But the Colonel—who had
never heard the term before, and was besides feeling considerably
worked up for a plain man with all this mystery he knew not how to
grapple with—the Colonel stood, with the most dumfoundered look ever
seen on a human countenance, and continued to roar, and stammer, and
stare. “And why,” he began, savage with the desire to find something visible
he could fight—“why, in the name of all the blazes—?” and then stopped
as John Silence moved up and took his arm. “There, my dear Colonel Wragge,” he said gently, “you touch the heart
of the whole thing. You ask ‘Why.’ That is precisely our problem.” He
held the soldier’s eyes firmly with his own. “And that, too, I think,
we shall soon know. Come and let us talk over a plan of action—that
room with the double doors, perhaps.”

The word “action” calmed him a little, and he led the way, without
further speech, back into the house, and down the long stone passage to
the room where we had heard his stories on the night of our arrival. I
understood from the doctor’s glance that my presence would not make the
interview easier for our host, and I went upstairs to my own
room—shaking. But in the solitude of my room the vivid memories of the last hour
revived so mercilessly that I began to feel I should never in my whole
life lose the dreadful picture of Miss Wragge running—that dreadful
human climax after all the non-human mystery in the wood—and I was not
sorry when a servant knocked at my door and said that Colonel Wragge
would be glad if I would join them in the little smoking-room. “I think it is better you should be present,” was all Colonel Wragge
said as I entered the room. I took the chair with my back to the
window. There was still an hour before lunch, though I imagine that the
usual divisions of the day hardly found a place in the thoughts of any
one of us. The atmosphere of the room was what I might call electric. The Colonel
was positively bristling; he stood with his back to the fire, fingering
an unlit black cigar, his face flushed, his being obviously roused and
ready for action. He hated this mystery. It was poisonous to his
nature, and he longed to meet something face to face—something he could
gauge and fight. Dr. Silence, I noticed at once, was sitting before the
map of the estate which was spread upon a table. I knew by his
expression the state of his mind. He was in the thick of it all, knew
it, delighted in it, and was working at high pressure. He recognised my
presence with a lifted eyelid, and the flash of the eye, contrasted
with his stillness and composure, told me volumes. “I was about to explain to our host briefly what seems to me afoot in
all this business,” he said without looking up, “when he asked that you
should join us so that we can all work together.” And, while signifying
my assent, I caught myself wondering what quality it was in the calm
speech of this undemonstrative man that was so full of power, so
charged with the strange, virile personality behind it and that seemed
to inspire us with his own confidence as by a process of radiation. “Mr. Hubbard,” he went on gravely, turning to the soldier, “knows
something of my methods, and in more than one—er—interesting situation
has proved of assistance. What we want now”—and here he suddenly got up
and took his place on the mat beside the Colonel, and looked hard at
him—“is men who have self-control, who are sure of themselves, whose
minds at the critical moment will emit positive forces, instead of the
wavering and uncertain currents due to negative feelings—due, for
instance, to fear.”

He looked at us each in turn. Colonel Wragge moved his feet farther
apart, and squared his shoulders; and I felt guilty but said nothing,
conscious that my latent store of courage was being deliberately hauled
to the front. He was winding me up like a clock. “So that, in what is yet to come,” continued our leader, “each of us
will contribute his share of power, and ensure success for my plan.”

“I’m not afraid of anything I can _see_,” said the Colonel bluntly. “I’m ready,” I heard myself say, as it were automatically, “for
anything,” and then added, feeling the declaration was lamely
insufficient, “and everything.”

Dr. Silence left the mat and began walking to and fro about the room,
both hands plunged deep into the pockets of his shooting-jacket. Tremendous vitality streamed from him. I never took my eyes off the
small, moving figure; small yes,—and yet somehow making me think of a
giant plotting the destruction of worlds. And his manner was gentle, as
always, soothing almost, and his words uttered quietly without emphasis
or emotion. Most of what he said was addressed, though not too
obviously, to the Colonel. “The violence of this sudden attack,” he said softly, pacing to and fro
beneath the bookcase at the end of the room, “is due, of course, partly
to the fact that tonight the moon is at the full”—here he glanced at me
for a moment—“and partly to the fact that we have all been so
deliberately concentrating upon the matter. Our thinking, our
investigation, has stirred it into unusual activity. I mean that the
intelligent force behind these manifestations has realised that some
one is busied about its destruction. And it is now on the defensive:
more, it is aggressive.”

“But ‘it’—what is ‘it’?” began the soldier, fuming. “What, in the name
of all that’s dreadful, _is_ a fire-elemental?”

“I cannot give you at this moment,” replied Dr. Silence, turning to
him, but undisturbed by the interruption, “a lecture on the nature and
history of magic, but can only say that an Elemental is the active
force behind the elements,—whether earth, air, water, _or fire_,—it is
impersonal in its essential nature, but can be focused, personified,
ensouled, so to say, by those who know how—by magicians, if you
will—for certain purposes of their own, much in the same way that steam
and electricity can be harnessed by the practical man of this century. “Alone, these blind elemental energies can accomplish little, but
governed and directed by the trained will of a powerful manipulator
they may become potent activities for good or evil. They are the basis
of all magic, and it is the motive behind them that constitutes the
magic ‘black’ or ‘white’; they can be the vehicles of curses or of
blessings, for a curse is nothing more than the thought of a violent
will perpetuated. And in such cases—cases like this—the conscious,
directing will of the mind that is using the elemental stands always
behind the phenomena—”

“You think that my brother—!” broke in the Colonel, aghast. “Has nothing whatever to do with it—directly. The fire-elemental that
has here been tormenting you and your household was sent upon its
mission long before you, or your family, or your ancestors, or even the
nation you belong to—unless I am much mistaken—was even in existence. We will come to that a little later; after the experiment I propose to
make we shall be more positive.