By ROBERT E. HOWARD
A strange story of dark powers and occult
evil, by the author of "Black Colossus."
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales June 1934.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
As I entered John Kirowan's study I was too much engrossed in my ownthoughts to notice, at first, the haggard appearance of his visitor, abig, handsome young fellow well known to me.
"Hello, Kirowan," I greeted. "Hello, Gordon. Haven't seen you for quitea while. How's Evelyn?" And before he could answer, still on the crestof the enthusiasm which had brought me there, I exclaimed: "Look here,you fellows, I've got something that will make you stare! I got itfrom that robber Ahmed Mektub, and I paid high for it, but it's worthit. Look!" From under my coat I drew the jewel-hilted Afghan daggerwhich had fascinated me as a collector of rare weapons.
Kirowan, familiar with my passion, showed only polite interest, but theeffect on Gordon was shocking.
With a strangled cry he sprang up and backward, knocking the chairclattering to the floor. Fists clenched and countenance livid he facedme, crying: "Keep back! Get away from me, or——"
I was frozen in my tracks.
"What in the——" I began bewilderedly, when Gordon, with anotheramazing change of attitude, dropped into a chair and sank his head inhis hands. I saw his heavy shoulders quiver. I stared helplessly fromhim to Kirowan, who seemed equally dumfounded.
"Is he drunk?" I asked.
Kirowan shook his head, and filling a brandy glass, offered it to theman. Gordon looked up with haggard eyes, seized the drink and gulped itdown like a man half famished. Then he straightened up and looked at usshamefacedly.
"I'm sorry I went off my handle, O'Donnel," he said. "It was theunexpected shock of you drawing that knife."
"Well," I retorted, with some disgust, "I suppose you thought I wasgoing to stab you with it!"
"Yes, I did!" Then, at the utterly blank expression on my face, headded: "Oh, I didn't actually think that; at least, I didn't reachthat conclusion by any process of reasoning. It was just the blindprimitive instinct of a hunted man, against whom anyone's hand may beturned."
His strange words and the despairing way he said them sent a queershiver of nameless apprehension down my spine.
"What are you talking about?" I demanded uneasily. "Hunted? For what?You never committed a crime in your life."
"Not in this life, perhaps," he muttered.
"What do you mean?"
"What if retribution for a black crime committed in a previous lifewere hounding me?" he muttered.
"That's nonsense," I snorted.
"Oh, is it?" he exclaimed, stung. "Did you ever hear of mygreat-grandfather, Sir Richard Gordon of Argyle?"
"Sure; but what's that got to do with——"
"You've seen his portrait: doesn't it resemble me?"
"Well, yes," I admitted, "except that your expression is frank andwholesome whereas his is crafty and cruel."
"He murdered his wife," answered Gordon. "Suppose the theory ofreincarnation were true? Why shouldn't a man suffer in one life for acrime committed in another?"
"You mean you think you are the reincarnation of yourgreat-grandfather? Of all the fantastic—well, since he killed hiswife, I suppose you'll be expecting Evelyn to murder you!" This lastwas delivered in searing sarcasm, as I thought of the sweet, gentlegirl Gordon had married. His answer stunned me.
"My wife," he said slowly, "has tried to kill me three time