Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

A commonplace omnibus becomes the vehicle of intrigue and mystery, as eight citizens disappear in the maw of Paris.

Chapter XXX The Past Grips the Present

The attitude adopted by the escaped victims of Bus 519 left Henri Henry without any theory. His clear intelligence and rare faculties of intuition were, for the first time perhaps, utterly helpless before a problem. He did not know what to believe, and dared not let his imagination take flight.

A single gleam of hope shone through this mystery; a single clew which promised some day to uncover the truth he so ardently sought. Hence, abandoning all the other aspects of the situation, he came back time after time to the question which had so deeply moved Gilbert and Muret: “What was the object with the rectangular base stolen from the Villa Cécile?”

He felt sure that the answer to that question would of itself give him the key to the enigma, but he found no hypothesis which could explain the relation between this theft and the impudent security which the thief seemed to enjoy.

“This ‘object with a rectangular base,’ ” he remarked to Brunnel, “is evidently in Brancion’s hands. The visit to his house, which we are going to make tomorrow, with the help of our negro, is therefore more important than ever. It may not only give us the secret to the prison where that scoundrel held his captives, but also reveal the nature of this object which is the source of his power.

“On the success of this expedition depends the success of our investigation. Consequently we must leave nothing to chance, and take every possible precaution. We both of us know the man we have to deal with, and that he holds human life cheap.

“The more advance information we can get about the lair we are going to explore, the more chance we will have of escaping any traps he may set for us.”

“That is no doubt true,” agreed Brunnel, “but what are the precautions you speak of, and where can you expect to get any advance information?”

“From the one man who knows more than anybody else about the secrets of the old buildings of Paris. The house where Brancion has his headquarters is far from being modem; certain parts of it, at any rate, date from the fifteenth century.

“I happen to be acquainted with a learned decipherer of old manuscripts, who may not know anything about contemporary life, but certainly knows a great deal about Paris as it was during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. I’ve had the honor and the pleasure of interviewing him several times — for it is an honor and a pleasure to talk with him.

“He is a member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres, and is publishing a series of volumes on ‘Parisians in the Fifteenth Century.’ Last year he brought out a volume on ‘their costumes;’ this year it is to be ‘their houses.’ ”

“You mean Mr. Martin du Pont,” interrupted Brunnel, who prided himself on keeping up with the current books as they appeared.

“Exactly. And if, as certain indications lead me to believe, the secret part of Brancion’s house was constructed at the same time as the building itself, our friend the academician will certainly know all about it.”

“But will he be willing to share the results of his studies with us?”

The reporter smiled and answered:

“Your point is well taken, for any one who knows that Martin du Pont has no liking for reporters and hates to tell them all about his affairs. Generally speaking, he never even receives them.

“But he makes an exception for me, since I undertook a campaign one time — and carried it through successfully — after one of his communications to the Academy, to preserve one of the oldest corners in Paris.

“In spite of the fact that he never reads the papers, he knew how much help my articles had been in getting the old buildings that were precious to him, classed as historical monuments. And at present his door is always open to me. Now I will wager that he knows Brancion’s house as well as its owner, at least so far as the parts which date from past centuries are concerned.”

Strong in this conviction, the journalist presented himself, a few hours after his talk with Brunnel, at the learned academician’s house.

As he had foreseen, he was received at once in the scholar’s study.

Martin du Pont was about sixty years old; the front part of his head was bald and lined with deep wrinkles, while a bushy little beard flourished on his chin and cheeks. His blinking eyes were sheltered behind spectacles tinted a faint yellow, which gave his face a strange expression.

He was so careless of his clothes that his old valet, who had been his only servant for thirty years, had to drive him at intervals to have a new suit made. The bow-knot of the Legion of Honor, which he wore in his buttonhole, had grown faded and dingy. His coat pockets had been stretched out of shape by the many books he had stuffed into them, and he had even been known to attend meetings of the Academy without a tie.

His absent-mindedness was proverbial, and there were many anecdotes about it. It was he who came home soaked to the skin one rainy day, holding his umbrella carefully rolled up in its case. His faithful servant exclaimed: “Why didn’t you open it up?” And Mr. du Pont answered: “You’re right! I never thought of it.”

His study was as curious as himself. Piles of dusty papers stood about in a picturesque disorder. The scholar had given strict orders that they should never be disturbed.

“If you straighten things up,” he explained, “I’ll never be able to find anything.” And in fact, thanks to a sort of intuition, he could put his hand at once on any document he needed, among the hundreds which were stacked on the tables, the chairs, and even the floor.

When Henri Henry reached this sanctuary, Martin du Pont quickly cleared a chair of the folios which covered it, and said as hospitably as he knew how:

“Sit down, young man, sit down and tell me what brings you here. I don’t suppose you have come into my den just for the pleasure of seeing me?”

“Your time is too valuable, sir, for me to disturb you without a serious reason. I have come to ask the aid of your learning in a most important matter.”

“What!” exclaimed Martin du Pont. “Are the few vestiges of old Paris threatened again by vandals?”

The reporter smiled and hastened to reassure him.

“This time it is a very different sort of question,” he said. “You probably have not heard, since you don’t read the papers—”

“I haven’t time for it,” interrupted Martin du Pont, as if to excuse himself.

“Oh, I am not reproaching you, sir,” answered Henry. “But in order to explain the cause of my visit I must tell you about a certain affair which at present is very much in the public mind.”

And he told the story of the misadventures of Bus 519, to which the historian listened with a noticeable politeness and with a lack of interest that was equally noticeable. “How can this business,” he seemed to be thinking, “possibly have anything to do with my work?”

But when Henri Henry reached the description of Brancion’s house, explained precisely where it was, and what took place there, Martin du Pont’s face lighted up with understanding.

“I know that house well,” he exclaimed, “and I’m giving it a prominent place in the book I’m preparing for the printer now!

“It was built in the year 1464 for a certain Lord Crespinoy, who had lived for a long time among the Turks, and had established a harem for himself at a time when polygamy was a hanging offense. This harem was concealed in a mysterious part of the building, which was large and ingeniously protected.

“I even have a manuscript, written in Latin by Lord Crespinoy himself, in which his harem’s quarters are described in detail, as well as the mechanism which works the entrance to this subterranean part of his house. I’ll read you the translation I’ve made of it. It’s somewhere in this pile of papers.”

With these words he pointed to a mountain of documents on a stand in the corner. Then he arose, upset the mountain with a single push of his hand and, after looking through the debris for a few moments, extracted a large sheet of school paper, covered with scribblings in a mousetrack handwriting, which was that of Martin du Pont himself.

He cleared his throat with a cough and began:

“This is a letter which Lord Crespinoy wrote to a friend in the provinces, who had formerly lived at the Turkish Court with him.

“Lord Crespinoy wrote half jokingly:

At this point Mr. Martin du Pont looked up from his manuscript. “I don’t need to remind you, Mr. Henry,” he interjected, “that at the time this letter was written the house you are interested in, and which now stands in the midst of Paris, was surrounded by open fields, and that the city limits were still some distance away.”

After this commentary, the historian continued his reading:

“Fortunately for us,” added Martin du Pont, “Lord Crespinoy’s friend did not burn the letter, for its contents are as thrilling as the most marvelous of the ‘Thousand and One Nights.’ I intend, moreover, to read it at one of the approaching sessions of the Academy.”

Henri Henry nodded. His throat drawn, his eyes dilated, he listened eagerly to this revelation, the author of which had been dead for more than four centuries, but who now, with magnificent poetic justice, was supplying a powerful weapon against the scoundrel who was using — to carry out his crimes — the very chamber where Lord Crespinoy had concealed his pleasures.

After a moment’s pause the academician began again:

Mr. Martin du Pont stopped once more, and looked up.

“After that,” he said, “there are various protestations of friendship that don’t interest either you or me. But what do you think of this amazing manuscript? I had neglected it a little until now, because it seemed so far fetched; the story you have just told me of the house located precisely where Lord Crespinoy’s was reminded me of it.”

“And I’m glad it did,” said Henry, “for now there can be no doubt of the guilt of the man I’m after, and you have shown me how to get into the room he thinks is impenetrable. Once there, I hope I shall uncover his other secret, which is even more terrifying than the first: that of the ‘object with a rectangular base.’ ”

“It isn’t mentioned in my manuscript,” said the scholar naively.

“That is not surprising,” answered Henry, repressing a smile, “for it’s a question of an infinitely more modern and extraordinary discovery than that of the use of stones on pivots of the ‘blackish stuff called powder,’ as Lord Crespinoy says.

“I can only thank you, sir, for your invaluable aid. Without your help I should not have known how to get into this bandit’s cave nor how to get out, which might be more serious. I suppose you have no intention of making this astonishing document public at once?”

“You needn’t worry about that,” said Mr. du Pont. “I shan’t read it before the Academy for another fortnight. In the meantime you can take any action you see fit.”

When he came out of the scholar’s study into twentieth century Paris, with its taxis and subways, Henri Henry wondered if he was not the victim of a dream. The revelations of this old document were jumbled in his brain with thoughts of motor buses and the most modern experiments of physics.

The linking of such a representative symbol of modern life as a bus with the naive inventions of the fifteenth century literally dazed him. To clear his mind he discussed the matter with Brunnel, who found all of that quite natural, and prepared Henry for a good night’s sleep by giving him a long lecture on the inventive genius of Oriental architects.

Chapter XXXI Amid Exploding Gun Powder

The next morning, promptly at eleven o’clock, Henry and Brunnel kept their appointment with the negro doorman and rang the bell at Brancion’s gate. This time Hector Mainfroy was with them.

The former commissioner had repeated to him, with many comments of his own, all that Henry had learned from Mr. Martin du Pont and so aroused the young man’s curiosity that Hector, knowing his fiancée to be in safety and believing her protected from Brandon’s diabolical machinations, had asked permission to join the expedition. The presence of a third person in this dangerous exploit was not to be scorned.

Henri Henry, moreover, had recognized Hector’s level-headedness on the occasion when Brunnel had received a note from his former secretary, putting the two detectives on guard against the trap their enemy had set for them. Hence the journalist made no objection to accepting this volunteer re-enforcement.

The three companions, it must be admitted, felt some uneasiness as to the outcome of their strange undertaking. The slightest incident might turn it into disaster. Suppose Brancion had stayed home instead of going out, as the negro expected? Or suppose the latter had been replaced by another servant? Or suppose—

There were so many “supposes” in this matter that Henry regretted now that he had not taken more precautions; that he had not asked his negro ally, for example, to let him know by some prearranged signal if the coast was clear. But it was too late now. They had gone too far to retreat. They must follow through to the end.

This uneasiness, however, did not last long. The negro who came to open the door was the same one who had offered himself to Henry, and the broad smile which revealed his white teeth showed that conditions were as favorable as he had promised, and as his new masters hoped.

As soon as the gate had closed behind them, Henry asked in a low tone:

“Brancion has gone out?”

The negro nodded his head.

“Good! Don’t let any one come in, not even Brancion himself, until we have gone.”

The slave made a sign that he had understood, and dropped an iron bar in place across the door, which was fastened by two padlocks. He then handed over the keys of the padlocks to the reporter.

“Perfect,” said Henry. “Now how many men are there in the house?”

The slave raised six fingers.

“Six?”

“Yes.”

“That must be right,” said Brunnel. “There were ten in all. Two have probably gone out with Brancion: the chauffeur and the footman. A third was killed the other night, in falling off the roof. Our friend here is the. fourth. That leaves six blacks in the house.”

The slave had nodded his agreement as the former commissioner made the count.

“Well,” said Mainfroy, “if there’s a fight, we’re pretty evenly matched.”

But the dumb slave, with a malicious smile, pointed toward the house, then raised five fingers and made the gesture of turning a key in a lock.

At first Henry, Brunnel, and Mainfroy did not understand this pantomime, which the negro repeated patiently. Then the reporter exclaimed:

“You mean you have locked five of them up in the house?”

“Yes, yes,” nodded the African.

“Good for you!” said Brunnel enthusiastically. “My compliments!”

“And the sixth?” asked Henry.

The slave pointed toward the flight of marble steps.

“He is in the subterranean passage?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all right. We’ll take care of him.”

And Henry started toward the steps. The slave stopped him.

“What else?” asked the journalist.

A series of gestures constituted the answer. They indicated that the negro did not know how to operate the mechanism.

Henry smiled and asked:

“Is it always Brancion himself who makes the steps open?”

“Yes.”

“But the night he. came in with the bus?”

The negro pointed toward the steps, and lifted one finger.

“Ah! The man who is in there knows the secret?”

“Yes.”

“And you have never seen how it works?”

“No.” The negro shook his head, and closed his eyes tightly.

“You all have orders to shut your eyes when your master wants the passage opened?”

“Yes.”

“And you always obey?”

In reply the slave pointed to Henry’s revolver, and imitated an expression of fear.

“So disobedience is punished with death?”

“Yes.”

“This Brancion,” said the newspaper man to his companions, “seems to inspire his servants with an unholy fear. But we are losing time. We have talked too much; or at least, I have. Don’t worry,” he continued, addressing the slave again. “I am as strong as Brancion and I shall open the passage without even making you close your eyes.”

He ran lightly up the seventeen steps.

On each side of the large door which gave entrance to the house two marble dogs crouched like guardians. In accordance with the instructions in the manuscript deciphered by Martin du Pont, Henry took hold of the left ear of the dog on the right hand side.

The journalist’s heart was beating fast. At the moment when he was about to reach the goal of his efforts, he could not escape a sudden flare of emotion. What was going to happen? Would the mechanism work? Had there been no change in all these years?

Suddenly he tightened his grip on the marble ear and turned. He immediately experienced an intense joy. A muffled explosion sounded, like a shot fired in the distance, and the central part of the flight of steps swung slowly outward, opening the passage, large enough — as the manuscript said — “for a carriage and four.” At the same time, a thick cloud of smoke filled the courtyard as far up as the second story.

Henry ran quickly down the steps of the movable part, which had carried him with it in its opening, and was the first to enter the passage. Brunnel and Mainfroy followed him.

The slave, trembling with terror, had remained in the courtyard. Behind the three men the stone door closed silently.

At the same moment, however, electric lights flashed on along the ceiling, lighting up a vast room, with a gently sloping floor, about ten yards wide and twenty long.

“The rascal has put in some modem improvements,” said Mainfroy, “at least as far as the lighting is concerned.”

“And also for opening the door,” answered Brunnel, pointing to a long stone tube built solidly into the wall. Attached to it was an electric wire, which ended in a switch.

“He’s replaced the old flint with an electric spark.”

“Look out!” interrupted Henri Henry. “Drop!”

He had thrown himself flat on his stomach and his two companions followed his example. They were none too soon. A man had just appeared at the opposite end of the room, and six shots reverberated in rapid succession within the closed walls. The bullets whistled over the prostrate bodies.

“That’s the guard,” murmured Henry. “Hard luck for him. You take him, Brunnel. You’re the marksman.”

Brunnel sighted his man carefully and fired. The negro fell.

“Case of legitimate self-defense,” said Mainfroy as they rose from the floor.

“Oh, I haven’t killed him,” the ex-commissioner assured, hurrying toward the man he had just brought down. After examining him, he added:

“He has a ball in the thigh and has fainted. The shock of our coming in must have contributed as much as the wound to the fainting. At any rate, he can’t do us any harm.”

“That’s all we want,” said Henry. “Now let’s look for the ‘object with a rectangular base!’ ”

Four luxuriously furnished rooms opened off the subterranean vestibule. Small windows, near the ceiling and heavily barred, let in a dim light. A white wall could be vaguely seen rising beyond the windows, so that any prisoners kept here would be completely isolated from the street. The doors of these rooms, hung on the inside with sumptuous tapestries, were equipped on the outside with enormous locks.

“The ideal prison,” murmured Hector.

But among all the rare and precious works of art which furnished the four rooms, there was nothing corresponding to the “object with a rectangular base,” which the reporter was seeking.

A long, careful search brought no result and Henry felt a cold rage spread through his veins.

“The scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “Did he get wind of what we were up to? It looks as if he were making fun of us by letting us get in here, after he had taken away this mysterious thing I’m looking for without even knowing what it is!”

Chapter XXXII Three Musketeers and a Helper

Aided by Brunnel and Mainfroy, he set to work turning over and examining the furniture. In vain. Then they sounded the walls with their canes, from one end of subterranean quarters to the other, hoping to find a fifth secret room. In vain.

At length Henri Henry, moved by a new idea, approached the wounded slave lying upon the floor, to whom he had paid no attention until now.

“Another African,” grumbled Brunnel.

“And dumb,” added Mainfroy, who guessed the journalist’s intention, had opened the wounded man’s mouth to pour a few drops of brandy down his throat, and had seen that his tongue, too, was cut down to a stump.

The negro gave a long sigh, opened his eyes, and looked about him in terror.

“If you refuse to answer, or if you lie,” said Henry showing him his revolver, “I shall kill you.”

The wrinkled black face contracted in fear.

“Is there another room besides these four?”

“No,” the negro shook his head.

“Good. Did your master take something away from here this morning?”

“Yes.”

“A box?”

“Yes.”

“About as long as that and as wide as that?”

While speaking Henry spread his arms apart to indicate the approximate dimensions of the object he was hunting.

“Yes.”

“That settles it,” said the reporter bitterly. “We’re out of luck.”

“Why not simply denounce this Brancion to the police?” asked Brunnel, returning to an idea that was dear to him.

“No, I want to be the first to understand this sinister enigma, and I will be!” answered Henry vigorously. “But we must get out of here now — empty-handed, too, damn it!”

“Not entirely,” interjected Mainfroy, with his usual calm.

“What do you mean?”

“I found this between two cushions on one of the divans.”

He handed the reporter a dainty little notebook bound in Florentine leather, adding:

“You were hypnotized by the idea of looking exclusively for the ‘object with a rectangular base,’ and that kept you from noticing anything else. I merely acted as though I were making an ordinary search, and as a result found this notebook, which I think will have some interest for us since the first lines indicate that it is a diary kept by Cécile Muret during her captivity.”

Henry took the notebook eagerly.

“I congratulate myself now,” he said, “on having brought along as valuable a man as you are, Mr. Mainfroy.”

And Brunnel, with a note of pride in his voice, exclaimed:

“He’s the result of my training!”

Mainfroy did not point out the exaggeration in this, but contented himself with a smile.

After a moment’s reflection, Henry continued:

“When we get home, we can read Cécile Muret’s diary at our leisure. For the present our problem is to get away from here in safety.”

The exit was made as easily as the entrance, thanks to the electric attachment which had been added to the fifteenth century mechanism. The journalist had merely to turn the switch; the explosion followed, then the movable part of the stone steps swung open.

When they came out once more into the fresh air and sunlight, the three men experienced an immediate feeling of security. Without admitting it to themselves, they had been subject, as long as they were locked in the subterranean prison, to an indefinible uneasiness.

The slave was awaiting them by the door. “Nothing new?” Henry asked him.

“No.”

“All right. We’re leaving now.”

The journalist handed the padlock keys to the negro. The latter opened the door, and then stretched out both hands in supplication to Henry.

“You want us to take you with us?”

“Yes.”

“Good! Come along.”

Chapter XXXIII An Astounding Attack

Flanked by Brunnel, Mainfroy, and the faithful negro, Henri Henry left the courtyard of Brancion’s house and covered the short distance to the building where the supposed Antoine Lisbourdun had rented his studio. As they approached, they noticed a young woman at the door, who came toward them.

When she was still a little way from them, Hector Mainfroy realized with astonishment that it was Germaine Praline.

She was as pale as a corpse, and her large eyes shone in her white face with a feverish gleam. She was advancing toward them with the stiff movements of an automaton or a somnambulist, and like a somnambulist, too, she seemed to look about her without seeing.

The four men stopped, speechless, as if fascinated with horror at this strange apparition.

Hector was the first to recover himself, and stepped forward to the young girl, who had also stopped and was watching him with that expressionless stare which made him shudder.

“What are you doing here, Germaine?” he asked gently.

Germaine did not answer. She did not even seem to have heard the question her fiancé had asked. She was obviously struggling against some internal force. Her mouth contracted, her nose grew taut. At length in a voice which was devoid of any life, a voice which seemed to come from beyond the tomb, she said:

“Which of you is named Henri Henry?”

On hearing his name spoken, the journalist stepped forward.

The scene which followed was unfolded with the swiftness of a flash of lightning against a black sky.

Drawing a tiny revolver from her sleeve, Germaine fired three times at the reporter. Then collapsing suddenly in a nervous crisis, she dropped her weapon and fell on the sidewalk, which was reddened by the blood of her victim.

But the victim was not Henri Henry. Some one had thrown himself between the journalist and Germaine at the very moment she was aiming her revolver; it was the poor negro, who now lay at their feet, his black skin pierced by the three bullets.

He had been faithful unto death to the master to whom he had voluntarily given himself.

The police, attracted by the noise, quickly carried the wounded man and the sick girl into a near-by drug store. There, while the two patients received the necessary attention, Henry described the event in terms which considerably distorted the truth.

The negro, according to his story, had himself fired the three shots, and the girl had fainted in terror at witnessing the suicide.

As Brunnel and Mainfroy confirmed Henry’s words and as there had been no other witnesses to the attack, the police, who recognized their former superiors, did not for a second doubt the truth of this account.

The negro was too seriously wounded to be questioned himself. The doctor who examined him announced that he must be taken at once to the hospital, where Henry resolved to visit him.

In the depths of his heart the journalist was ashamed of the lies he had told about the loyal black. But the police must not be allowed to take charge of Germaine Praline. In the interests of the investigation he was carrying out, the young girl must remain at Henry’s disposition. She had certainly been nothing but an instrument in this matter, in Brandon’s hands, a marionette of which Brancion held the strings.

The reporter must know by what devilish means the scoundrel exercised this almost supernatural power. Germaine alone could tell him.

The formalities were completed in quick order, thanks to the good relations Brunnel had maintained with his successor, the commissioner in the Military School District. The latter even promised to see that the press did not get hold of this “painful incident.”

Germaine, who had returned to her senses, allowed herself to be led to the studio without seeming to understand where she was going. As the janitress watched her with a malevolent eye, Henry explained her presence, with a little embarrassment, by saying: “She’s the model for a new picture.”

This seemed plausible to his stem guardian, and she did not press the matter. Fortunately this Cerberus in petticoats had been busy upstairs when the tragic scene had taken place in the street, and had heard nothing.

As soon as the young girl, still somewhat under the influence of the nervous disturbance which had overcome her, was settled as comfortably as possible on the couch, Hector Mainfroy said to her with emotion:

“What has happened to you, Germaine?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What! You mean to say that after seriously — perhaps mortally — wounding that poor slave who threw himself between you and the man you tried kill, and you pretend not to remember anything about it?”

Germaine looked at him silently with troubled eyes.

“Germaine, darling, please say something in your own defense! At least tell me that this man who exerts a fatal influence over you, drove you to this crime! Tell me that you are sorry. Speak to me.”

The girl seemed to be still in a trance.

“I can’t stand this silence,” groaned the young lover. “Germaine, please! If you still have the slightest bit of affection for your fiancé, if you care at all what I think of you, tell me this: Why did you want to kill Henry?”

“I don’t know.”

Mainfroy pressed his hands to his temples in despair. His mind was swirling dizzily. With a great effort, however, he steadied himself. Never before had he allowed himself to betray publicly such strong signs of emotion.

Forcing his features to resume their impassive air once more, he reacted against his anger and his grief. He controlled his gestures, lowered his voice, and spoke calmly. Turning toward the two others, he said with apparent self-possession:

“I’m afraid she won’t be any use to us, at least so far as the information we want is concerned. Her inexplicable attack only complicates the matter more than ever, and Heaven knows it was complicated enough before.”

“Nevertheless I should like to know,” interrupted Henry, “why she wanted to kill me.”

Addressing himself to Germaine, he began to question her gently.

“You have no motive for hatred against me, have you, Miss Praline?” he asked.

“Oh, no! Of course, not!”

“Good. It was then out of obedience to some one else, who has power over you, that you tried to kill me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Very well. Are you allowed to tell me how you have spent the morning?”

“Certainly. I… I… oh, it’s terrible! I don’t remember anything!”

And she burst into sobs.

“Can’t you see, gentlemen,” interrupted Brunnel, “that this poor girl had no responsibility in what she did? She acted undoubtedly in a state of absolute unconsciousness, and at the suggestion of some one who exercises an unlimited domination over her mind.

“This is not the first time that dabblers in the occult sciences have made use of their knowledge to accomplish crimes. You don’t have to go back to the magicians of the Middle Ages, for examples; if you remember—”

Brunnel was off now on a stream of eloquence where it was hard to stop him. This was a favorite hobby of his, and he was ready to explain all the crimes that had hitherto defied explanation, by hypnotism.

He was convinced that this was one more example. Brancion, from his point of view, had the power to put Germaine under the influence of a hypnotic sleep and make her carry out, while in that condition, the most outrageous commands.

It must be said for Brunnel that he had never made a more successful speech in his life. No one interrupted him — which was in itself a triumph — and his audience listened with acute interest.

Germaine, whose magnificent eyes were fixed upon his face, did not miss a syllable of what he said; her expression reveled an effort to understand which was so intense that it gave her a deeply pathetic air.

Hector nodded his head in agreement as his former chief developed his ideas. The theory put forth by Brunnel and the arguments which supported it brought a great sense of relief to the young man. The sadness which had darkened his face gradually lifted. The conviction that Germaine, in spite of all appearances, was really innocent took root in his mind and filled him with joy.

Henri Henry himself at intervals gave signs of approving Brunnel’s words. When the latter had finished his speech — everything has to end! — he turned toward Germaine and asked:

“Is that right?”

Hector’s fiancée made a gesture of exhaustion. Her face took on again its dulled and indifferent expression, and she replied:

“How do I know?”

But Mainfroy exclaimed:

“Yes! That’s certainly what happened. It couldn’t be more obvious or more logical!”

“I don’t entirely agree with you,” said Henry slowly, and as courteously as possible.

In spite of his friendly tone, the remark irritated Brunnel, who answered sharply:

“If you have a more reasonable hypothesis, let’s hear it!”

“Your theory is very ingenious and tempting,” said the reporter. “Now, why doesn’t it satisfy me completely?

“I had already thought of it several times, even before this unfortunate girl attacked me. But it doesn’t seem enough to me to explain the strange attitude in which all of the passengers of Bus 519 have persisted.

“I admit that experiences of a psychic nature, known as occult phenomena, are not well understood. Nevertheless it seems hardly believable to me that one man should exercise over seven people of different social situations and different mentalities the same, invariable influence, merely by his own strength.

“Besides — you’ll probably say that this is a mania with me — isn’t it worth pointing out that Brancion’s mysterious power dates from the day when the rascal got possession of that ‘object with a rectangular base’? Everything leads me to think that there is some close relation between that power, and the possession of that object.

“It’s perfectly true that the results may be similar to those obtained by simple hypnotism. But I am convinced that these results are obtained by different means than those employed in the past, and that the ‘object with a rectangular base,’ which was stolen from the Villa Cécile, is one of them.”

Brunnel had already opened his mouth to deliver his reply when Mainfroy cut in with a different suggestion:

“Suppose, instead of arguing in the air, we read Cécile Muret’s diary. We may find something definite there to base an argument on.”

“You are right,” agreed Henry, “but first I am going to take a necessary precaution.

“I hope you will allow us,” he continued, turning to Germaine, “to protect you against yourself by keeping you here for awhile. This studio has a small room opening off it, which we will fix up as comfortably as possible with this couch and a few cushions. For the time being that will be your home, and we shall be your very respectful guardians.

“I trust that your captivity here will not last long, but I am sure you will understand the feeling which leads us to keep you.”

Hector made a gesture as if to oppose this decision, but Germaine stopped him with a glance and said, in a tired voice:

“Do whatever you wish with me.”

She was quickly settled in the small room, and Henry asked if she would like any books to read. She shook her head, however.

“All I want,” she said, “is to rest. If I can only sleep. But please tell my sister, because if I stay away long, she will worry.”

When the three friends were once more alone in the studio, Henry apologized to Mainfroy.

“It is not only in our interest, but also — and especially — in her own that I am doing this,” he explained. “At any cost she must be rescued, even by force, from this hideous domination.

“But that is not all. We must fool our enemy now into thinking that the attack succeeded. It’s the only way of getting him to stop hunting me down — for I am always the one at whom he aims. It is also the only way of giving him a false security, which may perhaps make him careless. And if he is once careless, we will be ready to take advantage of it.”

He scribbled a few fines, and then read them aloud:

“That will start some rumors,” he added smiling. “I shall ask you, Mainfroy, to take written instructions to my house, so that the servants will know what to do in case of visits. Everybody must be deceived in this matter. And I trust to you, Brunnel, to arrange it at the prefecture of police, where I suppose you still have friends, so that they will pretend to believe the news.

“At the same time, will you send off a telegram in code for me? I’ll write it out now, to my wife, and put her mind at rest. When you come back, we’ll all read Cécile Muret’s diary together.”

Chapter XXXIV The Diary of Cécile Muret

January 14, 19—. What’s the use of my writing in this diary? Probably no one will ever read it But I must prove to myself that I am still sane, and fight against this bewilderment which settles down over me at times. For three days and three nights I have been alone in this luxurious room, which is really a prison.

Alone! I never knew before what the word meant. The only human face I have seen is that of the horrible negro, with his tongue cut out, who is my jailer. No one has spoken a word to me. My sleep is broken with terrible nightmares.

But the worst torment is that I have no idea of the fate of those I love. Are they dead, or are they prisoners like myself? I may never know. Even if they are alive and free, they must be suffering anguish over my disappearance.

Who is taking care of papa? Who ties his tie for him in the morning and knows what he likes for his meals? The absence of his Cécile will be hard on him!

And poor André, who came to Paris in triumph, to receive “the reward for all his work,” as he wrote papa! The very first evening he lost the promised reward. Almost the eve of our marriage, and we were separated.

The more I study what has happened, the more Robert Brandon’s name sticks in my mind as that of the only person who could have kidnaped me in this brutal way. Only he, with his infernal genius and his unbelievable recklessness, could have planned and carried out such a scheme. As for his purpose? I know it only too well.

But if, by any chance, some one should read these lines, I must try to explain why I suspect this man. The story of my life will throw some light on the matter.

I was born at Saint-Julien-by-the-Sea in a house which belonged to my parents, and which they named in my honor: Villa Cécile.

My father was at that time professor of physics at the University of Caen. Although he was still comparatively a young man, he was considered a remarkable physicist. The studies he had published had made him almost famous in the scientific world.

My birth meant little to him, and he didn’t begin to be interested in me until I was old enough to ask endless questions about the strange instruments in his laboratory.

It was about that time that he became obsessed with his one idea; all his work was directed toward a single aim, and he struggled to realize a dream which had been haunting him for years.

Allowed to grow up almost without any supervision, with an invalid mother and an absent-minded father, my whims were the only laws I knew. My father was the only teacher I had. Sometimes he neglected my education, and at other times during spells of paternal care, he stuffed my young mind with science.

The result; was that at thirteen I had never heard of Corneille, Shakespeare, or Julius Caesar; but on the other hand Mariotte’s law and Archimedes’ principle were old stories to me.

Since then I have read a great deal, but I have always been more interested in science than in literature.

I was fourteen when my mother died, in the same Villa Cécile where I had been born. Papa, who adored her, without fully realizing while she was alive how deep his love was, became nearly mad for a time with grief. He began to detest Saint Julien and Caen, asked to be retired, and brought me to Paris, where it was our misfortune to meet Robert Brancion again.

The latter had been one of papa’s best pupils at the University of Caen. He had a prodigious aptitude for the physical sciences, and assimilated the most complicated theories without effort. His facility, his memory, his intelligence and his passion for science aroused a great enthusiasm in papa, who said that “if it hadn’t been for André Gilbert, Robert Brancion would be the most brilliant pupil he had ever had.”

André was the beloved disciple to whom papa confided all his secrets, even his mistakes and discouragements. André’s serious, handsome face frightened me a little when I was a child, and I used to wonder what he could possibly be doing when he would be shut up for hours in the laboratory.

Having devoured innumerable novels in secret, my imagination, in spite of my precocious scientific training, was thoroughly romantic. And I supposed that papa and André, like the alchemists in the past, were trying to make gold. But their ambition was much greater than that of the alchemists! And their discovery was more extraordinary and more marvelous than that of the transformation of metals would have been!

But I must come back to Brancion.

When we landed in Paris, papa and I felt lost in the roar and tumult of the city, and looking for an apartment seemed almost an impossible task. For several days we wandered around in different parts of town on the left bank, where papa enjoyed the comparative quiet.

Finally we settled on a place in the Avenue de Suffren, and as we were coming out, after having signed the lease, a man with a thick beard bumped into us, apologized, and then looked at us in astonishment.

“Professor!”

“Robert!”

It was Brancion who had stumbled on us. By chance — which he said was providential — it happened that he was living in the same neighborhood, in an old house dating from the fifteenth century, and which I have heard is an architectural marvel.

His former pupil quickly won papa over completely; though this wasn’t hard, as he had already been well disposed toward him. In a little while Brancion was a daily visitor at the apartment. As he was very rich, he tried to gain at least a sort of benevolent neutrality out of me by overwhelming me with presents.

Papa, who couldn’t conceive of any bad intentions in any one he liked, couldn’t get along without him. But I felt an instinctive and unreasoned distrust toward him which the future justified.

I shall never forget the terrible evening when his baseness was revealed, in a scene which was horrible for me. André had come to Paris to spend a few days. He brought with him a model on a reduced scale of the wonderful apparatus papa had conceived and he had worked out.

They were shut up together in the study until dinner-time. When they came out, they seemed very pleased. André’s handsome face was lighted up with a smile, and when his eyes met mine, I discovered an intense expression of tenderness in them. At that time I was only sixteen, but I was tall and quite matured. My mirror told me that I was not homely, and that I could hope to be loved.

Was it possible that this dazzling young man, whom I had always thought of purely as a scientist, could be in love with me? When I asked myself that question, a feeling of happiness stirred in my heart; and my eyes, instead of avoiding André’s, turned toward him to find again that light which had moved me so deeply.

After dinner I said that I should like to hear some music. It seemed to me that only music would be appropriate to the mood I felt rising in me. Papa, of course, always yielded to my whims, so he agreed and we all three went to a concert hall on the left bank where the best music is played by a marvelous orchestra.

But we were so unsophisticated in Paris that we didn’t know the hall was closed for the season. We joked about our ignorance, and started back home on foot.

From the sidewalk in front of the house we noticed that the windows in the study were lighted. “You forgot to put out the light again,” I said to papa teasingly. Our surprise turned into fear, however, when we came upstairs and found the door to the apartment standing open. It was fortunate for us that André was with us. He bounded toward the study door and entered, a revolver in his hand.

“So it’s you, you sneak thief!” he cried.

Papa and I were both fixed with horror at what we saw.

Robert Brancion, motionless before the threat of the revolver, stood with trembling hands and anxious eyes, beside the bookcase, which had been broken open. There were slivers of glass on the floor.

On the table the small model, which he had stolen from the bookcase, had been taken apart, and each piece carefully wrapped in tissue paper. There could be no doubt that the scoundrel was getting ready to carry them off with him.

Papa trembled with indignation and grief.

André began to speak slowly in a dry, clipped tone.

“I could take my choice,” he said, “between turning you over to the police and putting a bullet in your head. But I haven’t forgotten that we used to be friends. So here are your orders.”

Brancion made a gesture of rebellion. But André went on:

“Here are your orders! You are rich; there is no necessity for you to stay in France, and you are going to leave the country at once. I forbid you ever to come back, and to forestall any notion you might have of returning, you are going to write and sign what I dictate. Sit down at that table, take a sheet of paper and a pen.”

Brancion obeyed. The shining barrel of the revolver, aimed steadily at his breast, checked any desire for resistance. After thinking a few moments, André dictated:

“Now the date and your signature.”

“I refuse to sign that,” said Brancion in a low, hoarse voice.

“Very well then,” said André. “You can choose between the police and the. revolver.”

Brancion growled like a wild beast caught in a trap. Then he dated and signed the paper.

“Am I free now?” he asked.

“You are free. But if, day after to-morrow, you have not started for abroad, or if you ever come back, this paper will at once be put in the hands of the police.”

His head down, Brancion walked heavily out of the room, trembling with rage.

When he had left, André asked:

“Did I do right, sir.”

“You acted well, my boy,” papa answered.

Then turning toward me, he said.

“Let’s forget this scoundrel who betrayed my confidence, and talk of something else. André has asked me for your hand this evening, and—”

Dear papa didn’t like to beat about the bush. André, who had turned crimson, tried to signal to him to drop the matter for the time, but he went calmly on.

“—and I said ‘Yes,’ provided of course that you are willing. What is your answer?”

I gave André a teasing glance.

“A young girl,” I murmured, “must obey her father.”

“That means she agrees!” exclaimed papa. “And I’m very happy for you both, my children. As soon as André finishes the work he is starting now, you shall be married. You are still too young at present, Cécile, and André must devote all his time and money to the task he has undertaken.”

He took both our hands and concluded:

“It will not be more than four or five years.”

At this I felt suddenly disappointed. I had already been picturing myself as André’s wife, and here I was being told to wait four or five years!

But I see now that under all his eccentricity papa was more wise than I realized. I was much too young then to appreciate André’s loyalty and fineness and distinction. It is only now that I love him as he deserves to be loved, and as he loves me.

I learned later that the four or five years were essential for André to carry out papa’s great invention, which Brancion had wanted to steal.

For a long time after that, we had no news of Brancion. A sign: House For Sale, was hung out over his door, and that reassured us that he had really gone.

Only a few months ago I read in the papers that “the explorer, Robert Brancion, was about to return to France.” There was a long article full of praise of “the famous explorer,” who had been on long expeditions in India, Tibet, and Central Africa. Not wanting to worry papa, I didn’t say anything to him about it.

But one evening I thought I recognized Robert, in the shadow of his gate, watching me go by with gleaming eyes that terrified me. I told papa at once, and then wrote to André. It seemed to me that if André could be with me, I’d have nothing to fear.

His work, moreover, was finished. Papa’s marvelous discovery had been applied in the apparatus his favorite pupil had constructed. Their experiments had been more than satisfactory.

In his first answer, André tried to calm my fears. But when I wrote again, he replied by announcing the result of his researches and said that he was coming to Paris at once.

It was then that this strange drama took place, in which I am the victim or one of the victims, and which I cannot help believing is the work of Robert Brancion.

In the brief case he carried André had his most important papers relating to papa’s discovery and its application. They were calculations, formulas, designs, et cetera. After our first greetings, at the Hall des Pas Perdus, we decided to take the bus that goes by our house.

While we were standing there chatting, I felt a shudder suddenly go over me. It seemed to me that in the crowd of faces about us, I had suddenly met Brancion’s eyes. “Nothing but my imagination,” I thought.

Nevertheless, in the bus I looked anxiously at the faces of all the passengers. Robert was certainly not one of them, and that gave me a sense of relief.

We had passed the Military School and were preparing to get off at the next stop, when I happened to look up mechanically at the window which separated us from the driver’s seat. The driver had turned around, and with his face close to the glass, was looking down at us.

He turned his head away quickly, but I had had time to recognize that metallic glance; they were Robert’s eyes.

This time I was seriously alarmed and gripped André’s arm to tell him what I had seen. But I had hardly opened my mouth when the bus swerved terribly, and made a sharp turn which nearly crushed us against the wall. Everything went dark, and I lost consciousness.

When I came to, I was in this room, where materially I lack nothing, but spiritually I lack everything.

January 15, 19— To-day I have had a piece of great good fortune. I am no longer alone; I have a companion. She is charming. Eighteen years old; named Germaine Praline. I am fond of her.

She tells me that she was in the same bus we were in Tuesday evening. I remember noticing her large eyes, her complexion, and her simple, stylish good taste. It appears that she was with her older sister. She underwent the same sensations I did: shock, fainting, and reawakening in a room not so luxurious as this one but very comfortable.

Of course she doesn’t understand what has happened to her at all, but she resigns herself more easily than I do. The thing that worries her is to be separated from her sister.

As for me, the sound of a human voice and especially her lovely, sympathetic voice, is sweeter than music. I make Germaine talk as much as I can, just for the pleasure of listening to her.

This morning the negro, who is her jailer, too, came into her room and signaled to her to follow him. She hoped that she was going to see her sister and was disappointed to find a stranger; but the delight at escaping from solitude was greater than her disappointment. We get along very well together.

January 16, 19— Germaine works at present in a millinery shop, but she received an excellent education. Her parents died, and she had to go to work.

She is loved by a young man, whom she loves in return and who belongs to the police. She is ardently in hope that her lover will rescue her, and me at the same time. “If you only knew how intelligent he is,” she says, “and how distinguished looking.” I only hope his intelligence will put him on the right track in looking for us!

January 17,19— It is too horrible for me to think about! The hideous offer that man has made me! My head is dizzy, and I can hardly collect my thoughts.

It is Robert Brancion who kidnaped me, and papa and André, too. He came to my prison this morning and boasted of his exploit.

He tries to justify it by saying that he was also working along the lines of papa’s discovery at one time, and that papa merely applied the ideas Brancion developed. Consequently he claims that he is merely taking back his own property when he steals what it has cost papa and André years of labor to create. For the apparatus is actually in his possession now.

That is the most terrible part of it. And he offers to set us all at liberty if I will consent to undergo the radiations of the apparatus and thus forfeit my own freedom of will. What a mocking and incomplete liberty that would be!

Of course I would see my dear ones again, and the light of day. If it only increased the size of my prison, it might at least be better than my present fate.

Germaine will consent to anything to be set free. And Brancion tells me that papa, André, and the other passengers in the bus have already accepted the offer.

I am the only one who is still holding out. The freedom of all the rest depends on me. What shall I do?

Cécile’s manuscript was interrupted at these words, and remained unfinished. No doubt she had eventually accepted this mysterious offer which gave her a “mocking and incomplete liberty,” and had submitted to the radiations of the apparatus.

When he had finished reading, Henri Henry reflected deeply for a long time. Cécile’s diary seemed to confirm his suppositions as to the role played by the “object with a rectangular base,” which was obviously the same as the strange “apparatus” the young girl mentioned so frequently.

At length he said to his friends:

“This Brancion is an egotist and a man of pride above everything else. If he believed that he was rid of us, he would not hesitate to announce Muret’s marvelous invention to the world as his own, and take the glory for it. We must make him think that he is rid of us; I shall see to that myself.”

The next day the Gazette de Paris announced that its “brilliant colleague, Henri Henry,” had been forced to undergo an operation of laparotomy, and had died three hours later.

Chapter XXXV P-Rays

As soon as the Gazette de Paris had announced the death of Henri Henry, articles began to appear at once in all the Paris papers, detailing his career and expressing the regret of the profession which had lost him.

The reporter’s most brilliant scoops were recalled and Henri himself, reading the articles in the seclusion of Antoine Lisbourdun’s studio, learned of several remarkable exploits in his life of which he had never heard before. His mysterious and tragic end was eloquently regretted, and respectful condolences were offered the young widow.

The latter, reassured by the telegrams in code which Henry sent her every night, read the articles about the living dead man with eager curiosity, and enjoyed the “good press” he was getting.

As one prominent journalist remarked, however, “the first fact about a daily paper is that it must come out every day.” And in order to appear every day, the subjects of information must be infinitely varied. It was inevitable that Henri Henry’s death should be quickly forgotten and replaced by the first novelty that offered any prospect of interest.

This, in fact, was what happened when the Academy of Science received the famous report on the newly discovered P-rays, a report which was destined to overthrow most of the ideas previously held as to “occult” phenomena.

An article in the Gazette de Paris explained the matter as follows:

The writer of the article added that he had been informed on good authority that the minister of public instruction had proposed Robert Brancion’s name for the Legion of Honor.

This was followed by an interview with the great man himself, and Brancion’s words were of such a sensational nature that the interview appeared in heavy type.

“Have you searched for a practical application of your discovery?” the reporter had asked.

In the studio under the roof the three allies, Henry, Brunnel, and Mainfroy, had read Brancion’s interview with intense emotion. In the light of what they had learned from Cécile Muret’s diary, the truth was now unmistakable.

“I thought the news of my death would bring the rascal out of his cautious silence,” said Henry reflectively.

“His pride will be his ruin,” declared Brunnel, and would gladly have expressed a few prime truths on the danger of pride if his companions had permitted.

But Henry continued reflecting out loud:

“What is our next step? We know that the apparatus was invented by Muret, perfected by André Gilbert, and stolen by this scoundrel; shall we denounce him as a thief? We also know that he caused the deaths of the old woman at Saint-Julien-by-the-Sea and the unlucky bus-driver; shall we denounce him as a murderer? Or shall we unmask him in public, since he has the impudence to invite the public to his own triumph?”

“Let’s wait until Tuesday,” suggested Hector. “We can be among the crowd at his lecture and see if there is a chance to take a hand in the performance.”

Chapter XXXVI The “Object with a Rectangular Base”

Avast crowd was already filing into the main hall at the Sorbonne, the day Brancion was to give his lecture, an hour before the time which had been announced.

The first rows of seats had been reserved for members of the Academy of Science, prominent statesmen, and well known figures of the intellectual and social world. The Minister of Public Instruction, who had promised to come, had sent his excuses at the last moment, saying that he had been taken suddenly ill.

It was whispered, in well-informed quarters, that the minister had received a visit that morning from a mysterious person, and that it was after his conversation with this person that the statesman had decided he was not well.

In spite of his absence, the audience was unusually brilliant. A large number of police supervised the preparations, and tried to prevent the inevitable pushing which takes place when a hundred people wish to get through a door barely large enough for four at the same time. In fact, the police were so numerous that one would have thought orders had been given to guard all the exits.

“You’d think they were trying to arrest a criminal instead of holding a scientific lecture,” said one little man with large spectacles and an umbrella, who found himself uncomfortable under the gaze of so many policemen.

Henri Henry, who was concealed among the crowd at the right hand side of the hall, not far from the platform, and rendered unrecognizable by a false beard, overheard this comment. He could not repress a faintly malicious smile and, turning to Brunnel and Mainfroy, exchanged glances of understanding with them.

Brunnel had had a long conference that same morning with the prefect of police, and Mainfroy was none other than the unknown caller who had seemed to influence the Minister of Public Instruction’s health. Neither of them was surprised, therefore, by the unusual presence of police or the absence of the official.

Not far away from the three men and also near the platform, seven people were sitting together, the passengers and conductor of Bus 519. Professor Muret and his daughter sat side by side, with André Gilbert directly behind them. On his left was Charron, the printer, and on his right the conductor, Chalgrin. The two Praline sisters sat with the scientist and his daughter; Germaine’s hand rested in Cécile’s.

How did it happen that these seven persons, of such different occupations and education, found themselves once more united? This question might perhaps have been answered by Henri Henry, who was keeping a close watch over them.

Suddenly the fluttering of papers and the murmur of conversation in the hall ceased. Two negroes, dressed in livery, had appeared upon the platform, carrying a good-sized box shaped like a small coffin, which appeared to be heavy.

They placed it carefully on the table in the center of the platform, drew out the screws at the corners, and lifted off the lid and sides. Henri Henry murmured in Brunnel’s ear: “The object with a rectangular base.”

The seven escaped victims of Bus 519 had trembled when the box was opened. A realization ran through the whole audience that this was Brandon’s famous “apparatus.” It consisted of a glass case, from which a dozen glass tubes projected. Strange, greenish lights flickered in the tubes and around them. In the walls of the case were several openings large enough for a man to pass his head through them.

A wave of applause swept across the room. Brancion had entered. He was in full dress, and his black beard stood out sharply against the white bosom of his shirt. He glanced over the rows of heads, and his dominating personality at once took command of the audience. In a strong, ringing voice he began his lecture.

But suddenly his voice faltered; he seemed troubled. He had met Muret’s gaze, and the old professor’s eyes expressed such a deep contempt that in spite of his unparalleled effrontery, Robert Brancion was embarrassed.

The presence of those seven persons, whom he had not invited, surprised and alarmed him. He made an instinctive gesture of his hand toward them as if to brush them away. Henry rose halfway from his seat, ready to intervene.

Brancion, however, seemed to have mastered his uneasiness. What did he have to fear from those whose freedom of will he had annihilated? He shrugged his shoulders, smiled scornfully, and continued the explanation of his theory. His embarrassment had been so brief that the public had not been aware of it; Henri Henry settled back in his seat.

The lecturer explained the principles on which he had worked, in a clear, understandable form. The main line of his search and the results obtained had already been suggested in the interview he had given to the Gazette de Paris. He now traced the steps by which he had arrived at his astounding discovery, and even brought up himself the objections that might be made to his reasoning.

The exposition was so logical and precise, and his arguments so firmly dove-tailed that he was given an ovation at the close of the theoretical part of the program. There was a burst of applause, accompanied by a pounding of canes on the floor, and several people stood up in their enthusiasm.

Brancion rested a few minutes before passing to the second part of the program, which was to consist of practical experiments. Henri Henry slipped off the false beard which disguised him, and appeared to be waiting for the proper moment to go into action.

When the acclamations had at length died down, Brancion began the description of his apparatus:

“This glass cage,” he said, “contains in its base several particles of a substance hitherto unknown, which appears to be an element in itself — that is to say, it cannot be broken down by chemical means — and which I brought back with me from Africa. This metal, for it has all the properties of a metal and several others besides, is radioactive. I have named it — as I believe was my privilege — ‘brancium.’ ”

A low murmur of anger interrupted the distinguished scientist’s words at this moment. Professor Muret had risen, and seemed ready to leap upon the platform. His face flushed and his eyes protruding, he opened his mouth, but could not utter any sound except this rumbling of wrath, which drew the curious attention of the crowd.

“The man’s crazy,” said a voice.

“He’s having a fit.”

“Take him out!”

Brancion, however, gazed fixedly at Muret, and made a slight gesture. The old man dropped back into his seat, as if under a control stronger than his own.

When the disturbance caused by this incident had calmed down, the lecturer took up the thread of his speech at the point where it had been broken:

“This ‘brancium,’ as I said, is radioactive, and the rays which it gives out are the P-rays, whose wave-length may be modified, within certain limits, by means of the apparatus which I have constructed. These are the P-rays which we substitute for those emitted by a subject who wishes to transmit his thought to another subject.

“The latter enters into psychic resonance as soon as the ‘brancium’ is released; that is to say, as soon as I have removed the special covering of vegetable tissue, the only substance which is opaque to the brancic rays.

“The twelve glass tubes which you see correspond to twelve radiations of slightly different wave-lengths, which allow me, if I wish, to enter into psychic resonance with twelve different individuals.

“Is there any one present in the audience who would care to come up on the platform and place his head, for a few seconds, in one of the openings, so that one of the tubes may be put in psychic resonance with him?”

It was at this moment that the dramatic event which was later to be the subject of so much discussion, took place.

Before any other member of the audience had had time to answer Brancion’s invitation, Henri Henry had leaped on the platform, and announced:

“I will!”

At the sight of the enemy he believed dead, Brancion’s swarthy face turned pale. Instinctively he glanced about him, as if looking for a means of flight. Then making an effort of will, he controlled his features, and addressing the public, continued:

“Since this gentleman is willing, I shall now perform the experiment I have described to you.” Turning to Henry, he added: “Will you be so kind as to place your head in one of these openings?”

The audience, which was breathless with impatience, waited for “the gentleman who was willing” to stick his head through the hole in the glass. The latter, however, did not seem to be in a hurry.

“I am waiting, sir,” said Brancion.

But Henri Henry, standing erect, his hands in his pockets, and his cane under his arm, declared in a truculent voice, loud enough to be heard throughout the entire auditorium:

“One moment, please. It was announced that the lecture would be. open to the public, and that there would be questions and answers. Now before offering my head for your experiments, I would like to ask one or two questions.”

A booing broke out in the audience and drowned his words. There was a chorus of whistling and insults.

Henry, self-possessed and quiet, waited for the noise to die down. Brancion seemed far more disturbed than the reporter. In a few moments a party began to form which took Henry’s side: “Let him speak. He’s right. There were to be questions and answers.”

Thanks to those sudden changes of mood which overtake crowds without any one knowing just how or why, there came an abrupt lull in the shouting, and in the dead silence which followed, Henry continued:

“I am Henri Henry, one of the editors of the Gazette de Paris. I was supposed to be dead, and if I ask you to listen to me, it’s because I have something to say.”

This romantic appearance of a man who was believed to be in the grave produced a change in the public attitude. The party which had taken Henry’s side now gained adherents until it was almost unanimous. The same people who a moment ago had shouted, “Put him out!” now called, “Let him speak! Let him speak!”

Brancion shrugged his shoulders and pretended to appear indifferent, though a secret fear was beginning to grip him. What did this accursed newspaper man know, and what was he going to reveal?

Henry did not keep them waiting.

“The learned discoverer of ‘brancium’,” he began in a clear, pleasing voice, “has concealed from you, with inconceivable modesty, one of the properties of his excellent apparatus. It is that property, since I know about it, which makes me hesitate to stick my head in one of those holes as much as if they were the guillotine.

“For my personality would be beheaded as surely as the public executioner could behead my body. I shan’t talk in parables, however. I am going to ask you, the public, to act as judge in a strange case.”

Henri Henry’s mysterious words produced a state of bewildered astonishment in the audience. There was a murmur of approval, however, when he called upon those present to act as judges. The public was obviously flattered by this appeal. Brancion, who was determined to play his role to the end, forced a smile:

Henry continued:

“The unknown property of this apparatus, to which I have just referred, is as follows: any person, who subjects himself to the activity of the brancic rays, loses, as long as he under their influence, his own freedom of will. In other words, his brain acts merely as a resonator.

“He is incapable of giving out psychic rays himself, and can vibrate only under the influence of those given out by the apparatus. That is to say, the possessor of the apparatus cannot only communicate his thought to those whose psychic wavelengths he has measured, but can also impose his own will upon them. Is that not true, Mr. Brancion?”

Brancion made a gesture of denial, but Henri Henry went on:

“Now, in the light of that, ladies and gentlemen, suppose for a moment — merely as a hypothesis! — that some unscrupulous rascal were to steal Mr. Brancion’s marvelous apparatus.

“Suppose he were to force Robert Brancion himself to submit to its activity, and be measured psychically. Suppose, in short, that the true inventor were under the domination of a scoundrel, who claimed all the merit of the discovery, and reaped all the profits! If all of that were the case, what do you think: Should one save the invention, or the inventor?”

From all sides, voices responded:

“The inventor! The inventor!”

A few elderly scientists in the front row of seats, and the seven escaped victims of Bus 519 were the only ones to shout:

“The invention!”

Their voices, however, were lost in the uproar. Henri Henry raised his hand for silence, and when a hush fell, he continued:

“So you believe as I do that a human life, a human personality is worth all the machines in the world, even the most marvelous?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Then I act according to your judgment.”

And with one blow of his cane the reporter shattered the twelve glass tubes of the “object with a rectangular base.”

Seven persons at once climbed upon the platform. They were the escaped victims of Bus 519, at last delivered from the domination of Brancion. Professor Muret sobbed as he groped on the floor among the wreckage of the apparatus. André and Cécile helped him in his task. Germaine and Juliette cried out against the scoundrel who had made a criminal of Germaine.

Brancion dashed toward the rear of the platform, hunting in terror for a way to flee. But Charron, the printer, leaped upon him and, catching him by the shoulders, threw him to the floor. Chalgrin gripped him in a blind fury, and sank his fingers into his throat.

In a moment a realization of Brancion’s crime spread through the audience. There was a rush toward the stage, and Charron, Brancion, and Chalgrin were buried beneath a mass of attacking bodies.

When the police had reached the spot and dragged off those on top, Robert Brancion was dead.

Epilogue

The shock of the tragic events in which he had taken part proved too great for Professor Muret, who had already been weakened by years of work, grief, and anxiety. He was carried from the hall in a fainting condition, and died the following morning without having regained consciousness. With him perished the secret for extracting the metal which gave out the psychic rays, the only part of his great labors which had been accomplished before André became his pupil.

André Gilbert, now the husband of Cécile, is seeking in vain to rediscover, from the memory of talks on the subject with the professor, the first steps of this work which had made possible his own extraordinary application of the principles involved.

Mainfroy and Germaine were married quietly soon after the wedding of André and Cécile; and Brunnel, while honoring the young couple with many lectures on the advantage of being a bachelor, has asked Juliette Praline, so it is said, to become Mrs. Brunnel.

Henri Henry carried on in the Gazette de Paris a campaign to raise a fund for the purchase and preservation of the old house in the Avenue de Suffren. The name of Martin du Pont appeared among those of the first subscribers, and to-day the building has been turned into a public museum.

The faithful negro who saved the journalist’s life, survived his wounds, and has remained the devoted servant of Henry.

The fate of Brancion’s other slaves has never been known.