I cried. "No provisions as to the disposition of his
fortune his estate--or his corpse?" "Nothing. In his will, which I have seen elsewhere, he leaves estate
and fortune to a certain oriental gentleman named in the document
as--Malik Tous!" "What!" I cried, shaken to my soul. "Conrad, this is madness heaped on
madness! Malik Tous--good God! No mortal man was ever so named! That is
the title of the foul god worshipped by the mysterious Yezidees--they
of Mount Alamout the Accursed--whose Eight Brazen Towers rise in the
mysterious wastes of deep Asia. His idolatrous symbol is the brazen
peacock. And the Muhammadans, who hate his demon-worshipping devotees,
say he is the essence of the evil of all the universes--the Prince of
Darkness--Ahriman--the old Serpent--the veritable Satan! And you say
Grimlan names this mythical demon in his will?" "It is the truth," Conrad's throat was dry. "And look--he has scribbled
a strange line at the corner of this parchment: 'Dig me no grave; I
shall not need one.'" Again a chill wandered down my spine. "In God's name," I cried in a kind of frenzy, "let us get this
incredible business over with!" "I think a drink might help," answered Conrad, moistening his lips. "It
seems to me I've seen Grimlan go into this cabinet for wine----" He
bent to the door of an ornately carved mahogany cabinet, and after some
difficulty opened it. "No wine here," he said disappointedly, "and if ever I felt the need of
stimulants--what's this?" *       *       *       *       *

He drew out a roll of parchment, dusty, yellowed and half covered with
spiderwebs. Everything in that grim house seemed, to my nervously
excited senses, fraught with mysterious meaning and import, and I
leaned over his shoulder as he unrolled it. "It's a record of peerage," he said, "such a chronicle of births,
deaths and so forth, as the old families used to keep, in the Sixteenth
Century and earlier." "What's the name?" I asked. He scowled over the dim scrawls, striving to master the faded, archaic
script. "G-r-y-m--I've got it--Grymlann, of course. It's the records of old
John's family--the Grymlanns of Toad's-heath Manor, Suffolk--what an
outlandish name for an estate! Look at the last entry." Together we read, "John Grymlann, borne, March 10, 1630." And then we
both cried out. Under this entry was freshly written, in a strange
scrawling hand, "Died, March 10, 1930." Below this there was a seal of
black wax, stamped with a strange design, something like a peacock with
a spreading tail. Conrad stared at me speechless, all the color ebbed from his face. I
shook myself with the rage engendered by fear. "It's the hoax of a madman!" I shouted. "The stage has been set with
such great care that the actors have overstepped themselves. Whoever
they are, they have heaped up so many incredible effects as to nullify
them. It's all a very stupid, very dull drama of illusion." And even as I spoke, icy sweat stood out on my body and I shook as with
an ague. With a wordless motion Conrad turned toward the stairs, taking
up a large candle from a mahogany table. "It was understood, I suppose," he whispered, "that I should go through
with this ghastly matter alone; but I had not the moral courage, and
now I'm glad I had not." *       *       *       *       *

A still horror brooded over the silent house as we went up the stairs. A faint breeze stole in from somewhere and set the heavy velvet
hangings rustling, and I visualized stealthy taloned fingers drawing
aside the tapestries, to fix red gloating eyes upon us. Once I thought
I heard the indistinct clumping of monstrous feet somewhere above us,
but it must have been the heavy pounding of my own heart. The stairs debouched into a wide dark corridor, in which our feeble
candle cast a faint gleam which but illuminated our pale faces and
made the shadows seem darker by comparison. We stopped at a heavy door,
and I heard Conrad's breath draw in sharply as a man's will when he
braces himself physically or mentally. I involuntarily clenched my
fists until the nails bit into the palms; then Conrad thrust the door
open. A sharp cry escaped his lips. The candle dropped from his nerveless
fingers and went out. The library of John Grimlan was ablaze with
light, though the whole house had been in darkness when we entered it. This light came from seven black candles placed at regular intervals
about the great ebony table. On this table, between the candles--I had
braced myself against the sight. Now in the face of the mysterious
illumination and the sight of the thing on the table, my resolution
nearly gave way. John Grimlan had been unlovely in life; in death he
was hideous. Yes, he was hideous even though his face was mercifully
covered with the same curious silken robe, which, worked in fantastic
bird-like designs, covered his whole body except the crooked claw-like
hands and the bare withered feet. A strangling sound came from Conrad. "My God!" he whispered; "what is
this? I laid his body out on the table and placed the candles about it,
but I did not light them, nor did I place that robe over the body! And
there were bedroom slippers on his feet when I left----"

He halted suddenly. We were not alone in the deathroom. At first we had not seen him, as he sat in the great armchair in a
farther nook of a corner, so still that he seemed a part of the shadows
cast by the heavy tapestries. As my eyes fell upon him, a violent
shuddering shook me and a feeling akin to nausea racked the pit of my
stomach. My first impression was of vivid, oblique yellow eyes which
gazed unwinkingly at us. Then the man rose and made a deep salaam, and
we saw that he was an oriental. Now when I strive to etch him clearly
in my mind, I can resurrect no plain image of him. I only remember
those piercing eyes and the yellow, fantastic robe he wore. We returned his salute mechanically and he spoke in a low, refined
voice, "Gentlemen, I crave your pardon! I have made so free as to light
the candles--shall we not proceed with the business pertaining to our
mutual friend?" He made a slight gesture toward the silent bulk on the table. Conrad
nodded, evidently unable to speak. The thought flashed through our
minds at the same time, that this man had also been given a sealed
envelope--but how had he come to the Grimlan house so quickly? John
Grimlan had been dead scarcely two hours and to the best of our
knowledge no one knew of his demise but ourselves. And how had he got
into the locked and bolted house? The whole affair was grotesque and unreal in the extreme. We did not
even introduce ourselves or ask the stranger his name. He took charge
in a matter-of-fact way, and so under the spell of horror and illusion
were we that we moved dazedly, involuntarily obeying his suggestions,
given us in a low, respectful tone. I found myself standing on the left side of the table, looking across
its grisly burden at Conrad.