Chapter Six. The Horror of Lockie.

Many readers will recall the tragedy of Renstoke Castle and the terrible death of young Lord Renstoke. The case aroused much sensation at the time. It would have aroused far more had the real facts been allowed to transpire.

They were known, however, to only a few people, and, for reasons which were at the time sufficient, they were kept secret. I am now able to lift the veil which shrouded one of the most perplexing mysteries which has ever puzzled the scientific world. Even now, the story is not complete; the great secret died with the amazing but perverted genius who discovered it.

Lord Renstoke, a young man only thirty, was one of those favoured individuals on whom Fortune seemed to have showered all her gifts. Born and brought up in Canada, he was connected only very remotely with the ancient family of Renstoke, and no one ever dreamed that he could by any possibility succeed to the title, which carried with it Renstoke Castle and a rent-roll of something like a hundred thousand pounds a year.

James Mitchell, as Lord Renstoke was before he succeeded to the title, had left a lumber camp in Upper Canada when the call of the Great War brought Britishers from all the wild places of the world to join the colours. He served as a private in one of the Canadian Regiments, rapidly winning his way upward, and finally being awarded the Victoria Cross for a piece of dare-devil folly—so his comrades declared—that had led to the capture of an important German position and had helped very materially to bring about one of the most brilliant of the many successes scored by the Canadians in the closing stages of the fighting.

That episode seemed to mark the turning-point in the fortunes of James Mitchell. From then onward it seemed as though Fate had no gifts that were too good to be showered upon him. It was only a few weeks later that the obscure Canadian private was summoned to headquarters to receive the astounding intelligence that through a series of deaths that in fiction would have been deemed fantastic, he was a peer of the United Kingdom with a vast fortune at his disposal.

Then James Mitchell, Baron Renstoke, went back to his trenches and the comrades he had learned to love to finish the work on hand.

It was during the latter half of the war that James Mitchell found himself swept by chance into the strange web of mystery and adventure that surrounded the doings of Yvette Pasquet and Dick Manton. He had been detailed, quite privately and “unofficially,” to help Yvette in one of her achievements, and the clever French girl had been quick to recognise in him an assistant of more than ordinary ability. Yvette was one of those rare people who never forget, and so there came about a gradual friendship which included Dick Manton and Jules Pasquet. Yvette rejoiced unfeignedly when, after the Armistice, she learned of Mitchell’s good fortune. The friendship continued and ripened, and Yvette, Jules, and Dick Manton were staying at Renstoke Castle when a terrible stroke of malign fate cut short a career of brilliant promise and brought an ancient lineage to an end.

Renstoke Castle was a wonderful old house in Argyllshire, and James Mitchell, now Lord Renstoke, was surely one of the favoured of the gods! Over six feet in height, strikingly handsome and of superb physique, wealthy and with great charm of manner, there seemed to be nothing to which he could not aspire. Despite the surroundings of his early years he had been well educated for his father, though only a Canadian farmer, had been a man of considerable culture and learning, and had seen that his son, who inherited his own intellectual gifts, had been well taught. Only the spirit of adventure had led him at twenty-one into the wild places of the world, where he saw existence from many angles, and in a rough outdoor life had brought to perfection physical powers which had been remarkable even in boyhood.

He was now the last of the Renstokes. But he was still young. No one dreamed but that he would marry and that the ancient line would be continued.

Then the blow fell!

Through the late summer a series of mysterious attacks had been made on live stock throughout the western portion of Argyllshire. Sheep, and even deer, had been attacked, evidently by some unusually powerful animal.

Sheep worrying, of course, is not an uncommon vice among dogs, and when the outbreak first started little was thought of the matter. The local farmers and shepherds merely began to watch their dogs more closely than usual. But the outbreaks continued, more and more sheep were killed, and at length the losses became so heavy that drastic steps were taken.

For thirty miles around, not a dog was permitted off the chain after dusk. Bands of men armed with guns, with instructions to shoot any dog on sight, patrolled the country-side by day and night. It was all in vain. Sheep continued to perish under the teeth of the mysterious prowler, and even the smaller deer, in spite of their speed, began to fall victims.

The farmers were at their wits’ ends when the mystery was suddenly lifted into the region of unadulterated horror.

Alan MacPherson, a young gamekeeper, had been one of a number of men who, stretched out into a line a couple of miles long, had set out at nightfall to search a lonely piece of moorland in which it was thought the strange animal might be hiding. The line of men had gone forward on a prearranged plan for five or six miles and then “pivoted” on the right hand man, swung round and marched homeward, concentrating finally at a big farm known as Kelsie, where the losses had been very serious.

The men, of course, knew the country thoroughly, and similar manoeuvres had been many times repeated without mishap. Always the last man of the line had turned up within a few minutes of the prearranged time.

On this occasion MacPherson was on the extreme left wheel and, having farthest to go, should have been the last man home. No one was uneasy when it was found he was a few minutes late; he was armed and knew the country like the palm of his hand.

But when the minutes slipped by without news his companions began to be anxious. Three hours passed, and, at length, a search party was hastily formed.

Two hours later MacPherson’s body was found lying terribly mangled beside a big rock on the slope of a small tor. His gun, still loaded, was only three feet away. Beside the body lay a filled pipe and a box of matches. Evidently the man had laid down his gun to light his pipe and had been suddenly attacked and killed before he could raise a hand to defend himself.

A few minutes later, Lord Renstoke, Yvette, Dick Manton, and Jules were on the scene. Though all were familiar with the ghastly sights of war, they found themselves in the presence of a horror which overbore all their previous experiences.

Renstoke, whose experience abroad had made him familiar with many wild animals quite unknown to the others, examined the body carefully. At length he rose from his knees with a horrified expression in his eyes, and gave brief orders for the removal of the body to the unfortunate man’s home to await the inquest.

But it was not until they had returned to the Castle that he spoke of what he had seen. And his first words gave his comrades a terrible shock.

“No dog did that!” he said quietly, but in a tone of intense conviction.

“Whatever do you mean, Renstoke?” asked Dick quickly. “What else could have done it? There are no lions or tigers about here, you know.”

“Are you sure?” replied Renstoke. “I think we shall have to see Erckmann about this.” Boris Erckmann, he went on to explain, was a famous zoologist who lived in a big lonely house on the Renstoke estate some ten miles away. He had spent many years in wandering explorations in tropical countries and was known in the inner circles of science as a man of brilliant attainments. He did not advertise himself, however, living the life of a recluse, and to the general public his name meant nothing. Among his Highland neighbours, a dour people who concerned themselves very little with the affairs of other folk, little notice was taken of him. He lived at Lockie, a big house surmounted by a high wall and perched on a gaunt hill-side overlooking a lonely glen. Among his neighbours, who guessed nothing of his wonderful abilities, Erckmann passed for a harmless scientist and was affable and good-natured to those he chanced to meet during his incessant pilgrimages over the wide moorland which stretched for many miles around Lockie.

“Erckmann is said to have a lot of wild animals at Lockie,” Renstoke went on to explain, “and it is possible that one of them may have broken loose. I am perfectly certain MacPherson was not killed by a dog.”

“But what makes you so certain?” Dick questioned. “So far as I could see any big dog could have done it.”

“Did you ever see a dog with hands, Dick?” asked Renstoke quietly.

His hearers started simultaneously with a gasp of horror.

“Whatever do you mean?” they asked.

“Just this,” Lord Renstoke replied. “He was not killed by a dog at all. As you saw, the front of his throat was badly torn. But on the back of his neck were two distinct bruises, one on each side and nearly meeting, which suggested the mark of two thumbs, as if he had been seized from behind by two hands which clasped his neck. Now, no dog could have done that. Moreover no dog could have killed him so quickly that he never had a chance either to fight for his life or to call for help. Remember, he was an extremely powerful man and his nearest neighbour in the line was scarcely more than a hundred yards away. He was killed so suddenly and so swiftly that he had no time even to shout. I have seen many men who had been killed by wolves, bears, and cougars, but never one who had not made a fight for his life.”

“But what could it have been?” asked Yvette in a horrified whisper.

“There is only one animal in the world that could have done it,” replied Renstoke, “and that is a gorilla. You know the strength of the gorilla compared with that of a man is enormous. It has enormously powerful hands and teeth. A man seized unawares, as MacPherson must have been, would be dead in a few seconds; he wouldn’t have the smallest chance either to defend himself or to shout. And I happen to know, though it is not generally known, that Erckmann actually has a gorilla at Lockie. I am going over to see him after the inquest and I mean to see the gorilla as well. Erckmann is a tenant of mine, though, as it happens, I have never seen him.

“But there is one thing that puzzles me,” Renstoke went on after a pause. “The sheep-killing has been going on for several months, and I don’t see where such an animal as a gorilla, assuming that it has been at large for so long, can have been hidden without being seen. But, of course, the country is very wild and there are some big woods that may have screened it during the daytime.”

“What are you going to say at the inquest?” Dick asked abruptly.

“Nothing at all until I know a lot more,” answered Renstoke deliberately. “Remember, we don’t know anything positively yet. I am only giving you my personal opinion.”

All agreed that Renstoke’s plan was best. But they had yet to learn how far the appalling reality outstripped the horror of their suppositions.

The inquest, held the following afternoon, was almost formal. There was no real evidence, of course, as to how the unfortunate man was killed, and what amounted to an open verdict was found. Neither the doctor who examined the body, nor the detectives from Glasgow who made every possible inquiry, struck the chain of reasoning which had led Renstoke to his strange theory, and it was generally assumed that MacPherson had been killed by some ferocious dog which had been lurking unseen for months in the wild country around Renstoke.

Next morning all four started for Lockie. Erckmann’s house, though only ten miles away in a direct line, was at least thirty by road, and as the day was fine they decided to motor for about five miles, leave the car, and walk across country for the remainder of the distance. It was this decision which led them to the first strange clue in the solution of the terrible mystery.

At the point where they left the car, the road, which had been leading westward, made an abrupt turn at the summit of a desolate hill, and stretched away southward as far as they could see. Their destination was further west, and as Dick ran the car on to the grass at the side of the road, they prepared for their tramp.

They had walked some four miles over rough heather-clad country when Renstoke pointed to a big building a mile away and facing the top of the steep rise they had just breasted.

“That is Lockie?” he said.

For the most part, the country was dry. Below them, however, was a shallow valley, along the bottom of which a rippling burn wound its way. Descending the hill they crossed the brook and soon found themselves at a tiny bridge beside the only gateway they could see in the high stone wall, surmounted by a formidable barrier of barbed iron, which surrounded the building.

In response to Renstoke’s knock the door was opened by an ill-favoured individual, evidently a foreigner, who stared at them in blank surprise.

“I want to see Mr Erckmann; is he at home?” Renstoke demanded.

The man made some reply in a language which neither of them understood. Renstoke repeated his question.

Turning to a telephone which stood on a small table in the lodge the man spoke a few words. A moment later he signed to them to enter and conducted them to the entrance door of the big house.

As they approached a big, powerfully built man, heavily bearded and wearing round horn spectacles, met them on the steps of the front door.

Renstoke bowed courteously. “Mr Erckmann?” he inquired.

“Yes, I am Mr Erckmann,” was the reply. “What can I do for you?”

Renstoke as briefly as possible explained what had happened. Erckmann listened patiently and carefully. Only at the end of the story, when Renstoke told him quite frankly his suspicions, the man’s eyes hardened ominously and his lips tightened under his heavy grey moustache.

“Yes, I have a gorilla,” he admitted. “But if you suggest that it has escaped you are quite wrong. It has never left its cage since it was brought here, quite young, six years ago. It would be a bad thing for some one if it did,” he added.

“May we see it?” asked Renstoke quietly.

“Yes—if you doubt my word,” snapped the scientist. He was evidently, for some reason, much annoyed and was controlling himself with obvious difficulty.

During the conversation Dick had once or twice glanced at Yvette and was surprised at the fixity of the gaze she directed at Erckmann. She was regarding him almost as if fascinated, with every sign of horror and apprehension.

Without further words Erckmann led the way through a small paddock to a row of cages, heavily barred with iron, which stood at the rear of the house. Before one of the strongest he halted.

“There you are,” he said grimly.

Inside the cage, erect on its hind legs, stood an enormous ape, shackled by a huge chain round its neck to a heavy stake driven into the ground. Nearly seven feet high, it was so horribly repulsive in its perverted likeness to humanity, that Yvette, Dick, and Jules turned away sick with disgust and horror. It snarled and chattered at the sight of the strangers.

Renstoke, however, carefully examined the monster. But he soon realised that this creature had certainly not been at large, at any rate for some considerable time.

The clue had failed. Whatever the truth might be it was clear the gorilla could have had no part in the terrible tragedy of Alan MacPherson.

“A wonderful specimen,” said Renstoke, turning to Erckmann. “Have you had him long?”

“About six years,” the scientist replied. “Would you like to see what it can do?” Without waiting for a reply, he spoke softly to the raging beast in some language the others did not understand.

Instantly the brute calmed down, shuffled to the bars of the cage and laid its head on the ground close to where Erckmann was standing. It was just as though a dog were fawning on its master. Erckmann fearlessly thrust a hand between the bars and scratched the repulsive head while the great ape lay with closed eyes evidently in keen enjoyment of the sensation.

Still talking quietly in the strange language, Erckmann put the beast through a number of tricks which it performed, clumsily, of course, but with obvious understanding of what was required of it. It was, as Renstoke realised, a wonderful example of animal training, for the gorilla is perhaps the most intractable of all living animals.

“Perhaps as you are here you would like to see the rest of my menagerie,” said Erckmann, as he led the way to a series of cages adjoining.

They gazed in astonishment at what they saw. There was a superb tiger, several leopards of different species, and at least a dozen wolves. The animals were all clean and well cared for and it was obvious at a glance that none of them could have been wandering for an indefinite period about the country.

“I hope you are satisfied, Lord Renstoke,” said Erckmann at last, “that none of my pets is responsible for what has happened?”

“Quite,” replied Renstoke. “And I am sorry we had to trouble you. But I am sure you will understand why I came. The affair is so mysterious that I could not leave any possibility unexplored.” Erckmann had puzzled them all. The man was perfectly courteous and apparently quite open in his replies to their questions. None the less all sensed that he was ill at ease and that he quite certainly resented their intrusion.

Yvette, more sensitive and keenly strung than the others, shuddered violently as they left the house.

“That man is bad, all bad,” she declared vehemently. “He has the eyes of the snake.” She had put into words what all had felt, yet had been half ashamed to confess. There was something repulsively snake-like in the steady glare of Erckmann’s eyes behind the thick round glasses.

“I confess I feel like Yvette,” said Dick, “the man gave me the creeps.”

Renstoke looked grave.

“He didn’t strike me as being quite aboveboard,” he admitted. “At the same time, I don’t see what he has to conceal. All the cages were occupied and it is certain none of the animals had been loose recently, and if one had broken out there is no reason why he should not say so. But he may have another ape which he has not shown us?”

They walked a few hundred yards in silence until they had got to the bottom of the hill and approached the little burn that ran down the valley. There was no path, and as chance would have it, they deviated a few yards from the way along which they had come. They were crossing the brook when Yvette gave a slight exclamation.

“Oh, look here,” she said.

The bed of the burn was stony throughout, but at one point, at the very edge of the water was a tiny patch of sand, smooth and firm and hardly larger than a handkerchief. Yvette pointed to it.

There, sharply and clearly defined, was the unmistakable imprint of a naked, misshapen foot! It was human beyond all question. It pointed in the direction of the house they had just left, and it was dear that the barefooted walker, whoever he may have been, had stepped from the heather just on to the patch of firm sand and been carried by his next stride through and beyond the rivulet on to the heather and stones where no footprints would remain. By some strange chance that one tell-tale footprint had been left in perhaps the only square foot of ground for miles where an impression could be left!

They examined the footprint with eager curiosity. Evidently the walker, or rather runner, had come fast down the hill, for the front part of the foot was driven deeply into the sand while the heel was only just showing.

“He must have been running,” said Renstoke, “and what kind of man could run over such a country as this?”

The question was natural, for the heather grew thick and deep round there and they had found walking difficult enough; running would have been out of the question for any of them.

They were puzzled by the strange footprint, but how little they guessed that it held the key to the terrible tragedy of Renstoke!

Late that night, Renstoke, Dick, and Jules sat yarning in the great old drawing-room at the Castle. The night was close and sultry, with a threat of thunder in the air, and the big French windows which opened on to the spreading lawn were flung wide.

They were discussing Erckmann.

“I didn’t like him,” said Renstoke, “though it is recognised that he possesses genius in a marked degree.”

“Oh! You’ve heard something then?” asked Dick quickly.

“Yes. The general public know nothing of him, but I hear that he has an amazing theory that it is possible, by an operation on the brain, to abolish almost entirely the ordinary characteristics of a man or an animal, and by the injection of an appropriate serum to substitute the mental, and to some extent the physical, characteristics of another species. He believes that you can, for instance, take a puppy-dog, operate on its brain, inject a serum prepared in some way from the brain of a monkey, and the puppy will grow up with the mentality and habits of a monkey and with its bodily characteristics so transformed that it can do many things—such, for instance, as climb a tree—which no dog could do. I believe he has actually succeeded in doing this!”

“How weird and extraordinary!” remarked Yvette.

“More than this, he believes you could do the same with a human being—destroy its human attributes and give it, for example, the ferocity, and something of the speed, of a wolf or a tiger.”

“How on earth did you learn this, Renstoke?” asked Dick.

“From perhaps the only person who ever knew Erckmann really well,” was the reply. “Some years ago Erckmann was the resident doctor at a lunatic asylum in Prague. He made a particular crony of his chief assistant, a young doctor named Chatry, who afterwards went to Canada, where I met him. Chatry told me something of Erckmann’s views and experiments. I was, of course, tremendously interested, but I little thought I should ever run against the man in the flesh. Erckmann was undoubtedly a very able man, but there was a scandal. On some pretext or other he performed a remarkable operation on an insane person. The patient, who had previously been quite tractable, developed extraordinary characteristics. He growled and snapped at all who approached him, insisted on eating his food on the floor instead of at table, barked like a dog, and finally would only sleep curled up on a rug. In fact, he developed strikingly dog-like habits. How much of anything Erckmann let out generally Chatry never knew. But he was asked to resign, and he left Prague.”

“A very curious story!” Dick remarked.

“Now Chatry had no doubt whatever on the subject,” said his host. “Amazing as it may seem, he was firmly convinced that Erckmann had deliberately made this extraordinary experiment and that it had succeeded. Chatry died just before I left Canada, but before he died, he gave me a little manuscript book in which he has related the whole story. I’ll show it to you to-morrow.”

They said good-night and went to bed, leaving Renstoke, who sometimes suffered from insomnia, to read himself sleepy.

It was about two o’clock when Dick, who was a light sleeper, was roused by a shout for help, apparently from the drawing-room which was directly below his bedroom. Instantly he sprang out of bed, and snatching up a revolver, rushed downstairs.

But he was just too late.

As he entered the brilliantly lighted drawing-room he caught sight through the open window of a heavy misshapen body disappearing into the gloom beyond the bright patch of light cast by the electric lamps on the lawn outside.

Renstoke lay on his back on the floor, dying beside his favourite chair. Close by was the book he had been reading and on the carpet near it was his pipe, the tobacco still smouldering.

Dick knelt hastily by the side of his friend and sought frantically to revive him. But it was in vain. The young peer died in his arms. It was evident that he had been attacked without the slightest warning, and mercilessly strangled.

And in the side of his throat, just above the jugular vein, was a deep wound, horribly lacerated, from which the blood flowed in a heavy stream.

The Castle was speedily aroused, and in a few minutes half a dozen men were busily searching the surrounding country. But it was in vain—the mysterious assailant of the unfortunate Lord Renstoke had vanished completely.

The following day Dick, Jules, and Yvette, almost overcome with grief, were discussing the loss of their friend.

“There is some devilry at work,” Dick declared. “And I shall never rest till it is cleared up, if I spend the rest of my life here.”

Yvette burst into a furious philippic against Erckmann. “That man is at the bottom of it all,” she insisted.

“But, Yvette,” Dick remonstrated, “we have no kind of evidence of that.”

“I don’t care,” she replied vehemently, “Erckmann knows all about it. I should like to choke it out of him,” she ended viciously in French.

“Well,” said Jules, “we can’t go to Lockie and accuse him. How about trying a trap of some kind?”

“We might do it in that way,” Dick admitted. “But what kind of trap?”

Long and eagerly they discussed the matter, and at length a plan was evolved.

The next morning brought them a visit from Inspector Buckman, one of the ablest men of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard, to whom, utterly baffled, the police had very wisely applied for help. He was well known to all of them as a keen, capable man of infinite resource and undaunted courage.

Buckman listened closely while Dick ran over the story, putting in a keen question here and there.

“We have got to keep the real facts quiet,” he said at length. “Erckmann must not suspect that we have the smallest inkling of the evidence of Lord Renstoke’s death. I will fix that up with the coroner.”

It was an easy matter. Renstoke Castle was a remote spot, and while the affair, of course, could not be entirely concealed, it was a simple matter to keep the exact details secret. All the public learned was that Lord Renstoke had been attacked and murdered presumably by a burglar for whom a close search was being made.

But behind all and working in secret the keen brains of Dick, Yvette, Jules, and Buckman were busy.

Two or three nights later the word went round to the scattered farms that every single head of stock was to be driven in to the farms and rigidly confined in the buildings from dusk to daybreak. So far as they could ensure it not a single living thing was at large.

Dick’s trap was arranged on the hill-side a mile from Renstoke.

Four inches above the ground, in a circle fifty yards in diameter, ran a thin electric wire supported at intervals on small insulated posts. Just inside the circle, on the side away from Renstoke, a sheep was tethered to a strong stake. In the centre of the circle from a tall pole hung a powerful magnesium flash, electrically connected so that it would be at once exploded by any pressure on the encircling wire, and momentarily light up with day-time brilliance a large patch of the surrounding country.

As dusk fell, Dick, Yvette, Jules, and Buckman carefully crossed the wire and took up their positions in the centre of the circle, lying full length in the sheltering heather, and each with a revolver ready to hand. In a leash beside Dick lay Spot, his favourite Airedale, who could be trusted to give warning of the approach of any intruder, and afterwards to track him remorselessly.

As the leaden moments dragged by it grew darker and darker until the country-side was plunged in pitch blackness. The strain on the watchers was terrific. They could not smoke or talk, they hardly dared to move.

Hour after hour dragged by. Midnight passed. Dick, half asleep, was gently stroking the back of the Airedale.

Suddenly he felt the animal stiffen, and the hair along its back bristled ominously. A moment later the dog gave a low, half-audible growl and rose to its feet. Instantly the party were keenly alert.

Dick clapped his hand over the dog’s muzzle, and the well-trained animal subsided into silence. But Dick could feel that it was strainingly alert; obviously it sensed an intruder.

Keenly at attention, with every faculty strained to the utmost, the silent watchers heard not a sound. But a few moments later there was a vicious snap in the air above them as the magnesium flash exploded, turning the inky blackness for a fraction of a second into a blaze of dazzling light.

In that brief outburst of radiance the four caught a glimpse of a horror that photographed itself indelibly on their memories.

Twenty-five yards away a bestial, hideous face loomed out in the glare of light. It was the epitome of all things evil, with wild matted hair, staring eyes and a horrible misshapen mouth drawn back in a snarl which showed two rows of monstrous teeth. The body they could not see. Apparently the creature was crouching in the heather so that only its ghastly head was visible.

Had it been a wild animal not one of the four, their nerves steel-hardened by the war, would have felt a tremor. But that ghastly face, vile and brutal as it was, was unmistakably human, and for an instant the watchers were paralysed with uncontrollable terror.

But it was only for a moment.

Four revolver shots rang out almost simultaneously, fired in the darkness at the spot where the apparition had appeared. A crackling volley followed as the four automatics were emptied. Almost with the last shot came a howl of mingled rage and pain from the darkness. Evidently a bullet had got home.

A few moments later Dick, with Spot barking madly and tugging wildly at his leash, had plunged into the blackness in hot pursuit at the fiendish intruder. Close behind him came Yvette, Jules, and Buckman.

The hunt had begun!

Of that wild dash across country in the darkness Dick afterwards remembered but little. Spot plunged ahead without hesitation and Dick followed, intent only on making the best speed possible and careless of constant falls as he stumbled blindly along. He dared not loose the dog, for without it he would have been helpless, and he plunged blindly forward, his reloaded pistol grasped in his right hand, careless of himself and intent only on overtaking the horror which he knew lay somewhere ahead of him. Behind him toiled the others, guided by Spot’s frantic barks.

Progress, of course, was slow; falls and stumbles every few moments checked the pace; the darkness was baffling. It was with feelings of intense relief that Dick at length saw the silvery edge of the moon lifting itself above the hills behind him. He had lost all sense of direction, but the moon rising behind him told him he was travelling westward.

Half an hour later the country was bathed in soft light and Dick was able to pick up his bearings. Suddenly he realised with a shock that he was heading straight for Lockie!

Dick halted to let the others come up. Without being afraid he felt instinctively that something terrible lay ahead of them and that for safety’s sake it were best that they should be together.

They were a sorry-looking party—hatless, their clothes torn, their faces and hands bruised and scratched by constant falls, almost exhausted by their tremendous efforts. But none of them thought of giving up the chase.

For another mile they pushed onward, making better progress in the growing moonlight.

Suddenly Buckman gave a tremendous shout. “Look there!” he roared, pointing to a low hill which ran across their path.

Not five hundred yards away, on the top of the rise and clearly silhouetted against the sky, they caught a glimpse of a monstrous figure which, even as they looked, vanished over the crest and was gone. It was, unmistakably, a man of giant stature! It moved stiffly as though in pain; evidently one of the shots fired in the trap had got home.

They hurried on. When they reached the crest of the rise Lockie lay before them, and they could see the monstrous figure crossing a tiny stream in the valley below.

They were gaining rapidly now. Dawn was breaking and the cold pale light allowed them a dear view.

The creature ahead of them was toiling painfully up the slope which led to Lockie. Suddenly a man issued from the house. It was Erckmann and in his hand he carried a formidable whip.

Less than two hundred yards away Dick and his companions halted spellbound. In some mysterious fashion they realised that they were to witness the last act in the terrible drama.

The end came swiftly. More and more slowly, almost crawling at last, the strange creature approached Erckmann and at length, evidently utterly exhausted, collapsed at his feet in a heap.

They heard the scientist shout something unintelligible. Then he raised his heavy whip and struck with fearful force at the unfortunate thing which lay before him.

It was a fatal mistake. With the speed of lightning the misshapen heap on the ground flashed into furious activity. All the horrified spectators saw was an instantaneous leap and a brief struggle, and Erckmann and the Thing locked in a deadly grapple and then drop motionless.

Dick covered the last hundred yards in a furious dash. But he was too late. Erckmann lay dead, with his adversary dead on top of him. The zoologist had been killed almost instantly by the grip of two large hands that still encircled his neck in a vice-like clutch, and in his throat the misshapen fangs of the creature were still buried deeply. Only with infinite trouble was the body of the scientist freed from that deadly grapple, and they were able to examine the monster that had spread terror and death through Argyllshire.

Unmistakably the body was that of a man, but incredibly dehumanised and ape-like. The muscular development was tremendous; the hands and arms were knotted masses of titanic muscle. But the crowning horror was the face—low-browed, flat-nosed, with a tremendous jaw and long pointed teeth, utterly unlike anything human. The body, stark naked, was covered thickly with hair and in the side was a terrible wound evidently made by the impact of a soft-nosed bullet from one of the automatic pistols. No normal human being could have survived it for more than a few minutes.

It was only later, when they searched Lockie, that they realised fully that Erckmann had fallen a victim to a monster he had himself created. His diaries proved that Chatry had spoken the truth. They were a repellent but horribly fascinating account of his experiments. Of the results he had written in a wealth of detail, but of the process he employed there was not even a hint. That awful secret he had kept to himself, and had taken with him to his grave.

They found that he had, as Chatry had said, taken a human being, obviously of low mental development—possibly an asylum patient—and practically, by some devilish discovery, converted it into a human ape, endowed with the blood-lust of the tiger. But whether the fearful creature was capable of receiving and acting upon instructions, or whether Erckmann simply let it loose to follow its terrible instincts until the “homing” instinct brought it back they never learned.

Of Lockie, the police decided to make a clean sweep. The animals were shot and the half-dozen evil-looking foreign servants were paid off and sent to their homes, mostly in the wilder parts of Transylvania. They one and all refused to say a word. Whatever they were, they were at least faithful to their dead master.

Then, in the magnificent chemical laboratory with which the house was equipped, Dick, who found himself Renstoke’s sole executor, easily arranged an “accident.” Fire broke out, there was no help for miles around and in a couple of hours the ill-omened house was a heap of ashes. The Spectre of Lockie had been finally laid.