“‘His name?’ he asked.”

The First
American King

BY
George Gordon Hastings

1905
The Smart Set Publishing Company
LONDON NEW YORK

COPYRIGHTED
1904, by
THE SMART SET
PUBLISHING CO.
New Edition, February, 1905.

CONTENTS

BOOK I
THE CAVE OF WHISPERS

CHAPTER I
DR. BELDEN’S ESTABLISHMENT

The establishment of Dr. James Belden was pleasantly situated upon the southern shore of Long Island, some ninety odd miles from the city. The spacious house was fitted with every modern convenience and comfort, and stood in extensive, well-wooded private grounds. There were good fishing and boating to be had and the white, well-kept Long Island roads afforded excellent facilities alike for riding and driving.

The establishment was in reality a cross between a sanatorium and a physical culture resort. The doctor-proprietor carefully examined each person upon arrival and kept his directing eye upon him during his stay. He prescribed the diet and the exercise suited to each case and saw to it personally that his instructions were carried out. Many a wreck of the city’s storm and stress had the Doctor sent back to the metropolis renovated and renewed, and many were the haggard devotees of late hours and city dissipation who had returned, after a sojourn at the retreat, with vigor in their limbs and the hue of health in their cheeks. In a word, the Doctor was a philanthropist, at a hundred a week, who extended a haven of rest for human wrecks and turned them out again on the high seas of life staunchly refitted to renew the struggle. The Doctor himself, in fact, often referred to his establishment as a haven of refuge, which nautical expression was, perhaps, not inapt, inasmuch as the harbor in question was not infrequently visited, in popular parlance, by “swells” and “high-rollers.”

Dr. Belden himself was an exceedingly genial person, who well knew how to keep his various guests amused and in good humor with themselves and the world in general. The one subject which disturbed the Doctor’s equanimity was the presence in the neighborhood of a recently established private asylum for the insane maintained by a Dr. Weldon. The similarity between the names Weldon and Belden had led upon certain occasions to various distressing and distinctly embarrassing mistakes. Thus, when distinguished visitors had at times mentioned that they were staying at Dr. Belden’s establishment, rustics of the neighboring villages had been known to tap their heads significantly and adopt either attitudes of alarm, or patronizing airs, as the case might be. While little Reggie Smithers had been sojourning at Dr. Belden’s the rumor had been circulated at his club that he was incarcerated in an asylum for lunatics and a friendly wag had written him a letter of condolence, in which he took occasion to remark parenthetically that he had always entertained an innate conviction that Reggie would eventually so wind up, at which Reggie had been exceedingly wroth and had felt impelled to cut short his stay and return as quickly as possible to the city, so as to give the lie to the rumor.

The early summer of nineteen hundred found the sanatorium fairly well filled with guests, not the least notable among whom was Mr. Thomas Kearns, the widely-famed head of New York’s Secret Service Bureau, who had selected this quiet retreat at which to build up his magnificent muscular development and repair the ravages upon his general system incurred by his exciting and somewhat irregular mode of life in the city. To describe Mr. Kearns as widely famed was certainly not overstating the case, for he was conceded to be the ablest detector of crime in the country. So many were the great mysteries which he had unraveled and with so many important cases had he been connected that his fame had stretched far and wide, extending beyond the confines of the United States and reaching into foreign lands. In a word, his reputation was international and his achievements had been lauded in many countries and in many tongues.

His fellow-townsmen of the great metropolis—in fact, his countrymen at large—were proud of Thomas Kearns. When Americans traveling abroad heard of some mystery which the secret police of European capitals were unable to solve, they were wont to smile in a superior way and exclaim: “They ought to send for Kearns over here—our Kearns. He would show them what’s what!”

Everybody from the doorman at Police Headquarters to the Police Commissioners and the heads of the city government treated Mr. Kearns with distinguished consideration; he was regarded as one of the Institutions of the city. No one ever dreamed of interfering with Mr. Kearns. And well he justified this trust. Under his administration the criminal classes were kept in a subjection and awe which rendered life and property more secure in New York than in any other great city of the world. No criminal from other cities dared seek abode in the metropolis without first reporting to Mr. Kearns as to his advent, his place of domicile, the causes of his visit, and the duration of his stay, and no man of criminal record might, under any circumstances, by day or by night, venture to put foot south of Fulton Street, into the great financial centres where the heaped-up wealth of the city was stored.

Possessed of ample means, no breath of suspicion had ever touched Mr. Kearns. The vicissitudes of his calling had enabled him upon many occasions to be of inestimable service to various financial powers, and these powers had gladly placed at his disposal information which had enabled him to build up a handsome private fortune. He was a man of some forty years, of medium height and well-rounded figure, with blue eyes, a ruddy complexion and the general appearance of a prosperous merchant; but the blue eyes had a very keen look at times and the lips a peculiar way of pursing themselves under the heavy, well-kept brown moustache.

It is true that here and there at times it was whispered about that Mr. Kearns’ success was largely due to the vast army of informers—“stool pigeons,” as they were technically termed—fostered and maintained by him among the criminals themselves, and that in many of his most famous cases the mystery had been solved by confessions procured through the exercise of the mysterious rites of the “third degree.” The precise nature of these rites was known to none save the initiated, but it was darkly hinted that, in certain subterranean cells beneath Mr. Kearns’ official quarters, tortures were practised beside which the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition paled into insignificance.

As to the truth of these rumors there seemed to be no precise means of ascertaining, but certain it was that Mr. Kearns’ methods were eminently successful and—nothing pays like success!

With that easy geniality which was one of his characteristics, within twenty-four hours after his arrival Mr. Kearns was on terms of friendly acquaintance with the various other guests. Most of these were men about town, of various ages, but all suffering from much the same physical troubles, and all possessed of much the same manners, habits and train of thoughts. Of men of this stamp, Mr. Kearns saw enough in the city and they did not particularly interest him. Among these guests, the one who most attracted his interest and attention was Professor Walter Stuart Dean, of Chicago. Professor Dean until recently had filled the chair of Science at Chicago University, but had been forced out because of a book on political economy he had published. Some of the theories set forth in this work were of so advanced and radical a character as to give offense to certain patrons of the Institution. Professor Dean’s views were held to be nothing short of an assault upon the sacred Rights of Property. As one obese and influential patron of the seat of learning put it, “Capital stood aghast” at Professor Dean’s views. As someone must suffer whenever poor, timid Capital is thrown into a fright, Professor Dean, in spite of his conceded great abilities, was made to pay the penalty.

The Professor, however, accepted the situation with much equanimity. He had succeeded in selling to one of the great cable companies an invention in connection with the transmission of messages and had received quite a goodly sum. This placed him in a position of pecuniary ease so far as the immediate future was concerned, and he had come to Dr. Belden’s establishment to recruit his energies in preparation for the launching of a scientific scheme, very comprehensive and ambitious in its scope, dealing with the question of aërial navigation.

The Professor was a man of some forty-seven years, tall and thin and with that slight stoop of the shoulders peculiar to the student. The face was clean-shaven and pale, with a marked puff of the flesh above each eye where the brows were wont to contract in the intensity of thought. When the firm, well-cut features lighted in a smile, the face became positively handsome. One of the Professor’s hobbies, which he was fond of discussing with Mr. Kearns, was the question of the economic condition of the masses of the people. The Professor contended—and it pained his kindly nature that such was the case—that the great mass of the people were not as well-off as they should be; that the true happiness and well-being of the great body of mankind had not advanced in proportion to the world’s progress in other directions.

Another pet subject of discussion with the Professor was his theories of aërial navigation. In fact, he declared that he had fully and satisfactorily solved the problem and was prepared in the near future to produce a craft with which the air could be navigated at will, both in safety and at high speed. His plans for this work, he explained, were fully perfected and the completed invention would have been an accomplished fact some time before had he not been hampered by lack of means. But with the funds received from the sale of his electrical device to the cable company he was in possession of sufficient means to put through the work properly, and he intended to devote himself actively to this matter as soon as his present vacation was over. In the meantime, he had written on the subject of aërial navigation sundry pamphlets which had attracted attention in scientific circles.

At first, Mr. Kearns was disposed to regard Professor Dean’s projects in this connection as partaking of the visionary, but as he grew to know him better, the Professor’s clear-headedness and conservatism made more and more of an impression upon him and he came to regard aërial navigation, with Professor Dean as its introducer, as not such an unlikely possibility in the near future.

Another acquaintance made by Mr. Kearns was that of Dr. Raoul Jaquet. Dr. Jaquet was not a guest of Dr. Belden’s famous establishment, but lived in a cottage of his own some little distance away. He was on friendly terms with Dr. Belden, who spoke of him as a man of remarkable attainments in certain branches of scientific research, notably in chemistry and toxicology. Dr. Jaquet cultivated friendly relations with Professor Dean and Mr. Kearns, and his visits to Dr. Belden’s establishment became more frequent than ever. All three were fond of exercise on foot and they took long rambles together over the surrounding country.

Dr. Jaquet, too, had, like Professor Dean, his hobby, and this hobby was the subject of suspended animation. He was a Frenchman some fifty years of age, short and spare of figure, with a complexion dark as if stained with walnut juice, and very black and very curly hair, lightly streaked with gray. He spoke with great volubility, in quick, jerky little sentences whose peculiar idiomatic twists suggested a direct translation from his native French. Upon one occasion, they visited his cottage and he showed them different animals, apparently sound asleep, which he declared were in various stages of suspended animation. He pointed out a peacefully sleeping dog, and explained that it had been in this condition for sixty-five days without a particle of food or drop of liquid. He also exhibited a rabbit which had been in the same state for four months. All he had to do, the Doctor declared, was to restore them to wakefulness and they would promptly resume their normal condition. Mr. Kearns failed to restrain a mild expression of his skepticism; but the Doctor’s voluble protestations forced him to accept the statement of their condition, though he still maintained the animals could either not be aroused at all, or else would drop dead as soon as awakened. The Doctor promptly awakened the rabbit. The animal seemed at first slightly lethargic and dazed, but it quickly vindicated the Doctor’s claims by cavorting about its cage and then falling to work, in a businesslike way, upon a proffered lettuce leaf.

Doctor Jaquet was enthusiastic on the subject of hibernation, pointing with pride to the achievements in this direction of snakes and many animals, which were known to live to great ages. He declared his conviction that in suspended animation could be found an excellent cure for many diseases, notably troubles of the digestive tract; that during the period of suspension Nature, freed from the necessity of performing her ordinary routine functions, would be given an opportunity of making her own cure. In a word, suspended animation was, according to Dr. Jaquet, the great and true panacea for most of the evils with which mortality was afflicted.

“You mean,” questioned Mr. Kearns, after Dr. Jaquet had launched out into his favorite discussion as a sequel to the resurrection of the rabbit, “if a man has trouble with his liver, or a pain in his stomach, instead of giving him a pill, or other dose, you would suspend him?”

“That which you say there has reason!” replied the Doctor in his peculiar phraseology.

But Mr. Kearns’ manner indicated his skepticism and the Doctor seemed quite piqued.

“And how do you bring about this condition of suspended animation?” asked Mr. Kearns.

“I put them to sleep. I can make sleep any person—all the world!” declared the little Doctor with conviction.

Mr. Kearns smiled.

“Ah! You doubt it?” asked the Doctor.

“Could you put me to sleep, for instance?” inquired Mr. Kearns, parrying the question.

“With facility!” replied Dr. Jaquet.

A look of polite incredulity crept into Mr. Kearns’ face.

“Will you that I shall try?” asked the Doctor eagerly.

Mr. Kearns remained silent, somewhat taken aback by the novelty of the situation.

“Ah, you hesitate! You have fear that I shall succeed. But have no fear. There is nothing which can do you hurt. On the contrary, only good!”

“Fear!” exclaimed Mr. Kearns with a start. “Do not, I beg you, form the idea that I am afraid to subject myself to your test. I must return to Dr. Belden’s early, so I cannot avail myself of your offer to-day, but extend it again some time and, upon my word, I shall be much inclined to take you up.”

“I can make you sleep for six hours, six days, six weeks!” declared the Doctor with enthusiasm.

“Let us call it six hours and I should consider that you have fully vindicated your assertion,” replied Mr. Kearns with a smile.

“Very well. I will prove to you some day,” declared Dr. Jaquet. “Now, listen! To-morrow I will call for you at one o’clock. We will take a great walk together. I will conduct you to a little piece of land which I own over there in the mountains. On this land is a cave, where I will show you some wonderful things.”

“Very well; that sounds interesting,” replied Mr. Kearns. “You will call for us to-morrow, then?”

“Yes, my friends; au revoir until to-morrow,” said the Doctor genially, as he courteously bowed them to the door.

“What do you think of that?” asked Mr. Kearns of Professor Dean, as they walked down the road on their way back to Dr. Belden’s.

“Of what?” asked the Professor.

“Of the assertions made by our interesting little French friend,” replied Mr. Kearns.

“In what connection?”

“Oh, as to this suspended animation business and his ability to put people to sleep and so on.”

“My work has been entirely confined to the practical branches of science,” answered the Professor cautiously. “I have really never had any opportunity of investigating any matters of this nature. Many peculiar claims and theories have been advanced as to mesmerism, hypnotism, and auto-suggestion, but I am not really competent to advise you as to their merits.”

“Answered with the caution of an expert on the witness stand!” cried Mr. Kearns with a laugh. “But tell me this! Do you believe that out of ten men picked haphazard, he could succeed in getting say two out of the ten into a condition of suspended animation, or hypnotic sleep, or whatever you like to call it? What puzzles me is his apparent ability to do it with those animals. If it were not for that fact, I should not be inclined to give the matter much attention.”

“I really could not express an opinion,” declared the Professor.

“Then, answer me this, O Mountain of Caution!” cried Mr. Kearns. “Would you be willing to join with me in putting the Doctor to the test?”

The Professor remained thoughtfully silent for a moment.

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Kearns maliciously, “shall I throw the taunt in your teeth, which the little Doctor threw into mine: that you are afraid?”

“I will answer you this way,” replied the Professor calmly. “To-morrow you and I are going out together in company of the Doctor. Should you decide at any time to-morrow while we are together to enter upon an adventure of this character, you will not find me loth to join you. When people start out together in any enterprise, it is a maxim with me that they should stand shoulder to shoulder.”

“Spoken like a brick!” declared Mr. Kearns with enthusiasm.

“No,” answered the Professor dryly; “it is a conceded fact that bricks do not talk. You are really becoming more wonderful than the Doctor in your assertions!”

CHAPTER II
“SLEEP ON, MY FRIENDS, SLEEP ON”

At the time appointed on the following day—it was the tenth of June, 1900—Dr. Jaquet called for them and they started on one of their customary walks. The Doctor acted as guide. His course lay inland, in a northwesterly direction, and the trio marched jauntily on, chatting gaily together, until some four miles had been covered. Then the Doctor changed his course and they struck across country through land which was somewhat rocky and broken and thickly covered with scrub bushes and trees of a stunted growth.

“Halloa!” exclaimed Mr. Kearns, “this is pretty rough walking. Remember, too, we have the return journey. What is the use of wearing ourselves out going over ground like this?”

“Follow me,” urged Dr. Jaquet, who was leading and picking the way with care.

“Well, tell us at least where you are leading us,” said Mr. Kearns. “It’s wild enough here never to have been trodden upon by the foot of man.”

Thus questioned, the Doctor explained that he was leading the way to a little tract of land which he owned in the midst of this wilderness of scrub growth, apparently abandoned entirely to the squirrels and the jack-rabbits. He told how he had one day explored this land and had, by the sheerest accident, discovered a natural cave possessing some wonderful peculiarities. He decided to buy the land upon which it was located, and had acquired it for a mere song as it was practically valueless for any purpose whatsoever. He had kept the cave a secret for fear of its being visited by intruders. They, too, must promise him to keep the matter secret. Patience! The ground was rough, but they would soon be there.

“Rough!” exclaimed the Professor; “it’s as rough as civilization.”

“Oh, come,” responded Kearns, “you’re always criticising civilization.”

“Do you think it’s a success?” demanded the Professor.

“Do you dispute it?” challenged Kearns.

“Can it, after all, be said,” answered Professor Dean, thoughtfully, “that mankind at large has really gained any practical good by that progressive evolution known as civilization? Suppose you were the chief of a great tribe existing under primitive conditions, and suppose that you, possessed of all the knowledge of modern life which you have to-day, were confronted with the proposition as to whether you would leave the tribe as it was, or would introduce all the conditions of our present advanced civilization, what would be your decision?”

“Without having given the matter much thought,” replied Mr. Kearns, “my offhand answer would be, I suppose, that I should divest my primitives of breech-clouts and put them into top-hats and trousers, and supply them with churches, theatres, hospitals, hotels, a stock-exchange, a police headquarters, and all the other and usual adjuncts of civilization.”

“And if I were the chief of such tribe, and you brought such proposition to me, I should hesitate long before accepting it,” rejoined the Professor. “I should ponder carefully whether it was not my bounden duty to the tribe to decapitate you, lest you should escape and give the world knowledge of the existence of me and my tribe and thus bring to us by force the civilization which you proffered. What would your civilization mean to the tribe? It would give us great cities and the million and one artificial adjuncts which form part and parcel of modern life. Would the men of the tribe be as happy, as healthy, or as really comfortable in the teeming tenements, or box-like flat houses of the cities which had sprung up, as they were under their tents upon the plains? For those tenements and flat houses they would have to pay rent, and to earn that rent they would be compelled in many instances to convert themselves and their families into industrial slaves. Who ever heard of so-called savages being evicted for non-payment of rent, or dying by the hundreds for want of food as a consequence of economic conditions? And yet, let a great city spring up and you have thousands of such cases every year! You have spoken of the churches which your civilization would erect, but for every church which your great city of modern civilization would bring into existence, it would also create ten, nay one hundred, drinking-shops and gambling-houses and brothels. And as to morality, is a primitive community without churches ever as immoral as a civilized community with a church to every other block? You have spoken, too, of hospitals. It is true, your civilization would bring fine hospitals, with an army of doctors and vast stores of drugs, but with these your civilization, with its artificial forms of life, would bring into existence a thousand and one diseases utterly unknown to men living in a primitive state. Your cures might be very comprehensive and marvelous, but surely it would be infinitely better to escape the diseases themselves, in the first place. With pardonable professional pride, you have also alluded to the existence of a police headquarters, but under primitive conditions such a place would be needless, for the causes which bring about the majority of crimes in a civilized community would not exist. In a word, the primitive tribesmen to whom I have referred would be safe as to their liberty, their homes, their health and their morality, whereas under civilization, and in return for the artificial and really superfluous adjuncts it has to offer, these primitive people must become industrial slaves and rent-sweaters and must surround themselves with all the evils arising from corruption, crime, immorality and disease. Who, I ask you, is the happier? The tribesman procuring his means of livelihood at will by fishing in rivers or in streams, or scouring the woods and the plains in search of game, or the free-man in name, but industrial slave in verity, who under the beneficent sway of our modern civilization ekes out a miserable subsistence in some sweatshop of the city at a dollar and a half a day.”

“I must admit your tribesman would seem to have the best of it,” declared Mr. Kearns.

“And look, too, at the social relations,” continued the Professor. “In primitive life, the savage maiden mates according to her fancy, according to the promptings of her heart. In modern civilization, if we are to judge from what we so often read and hear, a great number of marriages turn upon the question of position, or of money, rather than of true affection. Winsome May, stung by her necessities or her ambition, offers herself up to chill December, or, her dainty flesh quivering with repulsion, surrenders herself into the arms of hoary Midas, and the children of such union are the offspring of Gluttony mated with Disgust. You see, these are questions which affect the very life blood of the nation! In this and a hundred other ways, the tide of social life is interfered with and changed by the ever present influence of that one controlling factor in civilized life—money, money, money! Upon my word, it would seem as if the primitive tribesman had much better, in the interests of his true happiness and well-being, remain as he is!”

“What you say as far as crime is concerned,” replied Mr. Kearns, “is undoubtedly true enough. If you except those offenses perpetrated under the influence of sudden passion, the great majority of crimes arise from the necessities and temptations which form part of modern social life. A good deal has been from time to time written about persons with criminal tendencies. There are undoubtedly such cases, but my experience is that a career of crime involves more hazard, harder work and less pay than almost any other form of occupation a man could go in for. The average criminal would be perfectly willing to undertake any amount of honest work to accomplish his ends, if it were within his power to accomplish them by such means, and he only perpetrates his crime because he sees no other way out of the situation. In saying this I am not justifying his methods, or warranting the soundness of general deductions, but am merely stating a fact. Crime is, as a rule, the result of environment, and this environment grows out of the conditions of modern social life.”

“Then you admit the correctness of the facts upon which my theory is based!” exclaimed the Professor.

“To a certain extent, yes,” replied Mr. Kearns; “but what would you? Would you advocate the renouncement of civilization forthwith and a return to the primitive status?”

“In the existing state of affairs,” answered the Professor gravely, “we are confronting a condition, not a theory. Of course, it would be utterly impracticable to advocate such a course; but I do say that we ought to be more modest in our vaunts as to these benefits conferred by our boasted modern civilization and that we ought to strive to make that civilization give a larger share of well-being and happiness to the great masses of men. As it is, civilization means the accruing of immense advantages to the few with corresponding very doubtful benefits to the many. This is all wrong and will not be permitted to continue forever.”

Thus chatting on, they forced their way over ground which grew rougher and rougher and through brushwood and undergrowth which seemed to become more and more dense. Twice Mr. Kearns had severely stubbed his toe against rocks and the Professor’s nose had been lacerated by some particularly vicious brambles. Both were becoming somewhat tired and were wondering what manner of chase they were being led, when the Doctor suddenly exclaimed:

“Voila! Here we are!”

His body bent almost to earth, Dr. Jaquet squeezed his way between two matted masses of undergrowth and, his companions following, they found themselves in a clearing, entirely surrounded by heavy bushes and covered by a rocky formation of very peculiar outline. From one side of the rock the Doctor removed a quantity of heaped-up brush and disclosed quite a large opening.

“My cave!” declared Dr. Jaquet proudly. “Await me while I make light!”

As he spoke, the Doctor struck a match and descended into the cave. A moment later he reappeared.

“I have lighted the lamp,” he said. “You may enter.”

His companions now perceived some roughly made steps which led down from the opening. These they carefully descended and found themselves in a goodly-sized cave of irregular formation—a cave which was partly the work of nature, but which had evidently been enlarged and partly transformed by human hands. On the floor were a number of heavy rugs and ranged along the walls were various furnishings. In the centre, suspended from the roof, was a handsome Venetian lamp, which now served to illuminate the surroundings.

“Welcome!” exclaimed the Doctor in a loud whisper.

Welcome!

Welcome!

Welcome!

Instantly following the Doctor’s whisper, his utterance was repeated three distinct times in different parts of the cave. The effect was startling and weird.

“This I call ‘The Cave of Whispers,’” said Dr. Jaquet, in response to his companions’ inquiring looks. “See! You whisper and your words they come back to you!”

The Doctor then went on to explain that one of his objects in buying the land and fitting up the cave was to make a study of acoustics: a science comparatively undeveloped to this day. But the place had a peculiar charm for him apart from this, he declared.

The Professor and Mr. Kearns amused themselves for some time whispering various sentences, all of which were faithfully echoed back to them.

“And now,” said Dr. Jaquet, “you must be tired my friends. You shall yourselves rest and I shall give you tobacco to smoke which you will find fit for a Sultan.”

As he spoke, he arranged for them some rugs and cushions and produced a handsome Turkish Narghille, which he placed before them on the floor. This he proceeded to prime with a long-fibred, very pale-colored tobacco, and to each of them he handed an amber stem.

“Smoke, my friends, and enjoy you yourselves,” he said, as he applied a light to the tobacco. “Ah, it is, perhaps, a little chilly here. I will cover you and you shall have the music, too.”

He stretched a rug over each of them, and then, from the side of the cave, brought forth a little music box, which he placed beside him and set in operation.

Dr. Jaquet took up a position facing them and lighted a Turkish cigarette.

“You are quite comfortable, my friends?” he asked.

“Quite!” answered the Professor.

“Delightful!” came the reply from Mr. Kearns.

And the cave echoed back their words.

The tobacco was peculiarly soothing and delicious. It really was, as the Doctor had declared, worthy of a Sultan. Both the Doctor’s companions were somewhat tired after their walk. A peculiar sense of restfulness and comfort was upon them as they lay at ease, smoking the very excellent tobacco and listening to the sweet music falling so gently upon their ears. Thus silently they lay and smoked on. The Doctor’s usual volubility was checked and he quietly smoked his cigarette, his black eyes fixed upon them.

The music box reached the end of its melody. Instantly the Doctor started it again.

“Look!” he said, in a low whisper, bending toward them. “Look at the lamp! See how it throws out to you all the light, all the fire of the diamond.”

Slowly and mechanically, in obedience to his direction, they turned their eyes toward the gorgeous hanging lamp. It was as the Doctor said. From its glittering, multi-colored glass sides the light seemed to refract in a thousand variegated shades. The smoke issued from between the smokers’ lips in slow and dreamy puffs; the rose-water bubbled rhythmically in the pipe; the sweet music played on.

The odor of a strange incense seemed to fill the air. The lamp, grown to giant dimensions, appeared to send forth shafts of ever-changing light. The walls of the cave rolled back, disclosing magnificent cathedral aisles, boundless in expanse and rich in marble and porphyry and gilt, through which the majestic tones of an organ swelled. A sense of religious fervor and of overmastering awe filled their souls.

The scene changed. They were amid the gorgeous splendors of an Oriental palace—a palace which in its vastness was lost to all sense of proportion and whose massive dome reached high to heaven.

Hark! The strains of barbaric music, the clashing of cymbals. A multitude of dancing girls spring, fairy-like, into motion and move and sway in all the graceful, voluptuous motions of the Oriental dance. Their gazelle-like eyes sparkle; the ornaments upon their bosoms flash—surely this is the inner Paradise of Mohammed!

Again the scene changes. The great dome of the Eastern palace parts in twain and they are slowly and deliciously wafted upward. They have no sense of the strangeness of their situation—no fear. Upward, ever upward, they pass to giddy heights and yet this same sense of all-pervading contentment and happiness. The air about them is laden with the perfumes of Araby, and strains of melody of more than earthly sweetness greet the enraptured senses. This must be the music of the spheres—the chant of the heavenly choir! And through this perfumed, music-laden air they are drifting—drifting—drifting——

The amber mouthpieces had dropped from the smokers’ lips; their heads had sunk back upon the cushions; their lids were closed.

Gently, cautiously, the Doctor rose, his black eyes dilated with excitement. Over the sleepers he bent, making mysterious passes toward them as they lay. For an hour or more he thus worked; then with a sigh of exhaustion, the perspiration starting from his brow, he stepped back and contemplated them.

“Sleep on, my friends,” he exclaimed, with a chuckle of satisfaction; “sleep on. Thus could I let you sleep for weeks—many weeks—but, I take it, the twenty-four hours will be enough to convince you that the Doctor Jaquet can make all the world to sleep.”

He replaced the Turkish pipe and the music box in their respective places and put the other articles in the cave in order. Then he procured more rugs and arranging them over the sleepers, tucked them in carefully.

“Au revoir, my friends, until we meet again,” he murmured and, with a sweeping bow to the sleeping forms, he made his exit.

Once outside, he carefully replaced the quantity of brush which effectually concealed the entrance to the cave. As he did so, there was a heavy, rumbling noise in the distance, and he glanced at the sky.

“I must get me home at high speed!” he muttered to himself as he noted the darkening heavens. “There is a storm which is coming.”

He accordingly retraced his steps at his best speed. He had proceeded but little more than half the distance, however, when the storm broke in all its fury: vivid flashes of forked lightning alternating with terrific clashes of thunder. Still he pressed on, not knowing how long the storm might last and bent upon reaching home.

At last, however, this Summer storm reached such a pitch of violence that he found himself compelled to seek shelter until its full fury had in some degree been spent. Not a habitation in sight! Some distance down the road, however, was a great oak, whose wide-spreading branches would afford at least a temporary haven. Hastening his steps, he reached the tree.

At that very instant, the whole heavens were illumined with a tremendous blaze of light. A great zigzag tongue of forked lightning shot forth and darted down upon the oak, rending its massive trunk asunder in one awful stroke.

And at the foot of the shattered tree, as the thunder crashed forth, lay a blackened and blighted shape, horrible to behold—the body of Dr. Raoul Jaquet.

BOOK II
THE PALACE OF THE KING

CHAPTER I
ON THE BROAD HIGHWAY

A-a-a-h!

A prolonged sigh swelled from Dean’s lips.

“Thunder and Mars!” Kearns raised himself languidly on his elbow.

It seemed to them both that they had been sleeping for quite a long time—an unusually long time.

Where was the Doctor?

The sunlight was streaming down upon their faces. They were no longer in the cave, but were lying in the outer air upon the grass, their rugs still wrapped about them. A few steps away were two men, apparently laborers, who stood contemplating them with looks of wonderment not unmingled with alarm.

Slowly and unsteadily, Kearns rose to his feet. Dean followed his example. Both seemed weak and dizzy.

Kearns turned a pair of blinking eyes toward the laborers.

“How did we get here?” he asked with the husky voice of a man with a bad cold.

One of the laborers pointed toward the cave. About the entrance some felled trees and piled underbrush showed where the men had been working.

“Where—where is the Doctor?” stammered Kearns, his eyes still blinking in the strong sunlight and his thoughts and words coming with some effort.

The two laborers turned to each other. On the face of each was a bucolic leer. They eyed each other for an instant and then the taller of the two slowly raised his forefinger, tapped his forehead, and winked knowingly to his companion. He was a tall, loose-jointed fellow, with a little black mark on the left side of his nose and there was something impudent and aggressive in him as he stood there grinning and showing his yellow fangs. His companion was short and stocky, with a freckled face, sandy hair, and a manner suggestive of bashful awkwardness. He turned to the two strangers furtively, as if half fearful that the other’s actions might give offense.

“The Doctor,” repeated the taller man slowly and with peculiar intonation; “the Doctor! I guess the chances be he’s not far off and in a hot chase after both of yees!”

And he chuckled softly to himself, glancing at his companion.

“Not far off! Have you seen him? Which way did he go?” quickly inquired Dean.

“Seen him?” repeated the rustic; “no! I ain’t seen him, nor any of his men.”

“Then what made you say he was not far off?” demanded Dean.

Silence from the two rustics, who continued to exchange glances.

“Look here, my good men!” exclaimed Kearns impatiently; “wake up and listen to me. Just show us the way to the road and you shall be suitably rewarded. Perhaps, too, you would find us a horse and carriage which we could hire to take us home.”

The two men stared at the speaker, open-mouthed, amazed. Again they turned to each other.

“A horse and kerridge!” they exclaimed in a breath.

Then they broke into a loud laugh. Now it was the turn of Kearns and the Professor to exchange glances of astonishment. That a simple request to be supplied with information as to where a horse and carriage could be hired should produce such results was certainly amazing.

Kearns stepped nearer to Dean. “I believe these fellows are crazy,” he whispered. “Perhaps they have escaped from the Weldon Asylum.”

“The smaller man seems a case of senile dementia,” whispered back the Professor, cautiously; “but the larger fellow looks to me like a dangerous lunatic—possibly a homicidal maniac. We may be in danger of our lives!”

While this colloquy was in progress, the rustics had not taken their eyes off the strangers for an instant. The taller of the two again spoke up.

“A horse and kerridge,” he said. “Maybe if ye had a pitchfork apiece ye could scoot away through the air, leaving only a streak of brimstone behind ye. I’ve heerd tell o’ sech things!”

Kearns’ quick temper flashed up. He advanced upon the speaker.

“Confound you, you impudent——”

“Run fer it, Jem; run fer it!” yelled the smaller man apprehensively. “They’re a-goin’ to spell!” He took to his heels at full speed.

Jem gave one quick glance at Kearns and was off after his companion.

Kearns and the Professor stood watching their rapidly retreating figures until they disappeared around the bend of a hill.

“Well—I’m hanged!” exclaimed Kearns. “Mad,” he added with conviction, “mad as March hares.”

“You see what comes of ill-advised asperity!” remarked Dean reprovingly. “Instead of soothing these two unfortunate madmen, you have thrown them into a condition of excitement. Your impetuosity has reacted upon them. You have sent them flying—running amuck—and God knows what may happen to any unfortunate who crosses their path!”

“But did you ever know of such impudence?” cried Kearns, still angry. “I civilly ask these louts the direction of the main road and where I can hire a horse and carriage; they laugh in my face; invite me to ride on a pitchfork! Things have come to a pretty pass if every lunatic one meets thinks he has full license to be as impudent as he pleases. And they acted as if they thought we were crazy, confound them!”

“It’s a common delusion of crazy folks to imagine everyone is crazy except themselves,” said the Professor.

“Yes; that’s very true! I’ve noticed that!” assented Kearns.

“As I remarked before, a case of senile dementia, that little fellow,” said the Professor sagaciously; “a clear case of senile dementia, my good friend!”

“Yes,” declared Kearns, “I noted his sickly smile.”

“Well,” said Dean, “they’re gone and we are fortunately left alive to tell the story and to put the madhouse people on their trail. The next thing to be done is to find the main road and get to the nearest village. There we can hire a conveyance and get refreshments. I am both hungry and thirsty.”

“The nearest village,” repeated Kearns musingly; “I take it that would be Averill, or would Patchley be nearer?”

“I should say Averill, decidedly.”

“Well; let’s be off, then, and find the main road,” suggested Kearns. “This must be the way, I’m pretty sure.” Picking up the blankets and rugs in which they had been wrapped, he tossed them through the entrance to the cave and started off.

“Is it safe, do you think, for us to leave those things there?” asked the Professor.

“What else can we do with them?” answered Kearns. “Let the Doctor attend to that. We’ll notify him, of course, as soon as we get back. He had no business to leave us in that fashion, anyway!”

“I quite agree with you as to that,” assented the Professor. “Tired out with our walk, we must have fallen asleep as we smoked and he calmly left us.”

“By George!” exclaimed Kearns, with a sudden start; “I wonder if the Doctor has been up to any of his pranks.”

“Pranks!” repeated the Professor in astonishment.

“Yes; putting people to sleep. I wonder if this sleep of ours was of his contriving.”

The Professor contracted his brows thoughtfully.

“Now that you mention it,” he declared, “I should not be astonished if it was.”

“Did you notice that pale-colored, peculiar, but certainly very excellent tobacco?” continued Kearns eagerly. “Upon my word, I begin to suspect it was fixed—doped—drugged!”

“You don’t mean to say so!” exclaimed the Professor.

“Well, I just did say so,” retorted Kearns.

“If such is indeed the case, how long do you think we have slept?” questioned the Professor.

Kearns drew out his watch, looked at it and then put it to his ear.

“What does your watch say?” he asked.

The Professor consulted his watch.

“It has stopped,” he declared. “Why, it seems to be run down.”

Kearns glanced at the sky.

“Professor,” he remarked solemnly, “it looks to me as if we had slept clean into the next day.”

“How so?” asked the Professor, vacantly.

“Both our watches are run down,” replied Kearns. “That’s one point. When we entered the cave it was half past three o’clock in the afternoon. From the sun I’d say it’s now about one o’clock. As time hasn’t the habit of going backward, I’d reach the conclusion that this must be the afternoon of the following day.”

“Really, this is most astonishing!” exclaimed the Professor, apparently quite shocked at the idea that he should have thus slumbered for nearly twenty-four hours.

They worked their way around the base of a hill, over ground rough and stony and partially covered with trees and undergrowth. Before long they emerged upon comparatively open ground and then a puzzling feature presented itself to their attention. When led to the cave by the Doctor, he had taken them miles through scrub growth and over rough land. Now, after traveling a comparatively short distance they had emerged into the open and before them stretched fields under cultivation, while some three-quarters of a mile away lay a broad, white road. This was decidedly a much shorter cut than the path the Doctor had taken. But how was it that he had not known of it? It was really puzzling!

“There’s the road!” exclaimed Dean, pointing to the broad, white line in the distance.

“Yes,” assented Kearns, musingly, “but is that the road we are looking for? This doesn’t seem to be the way we came. The lay of the land is different.”

“Perhaps we have come out of the brush in a different direction,” suggested Dean.

“We certainly must have,” replied Kearns. “Well, right or wrong, there’s nothing to do but to make for that road before us.”

The wisdom of this view was apparent, and they accordingly made their way around the fields under cultivation and finally—hot and tired—gained the road. Up and down it they looked and perceived in the distance, some two miles away to the left, the outlines of what appeared to be a goodly-sized town.

“I wonder what the name of that place may be,” remarked Kearns.

“Whatever it is, it’s a good way off,” replied Dean, mopping the perspiration from his brow. “But have you noticed what a magnificent road this is? It reminds me of one of those splendid chemins of Southern France, only this is even finer.”

Both stood admiringly contemplating the road. It was very wide, very white and splendidly smooth. On one side was a broad, raised pathway, evidently for the use of foot-passengers. A curious feature of the roadway itself was its division by a raised earthwork barrier, cutting it into two even parallel halves. At regular intervals were steps by which ascent might be made from the road to the footway and also little bridges connecting the dividing barrier with the pathway.

“Quite a model road,” commented Kearns. “I suppose it’s some kind of a speedway. It’s queer, though, that I never heard there was such a road in this section. Fact is, I don’t remember ever seeing a road of this kind anywhere.”

“Nor I,” declared Dean.

They were standing on the extreme edge of the road, just where they had stepped out from the field. A short distance away was a bend, concealing the run of the road for some little distance beyond.

Suddenly there were two sharp toots, as of a horn, a rattle and a rush of wheels, and past them dashed a peculiar, arrow-shaped, horseless vehicle, traveling at tremendous speed. So rapid was its flight that they had time to catch only a fleeting glimpse of a man, whose right hand gripped a long, shining lever. So sudden was the appearance of the vehicle and so great its speed that the two wayfarers were both startled and astonished.

“Was that an automobile?” exclaimed Dean.

“It looked like one,” answered Kearns, “but I never before saw one of that peculiar construction. And the speed! Whew!”

“Yes; reckless to the last degree,” remarked Dean. “I think it would be highly desirable for us to gain the footpath before we meet another traveler.”

“Stated with the accuracy of science,” declared Kearns. “By all means, let’s take the footpath.”

They accordingly traversed the first roadway, clambered over the dividing barrier, crossed the second roadway and ascended to the footpath. Then they turned their faces in the direction of the town visible in the distance. They had proceeded but a few steps when Kearns suddenly stopped and turned to the Professor with the air of a man to whom a happy thought has come.

“Professor,” he said with a smile, “it’s just occurred to me that right here, in my hind pocket, I’ve a flask. I remember slipping it in before starting, thinking it might come in handy during our walk, and it looks now as if it might.”

“A flask!” exclaimed the Professor, diffidently. “May I ask what it contains?”

“Whiskey—just plain whiskey,” replied Kearns, as he pulled out the flask. “It’s a warm day and we’re both tired, in spite of that long rest. May I invite you to join me?”

“The day is warm,” assented the Professor, “and we are tired. I do not usually indulge, but upon this occasion——”

“Help yourself,” exclaimed Kearns, detaching the small silver receptacle which served as a drinking cup and handing it and the flask to Dean.

The latter helped himself and handed back the flask to Kearns. “Really!” he exclaimed with some show of alarm, “that seems to be powerful stuff. I can feel it all through me.”

“It’s the finest old Kentucky whiskey,” replied Kearns, somewhat nettled that the quality of his liquor should be questioned. “It was a special present to me from Colonel Claybourne, the famous distiller.”

“Powerful—very powerful!” repeated Dean.

Kearns poured himself out a liberal measure.

“Ah! Splendid stuff!” he exclaimed as he lowered the drinking cup from his lips. “That puts new life into one. But, by George, you’re right! It is strong. I never before found it so strong as this.”

“It must be because we are drinking it upon empty stomachs,” suggested the Professor.

“Even so,” declared Kearns, “I can’t understand why it should seem to have such strength.”

They proceeded on their way and had gone but a short distance when they came to a huge sign-board, planted high up upon the barrier dividing the two roadways. This sign-board bore a number of lines, in great black letters. The two wayfarers stopped and eagerly scanned the inscription. It read:—

REGULATIONS OF THE HIGHWAY.

Phaeromobiles, Lakomoters and other Voiters must not exceed the speed allowed by Law.

At all CURVES, directors of voiters must slow down to HALF SPEED.

Descents must be made from the LEFT side only of voiters south-bound and from the RIGHT side only of voiters north-bound, and after descending, persons must traverse the roadway by the CROSS-BRIDGES ONLY.

All voiters must hoist the STOP SIGNAL before coming to a HALT.

All voiters must bear lights of STANDARD SIZE and STRENGTH after SUNSET and must, in addition, carry in RESERVE a RED DANGER LAMP, with independent storage, which must be IMMEDIATELY EXPOSED OVER THE VOITER in case of ACCIDENT to the regulation lights.

The casting of any OBSTRUCTION on the roadway is a Felony.

Any violation of these Regulations will be PROSECUTED to the Full Extent of the Law.

WARING,
I. & R. Commissioner of Highways.

They read the sign over and both stood staring at it, a puzzled expression on their faces.

“Very curious!” commented Dean. “The language used seems to me quite strange. Take that word voiter, for instance. What does it mean? Did you ever see the word before?”

“Never!” declared Kearns, still staring at the sign-board.

“It is, I take it,” continued Dean, “a new-fangled word coined by the makers of automobiles to designate some new kind of motor conveyance. Possibly it is taken from the French word voiture, which means carriage.”

“What’s puzzling me,” said Kearns, “is the title of this fellow Waring, who signs that notice. Read it: ‘I. & R. Commissioner of Highways.’ It’s high-sounding enough, but what the deuce does the ‘I. & R.’ stand for?”

“‘I. & R.,’” repeated the Professor, staring hard at the sign. “I find it impossible to imagine what those letters stand for. If we were in Europe, I should instantly surmise the meaning, but we are in the United States.”

“Yes; we’re in the United States,” replied Kearns, “and here we see those letters only around election time—‘I’ for Independent and ‘R’ for Republican. But that wouldn’t explain matters here; for what’s the meaning of the ‘and’ between the two letters? Well, I don’t suppose we’ll find out by standing here in the sun staring at that big board. Besides, I don’t care a rap whether this Waring is a Republican or a confounded Independent. Let’s have another little nip from the flask to recruit our strength and move on.”

“I seldom indulge,” began the Professor, “but——”

“Don’t be bashful, Professor,” hastily interposed Kearns; “help yourself.”

After each had thus refreshed himself, they renewed their journey.

“From your scornful reference to Independents just now,” remarked Dean, “you don’t seem to hold them in very high estimation.”

“Ah, those Independents!” exclaimed Kearns, with fine scorn. “It’s my experience that an Independent is usually a fellow with a keen eye to his independent interest. His independence consists of balancing his vote between the two parties, with a view to casting it for the side offering him the higher inducement. A pest on your Independents, I say! But, hello! what’s the matter with your hat?”

The sun was streaming fiercely down and the Professor, to shield his face, gave the brim of his white Fedora a sharp pull over his eyes. But the brim parted from the crown and settled comically around his nose. An examination of the hat showed the goods to be in a condition which Kearns described as “absolutely rotten”—almost brittle as tinder.

“A nice hat that!” commented Kearns. “Permit me to ask you the classic question: Where did you get that hat?”

“At Knox,” ruefully answered the Professor. “But,” he added, critically surveying his companion, “it doesn’t seem to me that you have much to boast about as a Beau Brummell.”

It was Kearns’ turn to examine his clothes. Glancing down at the blue serge suit he wore, he saw that a large section of cloth had apparently rotted away from the bottom of one of the trouser legs, and the lining of the coat had broken away from the material in several places. Like the Professor’s hat, the whole material seemed tinder-like and brittle. To add to his discomfiture, the leather of his left shoe began to part company with the sole. Ruefully, Kearns noted this involuntary disrobement. He had always been somewhat particular in dress.

“Professor,” he exclaimed humorously, “if we want to keep our reputation for decency it’s high time we reached home.”

“Very high time,” assented Dean solemnly.

“If we could only get a hack, or a conveyance of any kind,” lamented Kearns.

“I would be willing to ride home in the bottom of an express wagon,” declared the Professor. “Even a coal cart I would not despise.”

“But there’s not a vehicle in sight!” deplored Kearns.

“Not even an ash-cart, or a hearse,” declared the Professor.

“There’s just one more nip left in the flask,” said Kearns, sadly; “let’s take that and move on.”

“I rarely indulge,” began the Professor, “but——”

“Yes, I know!” interrupted Kearns hastily; “you’ve mentioned that before. Kindly help yourself.”

“But,” said the Professor, sternly, “I was going to add that I felt it my duty to do so upon this occasion out of regard for you.”

“Regard for me!” exclaimed Kearns in perplexity.

“Yes,” continued the Professor. “For some time past I have noticed, sir, that the tip of your nose is becoming unduly red, and that your eyes have the congested appearance which betokens incipient intoxication. I do not know, sir, whether in due regard for you—who, from the position you hold, are presumed to pose as a conservator of public morals—it is not my duty to forthwith dispose of that little which yet remains in this pernicious flask.”

“Professor,” declared Kearns, mockingly, “out of consideration for you, I have hesitated to speak earlier, but it now is incumbent upon me to say that I have had my eye on you for more than ten minutes past. You, as an instructor of the community and a trainer of budding youth, should stand forth as a firm and shining example of all that is straightforward and goodly, and yet it is my duty to inform you that your present way is not straightforward nor is your walk upright. In a word, you are staggering, Professor.”

“Sir!” exclaimed the Professor with dignity.

“A fact, sir!” declared Kearns. “I will draw a mark upon this path and I’ll wager two to one you can’t walk it in a straight line.”

“I can’t accept your test,” said the Professor cautiously. “I’m somewhat fatigued to-day and I admit a certain peculiar weakness in the knees.”

“H’m!” exclaimed Kearns.

“Shall we divide?” asked the Professor softly, holding the flask in his hand.

“Agreed!” whispered back Kearns.

Once more they started, speculating as they went over what strange necromancy the Doctor could have exerted to work such curious effects alike upon their surroundings and their persons. When about a mile from the village they saw approaching two women, carrying between them a basket.

“Good-day, Ma’am,” said Kearns with much politeness, as they met; “it’s a warm day.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the elder woman, “it is a warm day, but seasonable for this time of year.”

“Why,” said Kearns, “you don’t usually have it as warm as this out here so early in the year, do you?”

“Early in the year!” exclaimed the woman. “Sure it’s not too warm for the end of July.”

The end of July!

Kearns and the Professor turned to each other in bewilderment. It was the tenth day of June when they had started on the walk with Dr. Jaquet, and here was this woman telling them it was the end of July. Oh, monstrous, incredible! They had slept a full six weeks!

“Then, too, sir,” continued the woman, who seemed not disinclined to rest her heavy basket and indulge in a little gossip, “it’s always apt to be warm on a hot day around fourteen o’clock.”

“Around fourteen o’clock!” repeated Kearns and the Professor, both agape.

“Yes; but I consider fifteen o’clock to be the hottest hour of the day.”

“Fifteen o’clock!” echoed the men.

“Tell me,” said Kearns, after a pause, “what’s the name of that village?”

“Pemberton, sir.”

“Pemberton—Pemberton,” repeated Kearns. “I thought I knew all the places in this section, yet I never heard of Pemberton. Can you tell me in which direction lies Averill?”

“Averill, sir? I never heard the name.”

“Have you lived here long?”

“All my life.”

Kearns paused a moment thoughtfully. Then a sudden thought occurred to him.

“You say this is the end of July?”

“Yes sir; the twenty-fifth.”

“Any news lately about the nominations?”

“Nominations, sir!” repeated the woman; “what nominations?”

“Why, the Presidential, of course!”

“The Presidential,” repeated the woman blankly.

“Yes,” said Kearns, gently; “the Presidential nominations.”

The woman made no reply; she stood staring blankly at the speaker.

The younger woman all this time had been eyeing the wayfarers with curiosity. Into her brown eyes there now came a look of suspicion and mistrust.

“Mother,” she whispered, plucking the elder woman by the sleeve, “we’d better be going.” And she caught up one end of the basket.

The situation was certainly embarrassing. Kearns made a hasty endeavor to turn the subject.

“The village seems a good way off and we are tired,” he said. “Do you think, if we wait here, we might get a horse and carriage to take us to the village?”

The woman glanced sharply at him and gathered up her end of the basket. She and her daughter started on their way. As she passed Kearns, she turned her head.