THE DAY THE WORLD ENDED

“Brian Woodville!” I sat up in bed with a start. Pitch darkness prevailed in my apartment. But, staring intently out of the alcove in the direction of the half-shuttered windows, I could just discern a faint difference in the gloom. Beyond was the balcony; beyond that the gardens.

I reached up for a hanging switch and lighted my bedside lamp.

The room was empty. No sound was audible except a distant rippling from the little stream at the foot of the gardens and the intimate ticking of my wrist watch.

I raised my pajama sleeve and glanced at the dial. Just three o’clock.

Silence—emptiness… yet, a cold, commanding voice had called me by name! Or had I dreamed—dreamed vividly?

“Brian Woodville!”

This time I was not dreaming! I leaped out of bed in a flash, my heart beating rapidly. With concrete things I can cope moderately well; but this voice—the voice of one not a yard removed—was frankly, starkly something of another world!

My mode of life had trained me to action. And, conscious of a sensation which I can only suppose presaged hysteria, I did what anybody else would have done. Knowing it to be useless, beside the point, I searched everywhere—feverishly. I tried the door. It was locked. I ran to the French windows, raised the shutters fully, and looked out on a deserted balcony.

Not a soul was in sight. But, as I reëntered:

“Brian Woodville,” said the cold inexorable voice—apparently at my elbow!—“you have three days. You will leave Baden-Baden within that time. This is the first warning. You have three days.”

The voice ceased. I dropped into an armchair beside the writing table. Perhaps this unfamiliar tension in my head had meant that I wanted to scream. Frankly, I think now, that it did.

Either I was at last face to face with what is loosely termed “the supernatural” or I was going mad!

Action, of some sort, I have found to be the only antidote to panic—of any sort. There was a bottle of whisky and some soda water on the table. I brewed a drink—with exaggerated care and coolness. I filled and lighted my pipe.

I had three days.…

For five—ten—fifteen minutes, I sat there considering the mystery from every conceivable angle. One thing was certain. Either it had been the product of some form of hypnotism with which I was not acquainted, or it had been produced by means of apparatus concealed in my apartment.

I began an examination of the floors, walls, and furniture in search of: (a) a speaking tube; (b) a radio fitting.

But I found nothing.

Dawn was stealing wanly through the slats of my shutters when at last I gave up.

What did it mean? How the “warning” had been conveyed to me I simply could not imagine. But that it was associated with my mission, equally I could not doubt; that mission which I had undertaken so lightly! I had counted my Brazil expedition, in quest of a white race said to survive far up a tributary of the Rio Negro, perilous enough, God knows. For although at long last I had got back, it was more by good luck than good management.

Then there was the Sahara trek, fairly risky, but successful; and now…

When the Daily World had invited me to go to the Black Forest, professional zest and personal inclination both urged acceptance.

There was no danger attached to a holiday in these fruitful valleys. (To-night I had been disillusioned!) I badly needed a rest. (This was true.) And the subject came within my province. In short, said the powers behind the Daily World, this was clearly indicated as my job.

I had undertaken it. And—I had three days.…

That most gruesome of all superstitions known to man—vampires—had reappeared in Germany! The details were few and conflicting. A peasant had been found dead in the Forest, exhibiting extraordinary symptoms of emaciation. Animals, also, and even birds. A number of witnesses spoke of a giant bat seen hovering over the trees. The locale it had proved impossible to trace more exactly than that it was “in the Black Forest.”

Armed with all the known facts, I had set out, and now found myself living (hitherto, very pleasantly) in the charming garden of Baden-Baden.

Thus far I had made little or no headway. There seemed to be a damnable conspiracy of silence among the people most likely to be of help. Few denied having heard the stories, but none seemed prepared to enlarge upon them. Several persons whom I spoke to crossed themselves and abruptly changed the subject!

Was everybody who knew anything afraid to speak? If so, why? I had asked myself that question so recently as the previous evening. The voice in the night perhaps had answered it.

“You have three days.…”

2

A waiter I had not seen before brought my breakfast. In the scented beauty and the sunshine it was hard to recapture that horror of the night. As he stepped out on the balcony, shouldering a laden tray:

“Good-morning, sir,” he greeted me cheerfully.

“Good-morning,” I returned, and watched him deftly arranging my light repast upon the white cloth.

During the restless hours which had intervened between the coming of that bodiless voice and sunrise, I had been thinking hard. I had bidden good-bye to the amused carelessness with which, thus far, I had regarded my Black Forest mission. Brazil had nearly put “paid” to my account, and I had stood fairly near the edge of beyond in the Sahara; but here, in a modern, fashionable town, I was up against something worse than fever, cataracts, and poisoned arrows; something harder to dodge than Arab bullets: something very insidious—its worst element being that I didn’t know my enemies.

“I’m hoping,” I went on casually, “for a glimpse of one of the giant bats which I hear have been seen in this neighbourhood.”

Those words had an electrical effect. The man perceptibly paused in his labours. But, quickly recovering himself, he set down the coffee pot, and resting his hands on the table looked into my eyes.

“If you took my advice, sir,” he said earnestly, “you would leave those things alone.”

“Why?” I challenged.

He stood upright, bowed, and:

“It is just my advice, sir,” he said, smiled, bowed again, and went out.

“Extraordinary fellow!” I muttered.

This constant evasion was getting on my nerves. Hitherto it had merely provoked me. But, after the inexplicable episode of the night, it began to assume a more sinister character.

I felt lonely. And it was a different kind of loneliness from any loneliness I had known before.

My plans for the day were vague. Where should I start? Whom could I question? One definite change I made, when I presently set out for Hohen-Baden; I had a well-tried Colt repeater on my hip. It seemed absurd, in that pleasure valley under smiling skies. I had roamed the byways of Fez at midnight, I had returned to my quarters in Timbuctoo under a setting moon—unarmed. Yet here I was, with merry German holiday makers about me, carrying a cargo of live shells!

However, I had no occasion to use them.

Feeling rather a fool, and asking myself again and again, “Could the ‘warning’ have been an unusually vivid dream?” I returned late in the afternoon to the Regal.

I had seen nothing, and I had learned nothing.

One lunches early but dines late in Baden-Baden. To-night I was one of the latest. But the head waiter had my table reserved.

Having fared well but sparingly, I found him at my elbow.

“Everything satisfactory, sir?” he asked.

I looked up; and his blue eyes met my inquiring stare unflinchingly. I had questioned Fritz—and had met with the usual evasions.

“Quite,” I replied.

The long, softly lighted dining room was nearly deserted. In a near-by lounge, the hotel orchestra played a Slovak dance. Fritz was of Prague—a great commercial centre to-day but of old the capital of the witch country. Bohemia still cherishes vampires. And I thought I knew why Fritz was reticent.

But I did not know why his gaze wandered so strangely.

I stared out of the window, as he was staring. Beautiful gardens, unreally lovely in the dusk, backed by magically shadowed woodlands, lay before me. I could hear the laughing song of that tiny stream, crossed by a floral bridge almost directly in front of the window in which my table was set, from which those famous blue trout are brought fresh to the diner.

Then, I saw the tall, sinuous figure.

Fritz was watching Mme. Yburg.

Certainly she was worthy of inspection. For my own part, I like a woman to be slender; but there is a point at which the slender becomes definitely the lean. My vision may lack those nuances which endow a Jacob Epstein, but I must confess that I looked upon Mme. Yburg as lean. She was svelte to a degree. And if good taste is beauty, she was beautiful. She was graceful, white-skinned, had thin but very red lips, and perfect teeth. Her eyes certainly were magnificent.

As she went along the path toward the bridge, trailing a flame-coloured scarf with incomparable indolence, she glanced aside, saw me, and waved her hand. We were slightly acquainted. Her raised arm, gleaming in the moonlight, seemed to possess separate volition, to be individual: I thought of an ivory serpent.

Turning, I trapped Fritz in the act of recomposing his expression.

“No,” I said, smiling up at him, “that is not the kind of vampire I mean!”

He started, then shrugged his shoulders and poured out what remained of a bottle of Liebfraumilch. The willowy, swaying figure had disappeared.

“You never know, sir,” he replied enigmatically.

“Who is she?”

“I cannot say. She often comes here. And she spends much money. She is very attractive.”

He sighed. I looked at the blond Bavarian, and I knew that Mme. Yburg’s dark, lithe womanhood represented his ideal.

“Yes,” I murmured reflectively, “I suppose she is.”

I lost myself for awhile in meditation. And when I returned to realities, Fritz had left me.

3

“Very quiet to-night,” said I, glancing around the deserted bar.

“Yes.” The barman set my liqueur before me. “There is a dance at the Casino.”

“Ah, is that it?”

I studied George interestedly. Here was a possible source of information hitherto untapped. Barmen are students of humanity and reliquaries of strange secrets. For the cocktail breaks down reticence and makes the dumb speak.

“Nothing but dancing nowadays,” he went on. “I like dancing myself; but it’s bad for business.”

“Really? You surprise me. I should have thought it promoted thirst.”

“Bah!” George’s expressive features registered scorn. “They drink soft drinks, the dancing men. If it wasn’t for the women my trade would be finished!”

I invited him to join me and broached the subject uppermost in my mind—tactfully. The effect was extraordinary.

The man paused, siphon in hand, thumb on the lever, and stared at me in a way which I can only describe as reproachful. Then he glanced about the empty bar fearfully. At last:

“I shouldn’t go in for that sort of thing, sir,” he said, and squirted soda so nervously that some of his whisky was lost—“not if you’re on a holiday.”

“Why? What is there to be afraid of?”

Craning over the counter to assure himself that no eavesdropper was near:

“Have you asked anybody else?” said he.

“Yes,” I replied irritably—“a dozen at least!”

“Then, sorry as I shall be to see you go, sir,” was George’s astonishing remark, “take the Rheingold Express to-morrow!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

George beckoned me closer, and:

“Have you seen the cemetery above the town?” he asked with apparent irrelevance, and gestured to indicate its direction.

“I have not.”

“It’s full of new graves,” said George. “Good-evening, sir!”

I started, turned—and found a man seated on the next stool to my own!

“Good-evening. Beer,” the newcomer responded.

He nodded, as our glances met.

“Very warm,” he observed.

He was Mr. Aldous P. Kluster. The presence of the middle initial indicates the American generation to which he belonged. He was lean, clean-shaven, ax-faced, and sallow. He wore a perpetual cigar which was rarely alight. He had a perfect mane of well-brushed gray hair and he dressed carefully but badly.

“Very,” I agreed.

I was taciturn to the point of rudeness; and for two reasons. I strongly suspected him of having spied upon me in my conversation with George. And, as our eyes had met, his habitually languid expression had been assumed too late.

Mr. Aldous P. Kluster had a regard like a gimlet. He was interested in me. Why?

As I lighted a cigarette:

“Not dancing to-night?” said he.

And, as he spoke, a possible explanation of his odd behaviour occurred to me. On the previous evening I had danced once or twice with Mme. Yburg. Kluster and Madame were apparently old friends. The theory presented itself that he was her lover—and a very jealous lover.

I recalled his almost open rudeness to a good-looking and debonair Frenchman who had succeeded me as Madame’s partner and who had monopolized her throughout the rest of the evening.

“I dance very rarely,” I said.

“The French acrobat makes up for you.”

“M. Paul? Yes. He dances almost too well.”

My theory, I considered, had received confirmation. Kluster disliked any man who approached his charming friend. I glanced at him curiously, as he set down his glass and replaced a stub of cigar in his thin, flexible mouth. He made an odd figure of a lover. Given a goatee and a high beaver hat with a stars-and-stripes band, he would have taken first prize at any carnival as Uncle Sam.

I registered a sincere prayer that, at Mr. Kluster’s age, the tender passion might no longer disturb my peace. Conversation languished, and I stepped down to go.

“Good-night,” I said.

“Good-night, sir,” George called.

“Good-night,” said Kluster, adding, as I left the bar, “Beer.”

Outside, I turned right and walked along to the gardens. I followed the private path beside the little dancing trout stream. Along the parallel public path on the other bank of the Oos, Baden-Baden took the air. Here were family groups, courting pairs, and isolated strollers. Distinguished strangers taking the waters, and townsfolk to whom the beauty of the enchanted valley was a commonplace.

On my left, half hidden by flowers, were many lighted windows on the ground floor of the Regal. In one might be glimpsed an intimate party, in another some solitary figure unable or disinclined to join the promenaders.

Through the trees ahead came odd strains from the dance band in the Casino, and now I could see many twinkling fairy lights and detect moving figures.

A crescent moon hung in a sky dark and starry as that of Egypt. A delicious sense of coolness was conveyed by the laughing chatter of the tiny stream. And, when a slight breeze stirred, the fragrance of a million pines was borne down from the embracing forest.

“You have three days…”

I opened the communicating gate and strolled up to the Casino.

One of my three days was nearing its close.

The scene presented great animation and considerable elegance. Smart people from three continents were here. A maharajah famous for his racing stud, his family jewels, and his generosity to his lady friends was holding informal court at one table. At another presided a New York hostess whose Park Avenue parties were no less celebrated than the dances she gave in Bruton Street, and to whom Baden-Baden came as a rest from Juan les Pins.

There were a fair number of dancers, but very few of them either young or attractive. Mme. Yburg was not present. And a premonition that I should find her there in the company of the dazzling M. Paul—which would have accounted for Kluster’s solitary beer drinking—was proved to have been misleading.

I looked on for awhile, but could see no friend or acquaintance anywhere. The nearly ceaseless moaning of the saxophones began to depress me.

Oddly, perhaps, I find in the music of this instrument something eerie. It does not stimulate in me a desire to dance or make love; it rather speaks of orgiastic rites beneath an African moon. I found myself thinking of George’s words:

“Have you seen the cemetery above the town? … It’s full of new graves.…”

I left the Casino, not by way of the gardens, but by the door opening on to Schiller Strasse.

A big car passed, going toward the Regal. Its only occupant stared hard in my direction. If he saw me, recognized me, it was impossible to say. But his expression, as he peered out, affected me most unpleasantly.

It was the Frenchman, M. Paul.

An apprehension of being hunted formed the main factor in this strange expression which so deeply impressed me. His was a fugitive look.

“Three days…”

4

Steep paths, tree-shadowed, led me upward. At one point I could look down upon many roofs of Baden-Baden flooded with the blue amber of the moon rays. At another, I walked through a tunnel, rarely and irregularly patched with dim light.

Ere long, the human element—jazz and laughter—was left behind. I approached the frowning buttresses of the Forest. I met never a soul from the moment I turned aside off the main road. My right hand rested on the butt of the Colt.

Several villas I passed, perched fascinatingly above the paths upon rocky foundations. But in none did any light show.

I wondered if this was the road by which M. Paul had come.

Once, some time before I reached the long, low wall of the cemetery, I paused to light my pipe. In the act of striking a match I hesitated… and listened.

An echo, I told myself.

Stock still I stood for thirty seconds or more. Then I determined that unhealthy memories had been responsible for the idea that someone was following me.

At last I reached my goal. I could see the guardian trees. A strain of deathless but deathful music, Poe’s “Through an alley Titanic of cypress,” swept eerily across my brain. Beyond a low wall, below me lay the white tenements, pure in moonlight; some stately as perhaps befitted their occupants, others simple, but of equal dignity. The whole quiet acre was mantled lovingly in those gay flowers which make this valley a poet’s garden.

By the gate I paused.

It was locked. But it offered no barrier to an active man.

I was on the point of climbing over—for in this nocturnal expedition I had a definite plan—when I observed, plainly visible in the moonlight, a cigarette lying at my feet.

Perhaps the fact may seem insignificant. Nevertheless I picked it up. It was a common French caporal, and it had not been lighted. Again, perhaps not extraordinary. Such cigarettes could be bought in the town. I slipped it into the pocket of my dinner jacket.

Resting my hands on the gate, I was again about to scale it, when a second circumstance arrested me.

From high above my head, out of the deep blue, came a rhythmic whirring; not that of a flight of birds nor that of an airplane propeller: rather the amplified hum of a mosquito.

I stood still, and stared upward.

For a long time I could detect nothing. The sound had ceased, abruptly. Then… I saw it.

Descending with a hawklike motion was a gigantic bat!

Literally, horror froze me to the spot. Yard by yard the thing swooped down, silently, effortlessly.

It had a sort of vague luminosity. The incredibly long body as well as the extended wings were of a gleaming purplish-gray colour: I can only liken it to that of a meat fly or common “bluebottle.”

The wing span, I was prepared to swear, was no less than four yards; the legless body of the thing, which, as it descended, resembled less a bat than a monstrous dragon fly, was close upon six feet!

Somewhere among the tombs it settled. I heard, or thought I heard, a dim, muffled rumbling.…

I removed my hands from the gate. I had been clutching it grimly. My palms were clammy.

“Merciful heaven!” I whispered. “What does it all mean?”

CHAPTER II.
MME. YBURG

1

I cannot pretend to say how long I stood at the gate, nor what were my thoughts as I stood there.

Doubtless after the episode of the disincarnate Voice, I was prepared in a degree for things outside the normal. In lieu of supposing myself insane, I had to accept as a fact that there are laws, once called “supernatural,” in the scheme of Providence which are not outside human control. Many of the devices which we are used to nowadays would have earned their inventor the title of magician two hundred years ago.

Powers ascribed by classic poets to their gods of old come within compass of latter-day science. All myths have some basis in fact. Earlier inquirers simply conserved their knowledge. To-day, discoveries are broadcasted.

Thus, I suppose, I argued… fighting, fighting to defeat a white panic.

Did the thing I had just seen conform to any cycle of laws known to me?

I listened intently.

The breeze had dropped. There was no sound.

As the creature had descended I had seen that it possessed a pair of enormous eyes. But, more horrible, I had not failed to note that its purplish gleaming body resembled that of a human being—or of a chrysalis encasing one—or of a mummy!

Now, the silence confounded me. The stirring of a leaf set my heart leaping. At any moment I expected to hear again a cold, merciless voice calling me by name.

Nine persons out of ten would have bolted—nor should I have been the man to blame them. That I didn’t, I count not a jot or tittle to my credit. I merely knew from experience that to fly from peril, of body, mind, or soul, is to invite pursuit.

Again grasping the bars of the gate, I sprang up, and climbing over the top, dropped upon the further side.

But the first step forward from the gate in that cold moonlight demanded an effort of will I can never forget. The step taken, I proceeded with growing confidence. This is the way of things. But it’s a way hard to learn and harder to follow.

What I found in the shape of a clue to explain the sight I had seen can be very briefly expressed, I found nothing.

At about the spot where I thought that incredible nocturnal thing had alighted I came upon an ancient mausoleum. Two cypresses mounted guard, one on either side of the door, and because of their dense shadows I could not make out to whom the tomb belonged.

But my left fist and my teeth were tightly clenched when I turned my back on those shadows—because I wanted to run! How I wanted to run!

Further on, in a new part of the burial ground, I saw a number of “new graves” as described by George. They seemed to be for the most part those of peasants and members of the working classes. I could not perceive any special significance in the fact that certain inhabitants of Baden-Baden had died recently. People die everywhere.

By the time that I had completed my tour, courage was slowly returning. My exercise had achieved its object. Courage, unused, becomes flabby even quicker than muscle.

No sound had disturbed me—excepting the soft flutter of a startled owl at one point—and the resulting throb in my ears caused by a sudden acceleration of pulse. It was touch and go. My finger trembled on the trigger.

That first cold panic was conquered however when I reclimbed the gate and found myself once more in the narrow, tree-bordered road. I don’t claim that I was entirely my own man; but mainly a great amazement remained.

Failing its possession of those gruesome properties ascribed to the vampire by mediæval superstition, what had become of the great creature which I had watched alighting among the tombs? In my exploration, and it had been fairly thorough, I had met with no living thing except the owl.

I tried to picture it when not on the wing. Did it go on all fours? Did it crawl? … Did it walk erect in ghastly parody of humanity?

And then, as I turned and set out on my homeward journey to the town, came the crowning terror of that night.

I heard footsteps in the cemetery!

Nothing in my experience had prepared me for this. The steps, which were light, suggesting a woman’s, and leisurely, plainly were those of someone, or of some thing, coming along the path which led to the gateway. Soon, It would be out in the road behind me!

To take to my heels—to run for my life, for sanity, salvation—was the only thing I wanted to do. And I wanted to do it desperately.

But I had won one victory. And it was to inquire into just these horrors that I had come to Baden.

A rough cart track broke the bushes to left of the road. I tip-toed along it, turned right, and threw myself prone at the edge of a plum orchard where I could see through the hedge.

I was no more than in time.

As I reached my look-out I heard the sound of a grating lock. It was the lock of the cemetery gate. Moonlight flooded that part of the road visible to me. Merciful shadow draped the margin of the orchard. I was afraid to breathe. Despite the warmth of the night, I was cold—with a sort of spiritual coldness.

The gate closed. Again I heard the sound of the lock.

Came—light footsteps, drawing nearer.

I had thought I was prepared for anything. But for that which now appeared I was not prepared.

Gracefully indolent, the flame-coloured scarf thrown carelessly over her white shoulders, Mme. Yburg walked toward me!…

2

Watching, all but breathlessly, as she passed my hiding place, my first feeling was one of intense relief. It was almost immediately succeeded, however, by another, by a mood of horrible doubt. Taking all the facts into consideration, what was this woman doing in such a place, at night? Where had she been hidden during my tour of inspection? Above all—why did she hold the cemetery keys?

Ghastly theories, belonging to the realm of black magic, flocked to my brain. Had she been to meet, in Coleridge’s words, “her demon lover”? Or was she, herself…

These ideas were insane. I shook my mind free of them.

When the sound of Madame’s footsteps was no longer audible, and I judged that she had passed a bend in the steep road which I remembered, I came out from the sheltering orchard and followed, very slowly.

An owl hooted, high up in a tree. But no other sound disturbed the serene night.

By a bend in the path where a flight of steps offered a short cut to the town, there was a seat. Owing to the position of the moon and the screening trees, this seat was mantled in darkness.

But as I passed it, intent upon descending the steps:

“Good-evening, Mr. Woodville,” said a voice out of the shadows.

I knew the voice—nor was it unmusical. But its music turned me cold. I stopped dead in my tracks, as though Medusa’s head had been thrust in front of me. I twisted about, staring.

Mme. Yburg rose from the seat and came toward me!

Conflicting emotions threatened to make me dumb. But I forced a remark.

“Why!” said I—“this is a surprise! Are you, also, addicted to lonely rambles?”

“I am,” she replied simply, and walked out into the moonlight.

She wore a frock of some material which appeared black except where moonrays touched it, when it displayed a serpentine sheen. Dark eyes regarded me sombrely. Her slender body was grotesquely, horribly like the body of that flying thing which had alighted in the cemetery. Or so it seemed to me at this moment.

“A taste,” I went on, desperately forcing conversation, “which one can’t share. Were you returning, or have I broken in on the journey?”

“I’m going back,” she answered, resting her hand on my arm. “Those steps are so steep.”

I found myself clenching my teeth. Mme. Yburg’s long, psychic hand looked waxen white in the moonlight, which also lent the narrow, burnished nails an unnatural purple tint. She wore a large emerald, which I had noticed before. Against the black of my sleeve it gleamed evilly—like the eye of a nocturnal thing.… Silently I cursed myself for a coward and a fool. There was—there must be—a rational explanation of her presence in the cemetery that night. And, as if she had read my thoughts:

“My lonely ramble was not without an object,” she said as we went down the steps. “It may sound odd, but I had been up to the cemetery on the hill.”

Her English was faultless, her poise perfect. If my ghastly theories had any foundation in fact, she was a great actress. The pressure of her thin white fingers was intensely vital.

“Good heavens! Very odd—at night!”

“Yes, I know it is.” We were on a straight highroad, now, and Mme. Yburg removed her hand and adjusted the scarf which she wore. “But someone lies there, you see—a member of my family; and in the middle of all the gaiety I suddenly thought of him, and it seemed quite natural to go.”

Her composure, which made me think of snow on a sleeping volcano, was more exciting than some women’s hysteria. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she spoke of husband, father, brother, when those former, uncanny ideas came flooding back to my mind.

Was she, secretly, laughing at me? Had she seen me from the first? Had she waited there knowing I must presently come that way? And why did she hold the keys of the cemetery gate? So my thoughts ran, wildly, feverishly. The night was perfect, lacking those treacherous chills of the Riviera and reminding one of nights in the Canary Islands.

She had a manner of walking which must have marked her anywhere. She seemed to glide along beside me. There was a deep note in her voice, strangely like sincerity; and indeed she was undeniably a very charming companion.

Presently, we were among the trees of Lichtenthaler Allee, the little stream bubbling beside us, lights dancing over the water from the hotels and the Casino.

We walked across to the Regal. And there on the steps stood Mr. Kluster.

“Oh, dear!” Madame whispered to me. “There was a party to-night, and I had promised to go!”

Then, as we came up:

“I had such a dreadful headache and I hoped that the night air would cure it. Mr. Woodville found me wandering.”

“Cured?” said Kluster.

“Quite,” Madame replied, and an amused smile, which softened the line of her thin lips, was oddly fascinating.

I saw white, glittering teeth against the blood-red of her mouth… and I remembered…

“Here’s the French boy-friend,” remarked Kluster. “Now we’re all set.”

M. Paul came bounding down the steps. “Bounding” is the only word to describe his animated approach.

“My dear Mme. Yburg!” he exclaimed, and grasped both her hands. “Ah! but I have been inconsolable! So also”—he turned to the American—“has poor Mr. Kluster! We have cried together, Mr. Woodville”—he now included me in his oration—“until the bar has nearly run dry!”

Then he laughed, and we all laughed with him—Kluster excepted—for he was indeed a joyous creature.

“Very true,” said Kluster. “Suppose we start.” He nodded to me. “I wish you good-night, sir.”

The others having also bidden me good-night, the party set out, M. Paul waving farewell in his gay fashion. I recalled that the M. Paul who had passed me earlier in the evening had been far from gay.

3

Here was the first copyworthy material which had come to my hand. But how could I use it? To send a thousand-word report to the Daily World covering my visit to the cemetery and my sight of a giant bat was simple enough—and good copy, if editor or readers could believe it. But where the story touched upon Mme. Yburg I must perforce be silent. There is a law of libel in England.

Furthermore, I did not know who Mme. Yburg was.

A mediæval observer would have declared, unconditionally, that she was a vampire, and that Kluster and Paul were her present victims.

I placed the caporal picked up at the cemetery gate in a drawer of my table. I sat staring at a blank writing block. And, consulting my wrist watch, I noted that nearly twenty hours had passed since I had received “the first warning.” What were the links between that inexplicable happening and later events? Why should I obey the warning? … and what would result if I ignored it?

The unknown dangers of my commission became painfully apparent. Despatches were out of the question. A considered account—after I had left the Black Forest—was the only possible course.

I drafted a telegram, copied it on one of the forms provided in my apartment, and personally took it to the hall porter’s desk for dispatch.

Equipped with two bottles of beer, for an hour and a half, perhaps two hours, I wrote. The dance band at the Casino had stopped. I had not noted the fact consciously: I only realized it when I had finished. My notes brought up to date, I looked at the time.

Half-past one.

Of the first of my three days only an hour and a half remained!

My quarters in the Regal consisted of a long alcove on the ground floor. There was a balcony overlooking the gardens on which I usually took breakfast. Sun shutters, with narrow oblique slats, closed the centre opening. The outer room, in which were writing table, telephone, and other appurtenances, was divided from the bedroom only by a heavy curtain, which during the day was open.

In my case it was open at night as well. I like fresh air. For the same reason I had hitherto raised the shutters, before turning in, not wholly but partly. (They were religiously closed by the chambermaid some time after dusk, to exclude nocturnal insects.)

To-night I left them closed, whilst I searched every foot of the apartment and also the adjoining bathroom. My tour of inspection was completed within a few minutes of two o’clock.

One hour!

As my investigations will have indicated, I had a theory touching the Voice. If it challenged me again—as I half expected—I proposed to test this theory.

Having had little more than two hours’ rest in the past twenty-four, I was desperately sleepy. Nevertheless, until 3 A.M. had come and gone, further sleep was out of the question. I mixed a stiff peg of whisky, lighted my pipe, and settled down in an armchair with Stevenson’s Treasure Island. I knew whole passages by heart; but five minutes in the company of Long John Silver unfailingly brings the tang of the sea to my nostrils. “Here you comes and tells me of it plain.… You’re a lad, you are, but you’re as smart as paint.…”

The silence had grown so deep when at last I took leave of the Hispaniola and glanced at my wrist watch that the song of the tiny stream beyond my windows was magnified to that of a considerable torrent. Twice I had heard regular footsteps on the gravel path outside: a night watchman, I had concluded. But no other sound had disturbed me.

Laying my book down, I stood up. My pipe had burned out.…

Five minutes to three.

I crossed the room, went into the lobby, and opened my outer door. Beyond, lay a sort of inner hallway, corridors branching off from it. It was empty. A lamp stood on the floor clerk’s table and afforded the only light.

Going over to this table, I stooped to the lamp and fixed my eyes on the minute finger of my watch as it crept to the hour.…

Three o’clock!

“Brian Woodville!” said the Voice.

My heart was not beating quite normally. But this time I was certainly prepared for the phenomenon; and I had learned something.

The Voice was not connected with any hidden apparatus in my rooms. It had spoken at my elbow.

I crossed to a glazed swing-door and went several paces along a passage leading to deserted service quarters.

“Brian Woodville!”

The Voice had followed me!

Teeth hard clenched, I returned to the open door of my apartment—and just as I gained it:

“Brian Woodville,” those measured tones continued, “you have two days. This is the second warning. You have two days.…”

CHAPTER III.
FELSENWEIR

1

In the night hush—it was close upon four—I could hear the chattering Oos as it flowed in miniature cataracts but a few yards from my balcony.

Nature had claimed her due. Not even that ghastly omen of the Second Warning had sufficed to keep me awake. Yet I was not destined to sleep in peace. Something had reached me, deeply though I slumbered, and I had awakened automatically—as is the way of one who has lived in wild places.

Memory of a sound came over from sleep.

Creaking.

There was silence. No moon broke the blackness of the outer room, dimly visible from where I lay. Then, it came again—creaking.

I turned, noiselessly.

Someone—a vague silhouette—had stealthily raised the shutters!

Slowly and cautiously, hoping my manœuvres were unseen in the darkness of the alcove, I lifted myself upon an elbow. The figure was still there—stooping, I thought, and looking into the outer room. The shutter had been moved up fully three feet, by what means I could not imagine, but whilst it was high enough for cramped entrance, it was yet so low as to have hampered swift retreat.

I wondered if I had made any sound in the moment of awakening: the intruder was so motionless—so silent. My finger rested, tautly, upon the trigger of the Colt.

And as I lay there, watching, and awaiting the next development, this quietude became definitely horrible. I visualized that incredible thing with great gray-purplish wings, which had disappeared among the tombs.

What was it, so silent out there on the balcony, which peered in? Did it crouch, animally, on all fours? Was it crawling toward me?

Whoever, or whatever, was there gave no sign. Inch by inch I drew myself up, preparatory to springing out. My eyes were becoming used to the darkness. Where I had seen, or thought I had seen, the silhouette of a stooping figure, I now could detect vague half-lights. Was it possible that the intruder had withdrawn even as I lay watching?

And now, being ready, I cast off the sheets and leaped on to the carpet. In nine strides I reached the window.

The gap, three feet high, between floor and shutter was vacant. Nobody, nothing was there! I stumbled back to the switch beside the door. A swift flood of light came and I stood blinking toward the window.

Then I recrossed, grasped the cords, and raised the central shutter fully.

Barefooted, I stepped out on to the tiled balcony. A table and two chairs alone broke its emptiness. Right, three steps led down to a gravelled garden path.

Someone moved… near me—below.

I leaned over the stone balustrade.

“Good-evening, sir,” said a gruff voice in German. “Has something disturbed you?”

A wave of relief flowed over me hotly. There was nothing supernatural about this voice—and human companionship I welcomed.

“Good-evening,” I replied. “Who are you?”

“Night watchman, sir. I patrol the gardens every half hour. These ground-floor rooms are so easily entered, you see.”

I was peering in the speaker’s direction. But he merely showed as a darker patch in the general gloom.

“They are!” I agreed. “When did you arrive?”

“At this moment.”

“Someone raised my shutters a few minutes ago.”

“That is impossible, sir, from outside, if they were fully closed.”

“They were fully closed.”

“Very strange, sir.”

“But you saw no one?”

“No one came round the south corner, sir—the way I arrived. Could you describe him?”

“No. But I saw him—dimly.”

“Nothing is disturbed?”

“No.”

“I will report the matter, sir. Will you please reclose your shutters?—and make sure they are safe.”

“I shall certainly take your advice!”

“Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night.”

I heard footsteps on the gravel path as I withdrew and began to pull on the cords which lowered the heavy shutter. I was so engaged when the steps, or so I supposed, returned along the path, and:

“Hullo, there!” called a voice—but not the same voice!

I desisted. The bottom of the shutter was still some five feet from the floor. I looked out. A beam of light shone blindingly into my eyes.

“Hullo to you!” I cried. “What the devil’s up?”

“This is what I am asking, sir,” the speaker replied. “I am the night watchman and it is my duty to ask.”

I was astounded. Not only was this voice unlike the other, but the man spoke with a sort of military brusquerie which inclined me favourably toward him.

Again I stepped out on the balcony.

Standing plainly visible on the path below in the light from my windows was a square-jawed, iron-gray figure wearing a perfectly fitting uniform, with smart field boots. The Regal badge was on his shoulder straps and glittered in his cap.

He stood at attention, looking up. His electric torch he held beside him like a rifle barrel at the order. We stared hard at one another, then:

“Come in for a moment, night watchman,” I said, “I have something for you to report.”

“Very good, sir.”

A moment later, ducking his close-cropped head, for he was all of six feet, and carrying his cap, he joined me in my room. He stood at attention again.

“Sit down,” I said. “Something very queer has happened here to-night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The night watchman bowed stiffly, and sat down on the extreme edge of an uncomfortable chair. As his unflinching regard met mine:

“Is there another watchman on duty in the gardens?” I asked.

“At four o’clock, sir, I am relieved.”

“No one else is on duty now?”

“No one—outside the hotel. There are two men on duty inside.”

“Then listen to what I am going to tell you,” said I, “and explain it if you can.”

As briefly as possible I outlined what had passed, and finally:

“The man impersonating you,” I concluded, “was probably the same who raised my shutter.”

“Very little doubt of it, sir. He didn’t know how much you could see. He slipped to the nearest cover and waited. Allow me to examine the shutter.”

He rose stiffly, crossed and tested the apparatus; then:

“It does not lock,” he reported. “There is some fault. This man must have known of it.”

“But why did he speak to me?”

“To find out if you could identify him.”

“Very daring.”

“I agree with you, sir. I must report this. A dangerous man is evidently about the hotel.”

There was a bottle of Pilsener on the writing table, so, taking it up:

“A glass of beer?” I suggested.

The night watchman immediately sprang to attention.

“Thank you, sir. But contrary to orders.”

One might have replied, “Nobody will be the wiser,” or “What does it matter?” But, looking into hard blue eyes, I said:

“You are an old soldier?”

“I had the honour of being a sergeant in the Prussian Guard, sir.”

As I had “had the honour of being” a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, the situation did not lack drama, or comedy. But never a ghost of a smile disturbed the speaker’s grim lips.

“Orders are orders,” said I, and put the bottle down. “Good-night, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, and clicked his heels. “Good-night, sir.”

He turned smartly, ducked his head, and went out under the half-raised shutter. I heard his regular footsteps grow faint upon gravel paths.

If discipline could have conquered Europe, I reflected, then to-day Europe had certainly been one vast German Empire. I had never before met a night worker who could decline a bottle of beer at four o’clock in the morning!

My shutters were as safe as I could make them from outside interference when I turned in again; and my sleep was not disturbed a second time.

2

I breakfasted on the balcony, as was my custom, watching early promenaders in wooded paths beside the tiny river and trying to reconcile the morning beauty of this sheltered valley with that nightly terror of the Voice.

“You have two days…”

Already, I regretted having confided so much of the facts respecting my nocturnal visitor to the watchman. I had on my breakfast table a note from the management respectfully requesting an interview.

As I poured out a second cup of coffee and stared in the direction of Lichtenthaler Allee, I saw a slim figure moving through the trees with peculiar grace. That proud, slender body could belong to no one but Mme. Yburg. I was not mistaken. And she was coming toward the hotel.

Ideas—fantastic, horrible—entered my mind. I flogged my memory for details of the shape I had seen, or thought I had seen, on this very balcony in the night. The man, the man who had spoken to me out of the shadows, might have been no more than an accomplice—his task to cover the retreat of… the other!

She saw me presently, waved her hand, and went on to where a bridge spanned the stream. I was lighting a cigarette when she came round an angle of the hotel and walked along a gravel path to the balcony.

“Good-morning,” I said. “You don’t look as though you had had a late night.”

“I didn’t,” she replied, and tapped at the gravel with a light stick which she carried. “I was so terribly bored! I escaped. It was mean of you to desert me.”

I met the glance of her unfathomable eyes. They were slightly oblique, which always defeats me.

“What could I do? Mr. Kluster is a most alarming dragon.”

“No.” She was watching me all the time and her gaze was disconcerting. “I had to be victimized, I suppose. What are you doing with yourself to-day?”

Now, this seemingly normal inquiry held for me a sinister meaning. I had been afoot early, and I had obtained in the town a handbook which dealt with local history. It lay before me now. Particularly, I had sought for information respecting the older tombs in the cemetery. The shopman had been able to help me and to augment the facts.

I had learned from this valuable handbook that the last of the once powerful Felsenweir family was buried approximately at the spot where that winged horror had alighted. The cypress-shadowed mausoleum which I had approached was in fact the family vault of the Felsenweirs. Their great hold in the hills was to-day a ruin and all but inaccessible.

“There are strange stories about Felsenweir Castle,” the salesman had told me.

He was a Dutchman and did not display the extraordinary reticence upon the subject of the Black Forest “vampires” which hitherto I had met with.

“Anything to do with recent rumours?”

The man’s light blue eyes had lighted up.

“Absolutely. The poor fellow who was found dead in the forest lay on the borders of the Felsenweir woods. The giant bat you may have heard about was seen in the same neighbourhood.”

Putting two and two together, and studying an excellent map which I had obtained from my informant, I had arrived at the conclusion that a nearer view of Felsenweir was indicated. Approach to the castle ruins was next to impossible, I was told. The property was held by a trust and the surrounding woods were strictly private.

But I had made a plan, and now:

“What are you doing with yourself to-day?” Mme. Yburg asked.

“I shall be busy all the morning,” I replied. “But you would make me very happy if you would join me for tea at the Casino.”

She lowered her eyes and bit her lip meditatively. Her pale, clearly chiselled features were Greek in purity; but I thought that the little teeth were terribly white.

“I should love to,” she replied. “But if I’m late—after five, I mean—you won’t give me up?”

“Certainly not. I may be late myself.”

3

In the office of the management I confirmed the report made by the Prussian watchman. There were polite regrets—masking incredulity, I rather fancied. But the fastenings of my shutter should certainly be looked to.

At about half-past ten on a perfect morning I set out. My Zeiss glasses I had stuffed into a pocket of my coat as I had no desire to advertise my intentions. Yet a dreadful sense of futility was growing hourly more oppressive.

The presence of a pistol on my hip no longer gave any feeling of security. One cannot shoot a Voice. I was watched, day and night: the fact was unmistakable. But although the watchers clearly possessed unusual, indeed superhuman, powers, I could not afford to suppose that they were infallible. To do so would be to acknowledge defeat. Some, at least, of my enemies were human enough; and I classified the chief suspects thus:

(A) Mme. Yburg

(B) Aldous P. Kluster

If the men were victims of the woman or voluntary accomplices, I had yet to learn. But, until more data came into my possession, my only safe course was to look upon all three as active opponents of my mission.

In the lobby of the hotel I was confronted by a dazzling spectacle—a man arrayed in extravagant plus-fours, with really unique stockings. His tie was in harmony with his stockings but in harmony with nothing else. He wore a startling pull-over. Black hair, gray at the temples, was brushed straight back from a fine, pale brow. The handsome, clean-shaven face was dominated by laughing but penetrating eyes.

“My dear Mr. Woodville!” cried M. Paul—for he it was—“may I hope that you are not engaged?”

“Very sorry,” I replied. “But I’m afraid I am engaged until dinner time.”

“Ah!” cried the Frenchman. “But it is a shame! I am disconsolate. But dinner—yes! You will dine with me?”

“With pleasure.”

“Good. Then we meet in the bar at half after six——”

“Say, a quarter to seven.”

“Half six to quarter seven—for cocktails?”

“Delighted.”

Presently, I got on my way again. As I came out into the street, I ran into Mr. Kluster, who was standing by the hotel entrance.

“Hullo!” said he, looking me up and down, “all set for a picnic?”

“Not exactly,” I answered shortly.

“Exploring the forest?”

“Something of the sort,” I called back; for I had scarcely checked my footsteps, so resentful was I of this man’s would-be facetious remarks.

But, already, I had gathered food for reflection. It might be no more than a series of coincidences: yet the fact remained that every suspect on my list had challenged me in some way regarding my plans for that day.

CHAPTER IV.
THE DEVIL’S ELBOW

1

Taking all things into consideration, I doubted if it were possible for me to cover my tracks. A conviction was growing that I had to do with enemies whose methods of observation left me no means of countering.

The facts underlying all this mystery I had yet to learn. Upon what astounding intrigue had I innocently blundered? But I was now certain that these facts were of a character which would not bear light of day. The winged horror of the cemetery definitely defied conjecture. It was supernormal. The Voice formed a complement to it. But my midnight visitor, who imitated night watchmen, was a tangible opponent with whom one might hope to come to grips. Mme. Yburg.… ?

If there were vampires in the Black Forest, then certainly they had human accomplices—and clever ones. But with these, at least, I could deal.

I made several calls in the town, some of them necessary and others mere red herrings. On coming out from each of the offices and shops, I assured myself that none of the suspects, A, B, or C, was in sight. Presently, leaving the Bank, I turned sharply right and set out upon the real business of the day.

My plans from this moment onward included avoidance of spots in which I was likely to meet acquaintances. A study of the map had enabled me to lay a safe course. Once clear of the outskirts of the town, I counted myself moderately safe from ordinary espionage.

This route lay up climbing streets, in which the houses stood upon most various elevations. Whereas one would be based upon the level, the next might equally well be upraised upon so high a rocky foundation that its porch overlooked the roof of a neighbour.

Flowers there were everywhere: set in window boxes, lining porches, bordering long flights of steps leading up to the more elevated sites, crowding the forecourts of those houses which opened directly on to the pavement.

The byways of the town are very quiet. And as I mounted ever nearer to the forest, it became less and less possible that I should be tracked without my knowledge. I took frequent occasion to pause and glance around me, also back and downward upon the route below.

Not once did I detect a follower—a fact which, in view of what happened later, is noteworthy, being a sidelight upon the methods of a very extraordinary man.

Once really clear of the town, I took fewer precautions. For a mile and a half my way was along woodland roads where travellers were rare.

At a point selected earlier that morning, a car awaited me. I had chosen the man with care. As a result of conversation with the Dutch bookseller and a close study of my map, I had come to the conclusion that there was only one coign of vantage from which I might hope to command a view of Felsenweir. (In this, by the way, I was wrong.) Part of the route was possible by car; the last half mile merely a forest path.

My purpose was secretly to study the ruins, closely and for a considerable time, with a view to learning if they were inhabited. And, at the moment of joining the car at the place appointed, a conviction seized me that my well-laid schemes had gone “a-gley.”

Something in the chauffeur’s behaviour seemed odd. He sprang down with alacrity and opened the door; but his glance was furtive—unfriendly.

Around me was the beautiful silence of woodlands. I might look through straight upstanding pines, and as far as sight could reach nothing stirred. Left of the climbing road a rock wall rose sheer for twenty feet or more. Above it, and beyond, on a slight gradient, the forest mounted to a distant peak.

And now, in this solitude where almost anything could happen and never be heard of in the world of men, I realized that I was dealing with criminals of a unique kind; such as perhaps only mediæval laws could reach—with human outcasts, pariahs so far beyond our modern pale that the life of an intruder would mean less to them than the flame of a candle.

By means which I utterly failed to understand, the Voice had learned the object of my visit to the Black Forest. To his—or to its—human accomplices had been assigned the task of learning how much I knew.

Now, noting an unmistakable change of demeanour in the man whom I had engaged early that morning outside the Kurhaus, the possibility crashed in on my mind that he might be one of them!

At which moment I observed something that seemed to confirm my unpleasant theories. On the point of entering, I turned and looked at the driver. But he evaded my glance.

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THE DAY THE WORLD ENDED

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