that what we have to deal with is most extraordinary—almost inexplicable—" he went on; "but here's this much to remember—your own idea, by the way—if this mystery was contrived and worked out by a human mind, then a human mind can discover what it is."

"Quite right," I agreed. "And if the person who made the scroll is the same one who sent those Martian radio messages, and dropped the rocket—"

"Dropped?" McGinity exclaimed, interrupting me. "Of course, that rocket was dropped on the water-front. Dropped! That idea had never occurred to me before. It wouldn't surprise me, Mr. Royce, if you've hit on another clue."

"Yes?" I said, a little bewildered. "Anyway," I began again, "if it is the same person, then I'm sure we can trace him."

"I'll tell you what I think, Mr. Royce," McGinity said; "we shall have to go back—and go back a long way, and find all we can about—Olinski."

"Olinski?" I exclaimed. "Surely, you don't suspect him?"

"He's a radio wizard, isn't he?" the reporter said. "He may have sent those alleged messages from Mars himself. He may have directed them to the moon, round ten o'clock, each night, during the experiments, and they were echoed, or bounced, back to earth. I understand he's quite an inventor besides. Now, he may have invented that rocket—everything—"

"You're forgetting, McGinity," I interrupted. "He couldn't possibly have invented Mr. Zzyx."

"That's so—I'd forgotten Mr. Zzyx," the reporter admitted. "All the same, just to be on the safe side, I think we'd better trace Olinski's career."

"We must remember this," I suggested, "that whoever is at the bottom of this fraud—if it is a fraud—had a definite purpose in putting it over. In criminology, that is called motive. Once you have the motive, the rest comes easier."

"I agree on that, Mr. Royce," said McGinity. "But the thought has just come to me that the perpetrator of this hoax—and I'm convinced now it is a hoax—has got nearly three months' start. Let's suppose, as you suggested, that he's a man who had some definite purpose in putting it over, the man we want to find. Very well, he pulls his two big tricks late in August, the Martian radio message in code, and the rocket from outer space, both occurring on the same night; and from that time, he passes into the unknown. No more messages from Mars. Everything cleaned up in one night."

"On that supposition," I said, "we shall, of course, have to eliminate Olinski, for which I shall be very glad."

"But suppose Olinski is the man we want," McGinity said, vehemently. "What about his having an accomplice? Olinski could be doing something else. And here's something that seems to have struck nobody. How could Olinski decode, so easily and expertly, those radio signals, and the cuneiform writing on the scroll? Besides, he's held on to this scroll like grim death, and never once allowed it to pass out of his hands until tonight, when I wheedled him into lending it to me, to be photographed for a Sunday article I'm writing for the Recorder."

"If you're convinced of Olinski's complicity in this, I'm not," I said, a little heatedly. "I've every confidence in him, and I've got to be shown. So, before we start in pursuit of knowledge of Olinski, you'd better let me follow up this clue of the water-mark, which may lead us to something in the way of success."

McGinity, after some hesitation, agreed to this, and after remaining silent for a few minutes, he said: "You have, of course, no idea who this perpetrator might be?"

"No idea whatever," I promptly replied.

The thing to do, we decided after some further discussion, was to keep everything to ourselves, while we combed out things that might give us a further clue. Above all, neither Henry, nor Olinski, were to know anything whatever about our mistrust.

Meantime, McGinity was to acquaint the editorial executives of his paper with our suspicions, and to ease up on his sensational stories about Mars. On this subject, I felt pretty much at a loss at to what to suggest, but McGinity seemed to know his business. Before we parted for the night, he convinced me that slowing up on a newspaper story, removing it from the front page, reducing it to a few paragraphs, and finally dropping it altogether, was a much easier thing to do than most folk imagine. Besides, he said, the public forgets so easily and quickly.

It was in my mind to make a good start in the morning. I felt sure that the Royal Parchment Paper Company could tell me something that might be of great importance in guiding us to the solution of one of the most devilishly contrived plots I've ever known of.

All that the reporter and I had discussed was passing through my mind, after I had said good-night to him, and was heading down the hall to my own apartment. It was long after midnight. The castle was in darkness, and as quiet as a tomb. But just as I was about to enter my door, Pat came running down the hall, after me. Nearly breathless, she panted out her message. Would I go back to her room, at once? We hurried back, to find Jane there, all in a tremble, and her face showing ashen.

"It's that dreadful thing again," Jane exclaimed. She gave a little shudder, and turned away to get her smelling salts.

"What's up?" I asked. "Everything about the castle seems perfectly normal."

"But they're not," Pat said, miserably. "If you hadn't slept so soundly last night, you might have heard Mr. Zzyx, as I did, sneaking along the hall. Auntie wouldn't believe it when I told her. She said it was impossible for him to get out of his locked room without Niki knowing it."

"Now, dear Pat," I said reassuringly; "haven't you been having another nightmare? I'm positive that Mr. Zzyx was locked in his room, and asleep, at this hour last night, as he is now, tonight—tired out, like all of us, after a very exacting night at the banquet."

"But I'm certain he's not in his room, now," said Pat. "In fact, I've proved he's out, and wandering about."

"Proved?" I asked, amazed, as Jane moved to my side.

"Yes, proved, dear Livingston," Jane whispered. "She tied a silk thread across the hall, between her door and mine, after we came home from the banquet."

"Oh, I see!" I remarked, lightly.

"Nothing to be amused about," said Pat, with a wan, twisted smile. "I did it to prove to Aunt Jane that Mr. Zzyx was snooping about. She stayed in here with me, and we waited to see if anything happened."

"And nothing happened for half an hour," Jane supplemented, taking a good sniff of her sal volatile.

"When, suddenly, we heard something moving outside, in the hall," Pat resumed. "After a few minutes, and we didn't hear anything more, I switched off the lights in here, opened the door a few inches, and looked out. The hall was dark. I could hear the muffled sound of your voice, and Bob's, in his room. That gave me courage, so I stole outside to investigate. I found the thread had been broken."

"That's queer," I observed. "Still, it might have been broken by the butler. Schweizer suffers terribly from insomnia, and has a habit of roaming about the place at night, at unearthly hours. I really don't understand."

"But I do," Jane said, in a low, guttural voice; "and it's your business, Livingston, to rid this place of that terrible creature at once. If you don't, and I should see him roving about, in the dark, I know I'll die of heart failure, instantly." She placed strong emphasis on the last word, and took another strong whiff of her smelling salts.

At that Pat turned to me, the tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, Uncle Livingston!" she said, earnestly and pleadingly; "isn't there any chance at all of ending this terrible mystery business about Mr. Zzyx and Mars? Uncle Henry must be losing his mind, or he wouldn't be associated with anything so unearthly and—spooky!"

"While we are still utterly in the dark, my dear," I said, consolingly, "I have a feeling that it's only a question of time when the whole matter will be cleared up." I wished then I could have taken her into my confidence, and told her what McGinity had discovered, about the scroll, but I knew it would be unwise to make any announcement at that stage of the proceedings, when we had only the wildest suspicions to go on. "And, now," I concluded, "I think we'll get to business at once."

"What are you going to do?" Pat asked, eagerly.

"I'm going to rouse McGinity," I replied, "and if your suspicions are correct, we'll find Mr. Zzyx, and put him back where he belongs."

"Lock him up!" Jane exclaimed. "And, for heaven's sake, keep him locked up!"

"Now, you two compose yourselves, and go to bed," I admonished gently but firmly. "You're both quite safe now."

I left the room, and went to my own apartment, where I got my flashlight. A few minutes later, I knocked at McGinity's door. Fortunately, he had not gone to bed. He was still pacing the floor and smoking furiously. The first thing he did, after I had poured out Pat's story to him, was to slip a small revolver in his hip pocket.

"There's no time to lose," I murmured, as we crept out into the hall. "Follow me—and not a sound."

I led the way to the State Apartment. Our difficulty was to effect an entrance into Mr. Zzyx's bedroom without awakening Niki, who slept in the adjoining room. As I stood racking my brains how to get into the creature's room, McGinity, on impulse, tried the door knob. To my amazement, the door opened. We walked into the room. As I trained my flashlight on the bed, he chuckled low, and said: "There's the bed, and, as you see, Pat's right. There's nobody in it."

The bedclothes were in disorder, showing that the bed had been recently occupied. Immediately, we turned our attention to the lock on the door, and found that it was not in working condition. A long brass bolt, on the inside, fitted into a deep groove in the jamb, and that was all there was to fasten the door. This would account for Mr. Zzyx's freedom of egress and ingress, and I smiled to myself at our utter stupidity in not having the lock examined. I wondered why Niki had not informed us about it, long before this. In many things, he was just plain dumb.

After creeping quietly upstairs, we explored the two upper floors, including Henry's observatory. We searched in many queer places, and looked into all the cavernous and gloomy chambers. And then we stumbled on something.

A room at the end of the corridor, on the third floor, used mostly for storage of furniture, bore traces of recent occupancy. A chair had been drawn up to a small table, on which there was a half-burned candle, a picture magazine of quite recent date, and an ash tray containing charred cigarette ends.

As I was examining the room and its contents in the light of my electric torch, a quick exclamation from McGinity directed my attention to a French window, which gave on to an iron-railed, stone balcony.

"There he is!" whispered the reporter; "out on the balcony."

I quickly turned off the flashlight. All I could discern was a black something standing on the balcony, silhouetted against a bright, starlit sky. The next moment, the shadow started to move towards the window. It was perhaps a little foolish of me, but I dashed forward, threw the window open wide, and turned a flood of light upon—Schweizer.

The butler, I immediately recalled, was occupying a bedroom a few doors down the hall from the one we were exploring. After he had explained that he often read and smoked in this room, and walked out on the balcony for fresh air, when he was troubled with insomnia, I dismissed him, without telling him what we were searching for. But he must have guessed it, for I heard him running down the hall to his bedroom.

He had no sooner gone when I was struck by a sudden idea. "It's possible," I suggested, "that Mr. Zzyx, in his after-midnight excursions, visits the butler's pantry, and makes a raid on our refrigerator. He has the appetite and stomach capacity of an ostrich. What do you say?"

"Possible," McGinity concurred. "Let's go."

As I crept stealthily downstairs, with the reporter at my side, I fully expected, at any moment, to be confronted with a long hairy arm, stretching out from some dark corner, to clutch at my throat. My feeling of nervousness increased when, in the midst of our search on the ground floor, my flashlight suddenly failed. We had just stepped into the dining room. I was reluctant to switch on the wall, or ceiling lights, for fear of alarming the servants, or attracting the attention of the night watchman who patrolled the grounds. Under no consideration could we afford to arouse the household, especially Henry.

So we elected to sit down in the darkness and wait for something to happen, possibly the discovery of the prowling Mr. Zzyx. I marveled at the instinct which enabled him to move about so freely in the dark. It was so quiet in the dining room that we could hear the ticking of the grandfather's clock in the library. There we sat, waiting, in the utter silence of the night. One o'clock struck—then half-past.

All the time we were seated there, I fancied I heard a sound quite distinct above the ticking of the clock; a faint, crackling sound, like a dog makes when it is crunching bones between its teeth. I made no mention of it to McGinity, but my heart was going in great sickening thumps. Another ten minutes of strained silence in the darkness, and my nerves were stretched to the limit.

As it turned out, McGinity had heard the same mysterious sound. Also, his eyes becoming more quickly adjusted to the darkness, being so much younger than mine, he saw something that had so far escaped my notice. Flecks of white on the floor, just to the right of us, in front of the heavily curtained French window.

Suddenly, he put his hand on my arm warningly. I heard him draw his breath sharply as he slowly rose, and tiptoed a few steps beyond where we were seated. As I craned forward to try to see what he was up to, he lit his cigarette lighter.

"My God! Look!" I heard him breathe; and, rising, I saw, in the flickering glimmer, a lot of white feathers on the floor. As his lighter quickly burned itself out, the room once more was in darkness. But I had seen enough in that momentary flash to realize that at last we had found something we were waiting for.

"What do you make out of those white feathers?" McGinity whispered, gripping my arm.

"It wouldn't surprise me a bit," I replied, "to find that Mr. Zzyx has killed Pat's white cockatoo."

"Yes; and I'll bet you anything he's somewhere close by, in one of these rooms, enjoying a cold bird, bones and all," his quick whisper came back. "That will account for the funny sound I've been hearing all the time we've been sitting here. Let's turn on the light—take a chance. What do you say?"

My memory of what immediately followed is rather blurred and confused. I have some memory of feeling my way through the library doorway, although how I accomplished it in the dark is more than I can figure out. What I most remember clearly is the strange, eerie sight that met our startled gaze after I had turned on the lights.

Crouching on the floor of the library, confronting us, was Mr. Zzyx, in his pajamas, and surrounded by feathers and bits of bone of the cockatoo, which obviously he had so cruelly slaughtered and devoured. And as we stood there gazing at him, he snarled at us like a wild beast defending its spoils.

Quick as a flash, McGinity's hand went to his hip pocket, but I restrained him. "Leave him alone," I advised. "Let him finish his feast."

"Pat's heart will be broken," McGinity sighed. "How could he do such a horrible, cruel thing?" He lit a cigarette.

"Because he's more animal than man," I answered; "a very dangerous and vicious animal."

We continued to watch him in silence until he had finished crunching the last bone. Then he got to his feet, and started to walk towards McGinity, round whose head spirals of tobacco smoke were curling. There was a dark stain all around the creature's mouth, which made him more repellent and disgusting.

"He wants a cigarette," I suggested.

McGinity gave him one, and lit it. And then, to our amazement, he followed us meekly as we led the way upstairs, and opened the door of his bedroom. He climbed into bed, and pulled the bedclothes over his head, like a child who has been caught in the act and is ashamed of his wrong-doing. Presently he was fast asleep.

XXIII

The after-midnight experience, especially the cruel killing of Pat's pet cockatoo, distressed me terribly. I was still feeling nervous and depressed the next morning when, after a hasty breakfast, I caught an early train for the city. I took a taxi-cab at the railroad terminal, and drove straight to the office of the Royal Parchment Paper Company, in Beekman Street, which is in the downtown district.

I did not reveal my identity—there was no reason why I should—simply explaining that I was interested in seeking out the maker of a very interesting scroll that had come into my possession, the parchment paper of which bore the firm's water-mark. In less than ten minutes, a point of high importance was settled. The parchment paper used in the scroll was identified as a heavy grade formerly manufactured by this concern but discontinued about three years before.

As it was a wholesale house, selling its products only in bulk to retailers, I was beginning to lose hope that I should ever be able to track this particular brand of parchment paper when, by great good luck, one of the assistant officials recalled having sold a small quantity of it, from the remaining store-room stock, to an aged, silver-haired man, four months back.

He remembered the transaction very well indeed because the customer explained that he had been looking for some time for this special, heavy grade of parchment paper, as he made it a business of transforming newly manufactured parchment into ancient-looking family and historical documents, for which he found a ready market among dealers in antiques.

He walked out of the office carrying his purchase, leaving no name and no address. As it was raining heavily at the time, the assistant official, because of the customer's age and apparent infirmities, followed him to the door with an umbrella, and politely volunteered to call a taxi. After he had done this, he put the old man into the cab. And now, after an interval of four months, he recalled the address the customer had given the taxi-driver: "Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street."

This remarkable display of memory sent me off at once to another field of inquiry. In a small, musty, corner curio and book shop, at Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street, I found a courteous, white-haired old man, looking rather shaggy and unkempt, who recognized the scroll at once as a sample of his own handicraft. He did not know, of course, he said, for what purpose it was to be used, nor did he seem to care; and he appeared equally unconcerned over the strange inscriptions it contained. He seemed both surprised and grieved when I showed him the water-mark. Apparently, he believed that I had been taken in by some antique dealer, in the purchase of the scroll as an ancient document.

"I do not often make a slip like that," he said, "and I am very sorry indeed if I've caused my customer any embarrassment. He did not specify that it should look old, but just different from the usual run of scrolls. For instance, he requested me to perfume the gum that holds the parchment securely to the ebony roller."

"That's all very interesting," I said, as calmly as I could. "Now, there's just one more question—did your customer reveal his name?"

The old bookseller shook his head. "I have no idea who he is," he replied; "no idea at all of his actual identity. He paid me a pretty stiff price in advance for my work. That's all that interested me."

"Can you describe him?" I asked.

He took off his spectacles, and wiped them carefully on a frayed, white silk handkerchief. "No," he said, finally and slowly. "I'm afraid I can't describe him. My memory and eye-sight are both failing fast. If you were to leave here now, and an hour later, some one was to ask me to describe your appearance, I would be utterly at a loss. I do recall, however, that he was middle-aged, well-dressed, and well bred—a gentleman, I should say."

"And that is all you know of him?" I persisted.

"That's all I know of him," the old man assented. "Well, yes, I do just remember one other thing. The day he called for the scroll, he apologized for his hurried departure, saying that he had only a few minutes in which to keep an important engagement in Radio Center, and make his train."

"Ah!" I breathed. "Did he mention taking a train on any particular railroad?"

"No," was the reply. "But after he'd gone, I found a Long Island Railroad time-table on my desk. Evidently he had left it behind—forgotten it in his haste."

After some further questioning, I went away. At noon, I met McGinity, having promised the night before to join him at lunch, in town, and submit all the evidence I had collected about the water-mark in the scroll. The restaurant was one of his own choosing, a cheerful but obscure eating-place in the Times Square section, noted for its home-cooking and excellent beer, and largely patronized by newspaper reporters working in that district.

The reporter listened to my story with signs of ever increasing interest, as we sat together in a dining nook, and when it came to an end, he exclaimed: "'Middle-aged—well-dressed—well bred!' You see? Olinski! without a doubt."

"No, I don't see it at all," I answered. "The old bookseller's vague description of the man who gave him the order for the scroll, in my opinion, doesn't fit Olinski. True, there's evidence that the man left hurriedly for an important engagement at Radio Center, and later, to catch a train on the Long Island Railroad, but that proves nothing against Olinski. Why should he rush off to keep an appointment in Radio Center, when he spends most of his time in his laboratory there? Besides, he's perfectly familiar with the time schedules of the railroad, so far as Sands Cliff is concerned."

"Then, if it wasn't Olinski, it must have been his accomplice," McGinity persisted. "There's more than one person mixed up in this."

"Undoubtedly you're right," I concurred. "But it would be just as easy and logical to suspect Prince Matani. Personally, I would suspect the Prince of doing anything, short of murder, for money. He's been trying to force Henry's hand for some time, in regard to Pat, and failing, this may have been his revenge. But acting only as a paid agent for a superior intellect, who put the thing over in a much bigger way, perhaps, than the Prince had anticipated."

"If this is true, then it will account for the Prince falling in a fit the first time he set eyes on Mr. Zzyx," the reporter suggested. "He expected to find a small baboon, and he finds a monster. Then, he vanishes. Very odd that he should go off to California—disappear like that."

"You've taken the words right out of my mouth," I rejoined, with a benign smile. "However, as matters are now shaping themselves, it's my opinion that any suspicions we may have regarding either Olinski or the Prince are coming to a quick end. We might as well attach suspicion to Mamie Sparks, our colored laundress."

"Well, at any rate, Mr. Royce," said McGinity, "one thing is pretty well established in my mind, and that is—if the perpetrator of this gigantic fraud isn't a lunatic, he's certainly been carried away by some strange fanatical motive."

"The facts of the case are all very strange, and very puzzling," I observed. "I have been reflecting on the matter for the last hour or so, since leaving the old bookseller, and I'm beginning to feel that we're up against a pretty difficult task—perhaps an impossible one."

"Oh, please, don't say that, Mr. Royce!" the reporter said, earnestly. "We may be all tangled up in this web of mystery, but we've got a start—just a thread of a clue—haven't we? Not such a big one but still a start. If we keep on the alert, we may run into something else that will put us in possession of another thread of a clue. That'll be two threads, won't it?"

"Yes," I replied, lugubriously; "but as far as I can see at present, things look pretty hopeless, and we might as well stop now with our investigations, and let matters take their natural course."

"That I'll never do," said McGinity, bringing his fist down on the table, as though to accentuate his determination to see things through. "You must remember, I've been taken in, as well as your brother Henry, and on my shoulders rests the responsibility of all those printed articles of mine."

"And not inventions, either," I said, "but stories founded on facts. You can excuse—facts."

"Not if they're fictitious facts," said McGinity; "and it's my duty now to expose their falsity to the public. No, Mr. Royce, we can't turn back now!"

As he spoke the last word, a boy selling a special extra of an afternoon paper, entered the restaurant, and came straight to our table. "Want a paper, Mister?" the boy asked me. I shook my head, but as soon as McGinity had glimpsed the big, front page headline he snatched a paper out of the boy's hand.

Within a second he was directing my attention to the glaring headline, which read: "Martian Rocket Disappears—Stolen!" and then to a space in the center of the page, headed: "Very Latest News," under which appeared a few lines, printed in red ink. Together we read them:

"New York police notified today by officials of New York Museum of Science that the Martian rocket, found on Long Island, near the estate of Henry Royce, millionaire scientist, and placed on exhibition in the museum, was stolen from its glass-case during the night. Watchman found bound and drugged. While nothing uncovered so far to establish clue to identity of daring thieves, police have obtained information showing theft was committed by two men, who were seen to leave the museum, carrying the rocket, and drive off in a small van, about three o'clock this morning."

Before I could speak, McGinity jumped to his feet, and made for a telephone booth. Five tense minutes passed, then he burst out of the booth, and came to me.

"Ah!" he said, excitedly; "now, we're getting somewhere."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Just this," the reporter replied. "The theft of this rocket proves conclusively that the superior intellect, the master mind, is back on the job. Something has forced him out of hiding—out of the unknown into which he passed about three months ago. He's getting scared. He realizes that the finger of suspicion, sooner or later, will be pointed at him, and he's trying to destroy all evidence of his guilt."

"That is, of course, a possibility," I agreed. "But this theft of the rocket, now. Why, to me, it makes the whole thing seem more and more of a puzzle."

"It's the best thing that could have happened," McGinity observed. "It will prepare the public for the exposé, which is bound to come now, and put your brother in right. Public sentiment is always with the man who has been duped."

"Does this mean that we will not go on with our investigations?" I inquired.

McGinity shook his head. "My instructions from the Desk," he answered, "which I just received on the phone, are to continue with our private investigations. And my first job is to make contact as soon as possible with your brother Henry. And let me say, right here, that I think it highly important that we keep nothing back from him. We must give him a clear, succinct account of the whole matter as we know it up to this moment."

"Whew!" I exclaimed. "You don't know Henry. He would consider any move like that, on our part, as highly meddlesome, even offensive."

"But in enlisting his services in tracking down the stolen rocket—ten to one, it's been dumped in the East River, which is only a few blocks from the museum—we must acquaint him with all the particulars that have come to light. Tell what we know and suspect in the matter. He's got to know sometime—why not now?"

"Very well, then," I assented; adding, with an amused chuckle: "Looks like we've got a very busy afternoon ahead of us."

"Busy isn't the word," McGinity rejoined, as he began making some hasty notes on a bunch of copy-paper, which he always kept handy in his coat pocket. "However, this is only the beginning."

"What are you making notes for?" I asked, curiously. "Are they for your paper, or the police?"

"Neither," replied McGinity. "They are intended for broadcasting. After I'd talked to my City Editor, I got Mr. Scoville of the NRC on the phone, and he's promised to have a good description of the rocket put on the air at three o'clock this afternoon, again at six, and at nine this evening."

"Excellent idea," I said, enthusiastically. "I only wish there was something I could do. What can I do?"

"Well, Mr. Royce," replied McGinity, as he finished making his notes, and gave me a smile and roguish wink that meant much, "a reward is always useful in these matters. Money can do things that mere words can't do."

"I see what you mean," I responded slowly. I thought a moment, and then said: "If my belief's correct, the sooner we lay hands on the two men who stole the rocket the better! Yes? Well, Mr. McGinity, I'm quite willing to help out on this, in a small way, of course. I'll offer a reward of $5,000—"

"Five thousand dollars!" McGinity interrupted, gleefully. "That's a whole lot of money, Mr. Royce, and I'm sure it's going to help solve the mystery. And say—here's an idea that occurs to me. Why not phone Olinski now, at once, and get a detailed description of the rocket from him. And then ask him—also for me—if he ever visited a certain curio and bookseller's shop at the corner of Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street. If he doesn't answer you directly, and begins to question you—well, just hang up. Better hurry now!"

I am easily excited, and I certainly felt my heart thump as I hurried into one of the compartments of the telephone booth, to carry out the reporter's suggestions, while McGinity stepped quickly into the adjoining section, to conclude the necessary arrangements by telephone for broadcasting the $5,000 reward.

I smiled to myself as I impatiently awaited a response to my call. There I was, a staid member of society, a pillar of the church, holding dignified offices in at least a dozen of the most exclusive and conservative clubs of New York—tracking down an ingeniously concocted scheme to ruin my brother's reputation as a scientist, with the self-possession of a Hercule Poirot, or any other equally distinguished detective of fiction; lunching at a reporters' hangout, and, now, about to perform a rather dirty trick on my good friend, Olinski—altogether putty in the hands of a very audacious but ingratiating reporter.

Luckily for me, Olinski was reported "out" at his laboratory. In fact, he hadn't been in for two days; obviously his staff was worried.

"Of course, Olinski's out," muttered McGinity, when I told him; "he's got other business to attend to—pressing business." And then he proceeded to begin preparations to leave. "Now, we'd better get along to Sands Cliff—quick! Our next job's there."

The reporter's car was waiting for us, and in less than an hour we were outside our lodge-gate. The big iron gate is usually kept open during the day-time, but now it was closed. As there was no sign of the lodge-keeper, McGinity got out and opened the gate. When we rolled through, the radiator was spouting hot water and steam like a miniature Yellowstone Park geyser. The reporter had whirled me along country roads and through villages, in the drab light of a cloudy November afternoon, at a speed not at all to my liking.

Parking the car just inside the gate, we drew near the gray-walled castle. Something ominous was in the air. A deadly chill, floating in across the terrace from the dark waters of the Sound, seemed to penetrate to our very bones. Everything was weirdly silent. No sign of life. I grew very anxious and uncomfortable, although the incredible truth did not dawn upon me. Why was everything so horribly silent? Where were the usual sounds and stir of a big country estate? Why this tomb-like castle?

I was surprised to find the front door open. Within a few seconds we had entered, and were standing in the great, vaulted entrance hall, now dark and gloomy. Not a sound, nor a movement!

And then, suddenly, in the gloom and silence, we saw something that struck terror in our hearts. Jane—dear, lovable old Jane—lying, still as death, face downward, on the floor, at the base of the great staircase. Showing vividly on the stone steps, from top to bottom, were blotches of dark red. They looked like bloody footprints.

XXIV

I have often wondered, since all this occurred, how it happened that McGinity and I arrived at the castle at this very critical moment, which, afterwards, proved to be the crucial stage of our adventures in trying to detect and trace the utterly unscrupulous scoundrel who perpetrated the Martian hoax. Seconds—or minutes—later, and I might now be recording a much more terrible series of events. It was all horrible enough, God knows!

To our great relief, we found that Jane had fainted from shock. She showed signs of returning to consciousness as the reporter and I sprang to her side. She was, of course, the first person to give us the news. After we had assisted her to her feet, we partly carried her to a big easy chair, propping her up with sofa pillows. Luckily, her smelling salts were in her handbag, which I had picked up from the floor, and as I waved the vial of sal volatile to and fro under her nose, I urged her gently to tell us what had happened.

"Where's Henry?" was my first question.

"He went away—er—after lunch," Jane replied, slowly and painfully. She was still breathing with difficulty, and her words came in little gasps.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No place—in particular. He was completely fagged out. I think he went for a drive."

"And Pat? Where is she?"

"She went out about an hour ago. I begged her not to go. She's been crying all day—about her white cockatoo."

"Did she say where she was going, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked.

"She said something about the dock. What she did say was that she felt that some fresh air, and a little exercise, would do her good."

"Did she mention any particular kind of exercise?" McGinity questioned again.

"No—she merely said—oh, yes—she spoke of rowing—that was it."

"Pat's very fond of rowing," I explained to McGinity, "and frequently goes over to the island, and potters about the old lighthouse ruins." Then I turned again to Jane: "Now, Jane, tell us—what about Mr. Zzyx?"

At the mention of the creature's name, she turned more pale and sank back in the chair, gasping. I thought she was going to faint again. Between us, McGinity and I rubbed her hands and forearms briskly. Quickly rallying, she murmured, with quivering lips: "He went mad—or something—stark crazy!"

I glanced at McGinity, and whispered: "He must have gone on a rampage—just as I feared."

"Where are all the servants, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked, as Jane recovered some semblance of her natural poise.

She smiled a little grimly. "I guess they've all been frightened away," she answered. "You see, I don't know about everything that happened, but it's my belief that all the servants have locked themselves up in the service wing. Oh, neither of you can comprehend the utter reign of terror we've just passed through. Here I was, by myself—Henry and Pat both out—the servants fleeing in alarm. Naturally, at first, I was in a state of absolute despair as to what to do."

"Let's begin at the beginning, Jane," I counselled, softly. "When did you first hear of Mr. Zzyx acting up?"

"About half an hour ago," she replied. "I was in my room, reading, when Schweizer knocked at my door. His face was as white as a sheet. He said a great commotion was going on in the State Apartment, and hadn't he better call the police. But I advised him to summon all the men-servants in the place, as I felt they could handle the situation, whatever it might be."

"Then what?"

"The butler had not been gone two minutes when I heard that dreadful thing, screeching—oh, terrible to hear!—and running up and down the hall, outside my room, and smashing the furniture. Then everything became quiet. He must have gone downstairs, for, a few minutes later, I heard the woman servants screaming—such screaming as I never heard before and never want to hear again."

"What did you do, then?"

"As soon as the screaming had subsided, I decided that something must be done, for I suddenly realized that all the men on the place had gone off on a half holiday. Besides, the telephone extension on the second floor went out of order this morning. My intention, as I slipped out of my room, was to go downstairs to the library, lock myself in, and phone the police. As none of the servants, not even my personal maid, had shown themselves, and viewing the awful wreckage that creature had made of the tables, chairs and tapestries in the hall, I was convinced that something terrible was going on."

"But how did you happen to be lying at the foot of the staircase?"

"I will tell you." She drew a long, painful breath, and then continued. "All went well until I reached the bottom of the stairs, when I heard heavy footsteps above me. I turned and looked. Mr. Zzyx was coming down towards me, chattering, and showing his teeth, rolling his head, and waving his arms convulsively, like he had a fit. I was frozen with terror to the spot. I couldn't move. I remember seeing blood on his hands and clothes, as he came nearer to me. I recall receiving a heavy blow on my arm. After that, I remember nothing."

"Thank God! you escaped without a scratch," I breathed. "But where do you suppose he's gone? The front door was open when we arrived. He may have gone out that way."

"I have no idea," Jane said. Then she wailed: "Oh, what are we to do?"