"John," said Lord Sannox, "you will take the doctor home first. He will
want leading downstairs, I think. Tell his butler that he has been
taken ill at a case." "Very good, sir." "Then you can take Lady Sannox home." "And how about yourself, sir?" "Oh, my address for the next few months will be Hotel di Roma, Venice. Just see that the letters are sent on. And tell Stevens to exhibit all
the purple chrysanthemums next Monday, and to wire me the result." The Terror of Blue John Gap

The following narrative was found among the papers of Dr. James
Hardcastle, who died of phthisis on February 4th, 1908, at 36, Upper
Coventry Flats, South Kensington. Those who knew him best, while
refusing to express an opinion upon this particular statement, are
unanimous in asserting that he was a man of a sober and scientific turn
of mind, absolutely devoid of imagination, and most unlikely to invent
any abnormal series of events. The paper was contained in an envelope,
which was docketed, "A Short Account of the Circumstances which
occurred near Miss Allerton's Farm in North-West Derbyshire in the
Spring of Last Year." The envelope was sealed, and on the other side
was written in pencil--


DEAR SEATON,--

"It may interest, and perhaps pain you, to know that the incredulity
with which you met my story has prevented me from ever opening my mouth
upon the subject again. I leave this record after my death, and
perhaps strangers may be found to have more confidence in me than my
friend." Inquiry has failed to elicit who this Seaton may have been. I may add
that the visit of the deceased to Allerton's Farm, and the general
nature of the alarm there, apart from his particular explanation, have
been absolutely established. With this foreword I append his account
exactly as he left it. It is in the form of a diary, some entries in
which have been expanded, while a few have been erased. April 17.--Already I feel the benefit of this wonderful upland air. The farm of the Allertons lies fourteen hundred and twenty feet above
sea-level, so it may well be a bracing climate. Beyond the usual
morning cough I have very little discomfort, and, what with the fresh
milk and the home-grown mutton, I have every chance of putting on
weight. I think Saunderson will be pleased. The two Miss Allertons are charmingly quaint and kind, two dear little
hard-working old maids, who are ready to lavish all the heart which
might have gone out to husband and to children upon an invalid
stranger. Truly, the old maid is a most useful person, one of the
reserve forces of the community. They talk of the superfluous woman,
but what would the poor superfluous man do without her kindly presence? By the way, in their simplicity they very quickly let out the reason
why Saunderson recommended their farm. The Professor rose from the
ranks himself, and I believe that in his youth he was not above scaring
crows in these very fields. It is a most lonely spot, and the walks are picturesque in the extreme. The farm consists of grazing land lying at the bottom of an irregular
valley. On each side are the fantastic limestone hills, formed of rock
so soft that you can break it away with your hands. All this country
is hollow. Could you strike it with some gigantic hammer it would boom
like a drum, or possibly cave in altogether and expose some huge
subterranean sea. A great sea there must surely be, for on all sides
the streams run into the mountain itself, never to reappear. There are
gaps everywhere amid the rocks, and when you pass through them you find
yourself in great caverns, which wind down into the bowels of the
earth. I have a small bicycle lamp, and it is a perpetual joy to me to
carry it into these weird solitudes, and to see the wonderful silver
and black effect when I throw its light upon the stalactites which
drape the lofty roofs. Shut off the lamp, and you are in the blackest
darkness. Turn it on, and it is a scene from the Arabian Nights. But there is one of these strange openings in the earth which has a
special interest, for it is the handiwork, not of nature, but of man. I had never heard of Blue John when I came to these parts. It is the
name given to a peculiar mineral of a beautiful purple shade, which is
only found at one or two places in the world. It is so rare that an
ordinary vase of Blue John would be valued at a great price. The
Romans, with that extraordinary instinct of theirs, discovered that it
was to be found in this valley, and sank a horizontal shaft deep into
the mountain side. The opening of their mine has been called Blue John
Gap, a clean-cut arch in the rock, the mouth all overgrown with bushes. It is a goodly passage which the Roman miners have cut, and it
intersects some of the great water-worn caves, so that if you enter
Blue John Gap you would do well to mark your steps and to have a good
store of candles, or you may never make your way back to the daylight
again. I have not yet gone deeply into it, but this very day I stood at
the mouth of the arched tunnel, and peering down into the black
recesses beyond, I vowed that when my health returned I would devote
some holiday to exploring those mysterious depths and finding out for
myself how far the Roman had penetrated into the Derbyshire hills. Strange how superstitious these countrymen are! I should have thought
better of young Armitage, for he is a man of some education and
character, and a very fine fellow for his station in life. I was
standing at the Blue John Gap when he came across the field to me. "Well, doctor," said he, "you're not afraid, anyhow." "Afraid!" I answered. "Afraid of what?" "Of it," said he, with a jerk of his thumb towards the black vault, "of
the Terror that lives in the Blue John Cave." How absurdly easy it is for a legend to arise in a lonely countryside! I examined him as to the reasons for his weird belief. It seems that
from time to time sheep have been missing from the fields, carried
bodily away, according to Armitage. That they could have wandered away
of their own accord and disappeared among the mountains was an
explanation to which he would not listen. On one occasion a pool of
blood had been found, and some tufts of wool. That also, I pointed
out, could be explained in a perfectly natural way. Further, the
nights upon which sheep disappeared were invariably very dark, cloudy
nights with no moon. This I met with the obvious retort that those were
the nights which a commonplace sheep-stealer would naturally choose for
his work. On one occasion a gap had been made in a wall, and some of
the stones scattered for a considerable distance. Human agency again,
in my opinion. Finally, Armitage clinched all his arguments by telling
me that he had actually heard the Creature--indeed, that anyone could
hear it who remained long enough at the Gap. It was a distant roaring
of an immense volume.