



Produced by David Clarke, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) UNCANNY TALES


           LONDON
 C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LIMITED
   HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.
            1916




Transcriber's Note:

    Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect
    spellings have been retained. The oe ligature has been transcribed
    as [oe]. CONTENTS


                                          PAGE

    I. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY                  7

   II. THE ARMLESS MAN                      19

  III. THE TOMTOM CLUE                      33

   IV. THE CASE OF SIR ALISTER MOERAN       43

    V. THE KISS                             63

   VI. THE GOTH                             73

  VII. THE LAST ASCENT                      88

 VIII. THE TERROR BY NIGHT                  97

   IX. THE TRAGEDY AT THE "LOUP NOIR"      113




UNCANNY STORIES




I

THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY


Professor William James Maynard was in a singularly happy and contented
mood as he strolled down the High Street after a long and satisfactory
interview with the solicitor to his late cousin, whose sole heir he was. It was exactly a month by the calendar since he had murdered this
cousin, and everything had gone most satisfactorily since. The fortune
was proving quite as large as he had expected, and not even an inquest
had been held upon the dead man. The coroner had decided that it was not
necessary, and the Professor had agreed with him. At the funeral the Professor had been the principal mourner, and the
local paper had commented sympathetically on his evident emotion. This
had been quite genuine, for the Professor had been fond of his relative,
who had always been very good to him. But still, when an old man remains
obstinately healthy, when his doctor can say with confidence that he is
good for another twenty years at least, and when he stands between you
and a large fortune which you need, and of which you can make much
better use in the cause of science and the pursuit of knowledge, what
alternative is there? It becomes necessary to take steps. Therefore, the
Professor had taken steps. Looking back to-day on that day a month ago, and the critical preceding
week, the Professor felt that the steps he had taken had been as
judicious as successful. He had set himself to solve a problem in higher
mathematics. He had found it easier to solve than many he was obliged to
grapple with in the course of his studies. A policeman saluted as the Professor passed, and he acknowledged it with
the charming old world courtesy that made him so popular a figure in the
town. Across the way was the doctor who had certified the cause of
death. The Professor, passing benevolently on, was glad he had now
enough money to carry out his projects. He would be able to publish at
once his great work on "The Secondary Variation of the Differential
Calculus," that hitherto had languished in manuscript. It would make a
sensation, he thought; there was more than one generally accepted theory
he had challenged or contradicted in it. And he would put in hand at
once his great, his long projected work, "A History of the Higher
Mathematics." It would take twenty years to complete, it would cost
twenty thousand pounds or more, and it would breathe into mathematics
the new, vivid life that Bergson's works have breathed into
metaphysics. The Professor thought very kindly of the dead cousin, whose money would
provide for this great work. He wished greatly the dead man could know
to what high use his fortune was designed. Coming towards him he saw the wife of the vicar of his parish. The
Professor was a regular church-goer. The vicar's wife saw him, too, and
beamed. She and her husband were more than a little proud of having so
well known a man in their congregation. She held out her hand and the
Professor was about to take it when she drew it back with a startled
movement. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she exclaimed, distressed, as she saw him raise
his eyebrows. "There is blood on it." Her eyes were fixed on his right hand, which he was still holding out. In fact, on the palm a small drop of blood showed distinctly against the
firm, pink flesh. Surprised, the Professor took out his handkerchief and
wiped it away. He noticed that the vicar's wife was wearing white kid
gloves. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she said again. "It--it startled me somehow. I
thought you must have cut yourself. I hope it's not much?" "Some scratch, I suppose," he said. "It's nothing." The vicar's wife, still slightly discomposed, launched out into some
parochial matter she had wished to mention to him. They chatted a few
moments and then parted. The Professor took an opportunity to look at
his hand. He could detect no sign of any cut or abrasion, the skin
seemed whole everywhere. He looked at his handkerchief. There was still
visible on it the stain where he had wiped his hand, and this stain
seemed certainly blood. "Odd!" he muttered as he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Very
odd!" His thoughts turned again to his projected "A History of the Higher
Mathematics," and he forgot all about the incident till, as it happened
that day month, the first of the month by the calendar, when he was
sitting in his study with an eminent colleague to whom he was explaining
his great scheme. "If you are able to carry it out," the colleague said slowly, "your book
will mark an epoch in human thought. But the cost will be tremendous." "I estimate it at twenty thousand pounds," answered the Professor
calmly. "I am fully prepared to spend twice as much. You know I have
recently inherited forty thousand pounds from a relative?" The eminent colleague nodded and looked very impressed. "It is magnificent," he said warmly, "magnificent." He added: "You've
cut yourself, do you know?" "Cut myself?" the Professor echoed, surprised. "Yes," answered the eminent colleague, "there is blood upon your
hand--your right hand." In fact a spot of blood, slightly larger than that which had appeared
before, showed plainly upon the Professor's right hand. He wiped it away
with his handkerchief, and went on talking eagerly, for he was deeply
interested. He did not think of the matter again till just as he was
getting into bed, when he noticed a red stain upon his handkerchief. He
frowned and examined his hand carefully. There was no sign of any wound
or cut from which the blood could have come, and he frowned again. "Very odd!" he muttered. A calendar hanging on the wall reminded him that it was the first of the
month. The days passed, the incident faded from his memory, and four weeks
later he came down one morning to breakfast in an unusually good temper. There was a certain theory he had worked on the night before he meant to
write to a friend about.