"I've hated you for years, but I knew----"

McGrath's voice was harsh as the rasp of steel. "What did you mean by
your mention of Constance Brand? She is dead." A ghastly smile twisted the thin lips. "No, she's not dead! But she soon will be, if you don't hurry. Quick! Brandy! There on the table--that beast didn't drink it all." McGrath held the bottle to his lips; Ballville drank avidly. McGrath
wondered at the man's iron nerve. That he was in ghastly agony was
obvious. He should be screaming in a delirium of pain. Yet he held to
sanity and spoke lucidly, though his voice was a laboring croak. "I haven't much time," he choked. "Don't interrupt. Save your curses
till later. We both loved Constance Brand. She loved you. Three years
ago she disappeared. Her garments were found on the bank of a river. Her body was never recovered. You went to Africa to drown your sorrow;
I retired to the estate of my ancestors and became a recluse. "What you didn't know--what the world didn't know--was that Constance
Brand came with me! No, she didn't drown. That ruse was my idea. For
three years Constance Brand has lived in this house!" He achieved a
ghastly laugh. "Oh, don't look so stunned, Bristol. She didn't come of
her own free will. She loved you too much. I kidnapped her, brought her
here by force--Bristol!" His voice rose to a frantic shriek. "If you
kill me you'll never learn where she is!" The frenzied hands that had locked on his corded throat relaxed and
sanity returned to the red eyes of Bristol McGrath. "Go on," he whispered in a voice not even he recognized. "I couldn't help it," gasped the dying man. "She was the only woman
I ever loved--oh, don't sneer, Bristol. The others didn't count. I
brought her here where I was king. She couldn't escape, couldn't get
word to the outside world. No one lives in this section except nigger
descendants of the slaves owned by my family. My word is--_was_--their
only law. "I swear I didn't harm her. I only kept her prisoner, trying to force
her to marry me. I didn't want her any other way. I was mad, but I
couldn't help it. I come of a race of autocrats who took what they
wanted, recognized no law but their own desires. You know that. You
understand it. You come of the same breed yourself. "Constance hates me, if that's any consolation to you, damn you. She's
strong, too. I thought I could break her spirit. But I couldn't,
not without the whip, and I couldn't bear to use that." He grinned
hideously at the wild growl that rose unbidden to McGrath's lips. The
big man's eyes were coals of fire; his hard hands knotted into iron
mallets. A spasm racked Ballville, and blood started from his lips. His grin
faded and he hurried on. "All went well until the foul fiend inspired me to send for John De
Albor. I met him in Vienna, years ago. He's from East Africa--a devil
in human form! He saw Constance--lusted for her as only a man of his
type can. When I finally realized that, I tried to kill him. Then I
found that he was stronger than I; that he'd made himself master of the
niggers--_my_ niggers, to whom my word had always been law. He'd taught
them his devilish cult----"

"Voodoo," muttered McGrath involuntarily. "No! Voodoo is infantile beside this black fiendishness. Look at the
symbol on my breast, where De Albor burned it with a white-hot iron. You have been in Africa. You understand the brand of Zambebwei. "De Albor turned my negroes against me. I tried to escape with
Constance and Ahmed. My own blacks hemmed me in. I did smuggle a
telegram through to the village by a man who remained faithful to
me--they suspected him and tortured him until he admitted it. John De
Albor brought me his head. "Before the final break I hid Constance in a place where no one will
ever find her, except you. De Albor tortured Ahmed until he told that
I had sent for a friend of the girl's to aid us. Then De Albor sent
his men up the road with what was left of Ahmed, as a warning to you
if you came. It was this morning that they seized us; I hid Constance
last night. Not even Ahmed knew where. De Albor tortured me to make me
tell----" the dying man's hands clenched and a fierce passionate light
blazed in his eyes. McGrath knew that not all the torments of all the
hells could ever have wrung that secret from Ballville's iron lips. "It was the least you could do," he said, his voice harsh with
conflicting emotions. "I've lived in hell for three years because
of you--and Constance has. You deserve to die. If you weren't dying
already I'd kill you myself." "Damn you, do you think I want your forgiveness?" gasped the dying man. "I'm glad you suffered. If Constance didn't need your help, I'd like to
see you dying as I'm dying--and I'll be waiting for you in hell. But
enough of this. De Albor left me awhile to go up the road and assure
himself that Ahmed was dead. This beast got to swilling my brandy and
decided to torture me some himself. "Now listen--Constance is hidden in Lost Cave. No man on earth knows of
its existence except you and me--not even the negroes. Long ago I put
an iron door in the entrance, and I killed the man who did the work; so
the secret is safe. There's no key. You've got to open it by working
certain knobs." It was more and more difficult for the man to enunciate intelligibly. Sweat dripped from his face, and the cords of his arms quivered. "Run your fingers over the edge of the door until you find three knobs
that form a triangle. You can't see them; you'll have to feel. Press
each one in counter-clockwise motion, three times, around and around. Then pull on the bar. The door will open. Take Constance and fight your
way out. If you see they're going to get you, shoot her! Don't let her
fall into the hands of that black beast----"

The voice rose to a shriek, foam spattered from the livid writhing
lips, and Richard Ballville heaved himself almost upright, then toppled
limply back. The iron will that had animated the broken body had
snapped at last, as a taut wire snaps. McGrath looked down at the still form, his brain a maelstrom of
seething emotions, then wheeled, glaring, every nerve atingle, his
pistol springing into his hand. _3. The Black Priest_


A man stood in the doorway that opened upon the great outer hall--a
tall man in a strange alien garb. He wore a turban and a silk coat
belted with a gay-hued girdle. Turkish slippers were on his feet. His skin was not much darker than McGrath's, his features distinctly
oriental in spite of the heavy glasses he wore. "Who the devil are you?" demanded McGrath, covering him. "Ali ibn Suleyman, _effendi_," answered the other in faultless Arabic. "I came to this place of devils at the urging of my brother, Ahmed ibn
Suleyman, whose soul may the Prophet ease. In New Orleans the letter
came to me. I hastened here. And lo, stealing through the woods, I saw
black men dragging my brother's corpse to the river. I came on, seeking
his master." McGrath mutely indicated the dead man.