
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside
Canada, check your country's copyright laws.
IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY,
DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Casting the Runes
Author: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: 1911
    [included in "More Ghost Stories of an Antiquary"]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   "The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James"
   (New York: Longmans, Green;
   London: Edward Arnold, 1931)
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 22 January 2010
Date last updated: 22 January 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #463

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




CASTING THE RUNES


                                        _April 15th, 190-._

     DEAR SIR,--I am requested by the Council of
     the----Association to return to you the draft of a
     paper on _The Truth of Alchemy_, which you have been
     good enough to offer to read at our forthcoming
     meeting, and to inform you that the Council do not see
     their way to including it in the programme.

                             I am,
                                Yours faithfully,
                                         ---- _Secretary._


                                               _April 18th._

     DEAR SIR,--I am sorry to say that my engagements do not
     permit of my affording you an interview on the subject
     of your proposed paper. Nor do our laws allow of your
     discussing the matter with a Committee of our Council,
     as you suggest. Please allow me to assure you that the
     fullest consideration was given to the draft which you
     submitted, and that it was not declined without having
     been referred to the judgment of a most competent
     authority. No personal question (it can hardly be
     necessary for me to add) can have had the slightest
     influence on the decision of the Council.

                                   Believe me (_ut supra_).


                                              _April 20th._

     The Secretary of the----Association begs respectfully
     to inform Mr. Karswell that it is impossible for him to
     communicate the name of any person or persons to whom
     the draft of Mr. Karswell's paper may have been
     submitted; and further desires to intimate that he
     cannot undertake to reply to any further letters on
     this subject.

    *    *    *    *    *

"And who _is_ Mr. Karswell?" inquired the Secretary's wife. She had
called at his office, and (perhaps unwarrantably) had picked up the
last of these three letters, which the typist had just brought in.

"Why, my dear, just at present Mr. Karswell is a very angry man. But I
don't know much about him otherwise, except that he is a person of
wealth, his address is Lufford Abbey, Warwickshire, and he's an
alchemist, apparently, and wants to tell us all about it; and that's
about all--except that I don't want to meet him for the next week or
two. Now, if you're ready to leave this place, I am."

"What have you been doing to make him angry?" asked Mrs. Secretary.

"The usual thing, my dear, the usual thing: he sent in a draft of a
paper he wanted to read at he next meeting, and we referred it to
Edward Dunning--almost the only man in England who knows about these
things--and he said it was perfectly hopeless, so we declined it. So
Karswell has been pelting me with letters ever since. The last thing
he wanted was the name of the man we referred his nonsense to; you
saw my answer to that. But don't you say anything about it, for
goodness' sake."

"I should think not, indeed. Did I ever do such a thing? I do hope,
though, he won't get to know that it was poor Mr. Dunning."

"Poor Mr. Dunning? I don't know why you call him that; he's a very
happy man, is Dunning. Lots of hobbies and a comfortable home, and all
his time to himself."

"I only meant I should be sorry for him if this man got hold of his
name, and came and bothered him."

"Oh, ah! yes. I dare say he would be poor Mr. Dunning then."

    *    *    *    *    *

The Secretary and his wife were lunching out, and the friends to whose
house they were bound were Warwickshire people. So Mrs. Secretary had
already settled it in her own mind that she would question them
judiciously about Mr. Karswell. But she was saved the trouble of
leading up to the subject, for the hostess said to the host, before
many minutes had passed, "I saw the Abbot of Lufford this morning."
The host whistled. "_Did_ you? What in the world brings him up to
town?" "Goodness knows; he was coming out of the British Museum gate
as I drove past." It was not unnatural that Mrs. Secretary should
inquire whether this was a real Abbot who was being spoken of. "Oh no,
my dear: only a neighbour of ours in the country who bought Lufford
Abbey a few years ago. His real name is Karswell." "Is he a friend of
yours?" asked Mr. Secretary, with a private wink to his wife. The
question let loose a torrent of declamation. There was really nothing
to be said for Mr. Karswell. Nobody knew what he did with himself: his
servants were a horrible set of people; he had invented a new religion
for himself, and practised no one could tell what appalling rites; he
was very easily offended, and never forgave anybody: he had a dreadful
face (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhat demurring); he never
did a kind action, and whatever influence he did exert was
mischievous. "Do the poor man justice, dear," the husband interrupted.
"You forget the treat he gave the school children." "Forget it,
indeed! But I'm glad you mentioned it, because it gives an idea of the
man. Now, Florence, listen to this. The first winter he was at Lufford
this delightful neighbour of ours wrote to the clergyman of his parish
(he's not ours, but we know him very well) and offered to show the
school children some magic-lantern slides. He said he had some new
kinds, which he thought would interest them. Well, the clergyman was
rather surprised, because Mr. Karswell had shown himself inclined to
be unpleasant to the children--complaining of their trespassing, or
something of the sort; but of course he accepted, and the evening was
fixed, and our friend went himself to see that everything went right.
He said he never had been so thankful for anything as that his own
children were all prevented from being there: they were at a
children's party at our house, as a matter of fact. Because this Mr.
Karswell had evidently set out with the intention of frightening these
poor village children out of their wits, and I do believe, if he had
been allowed to go on, he would actually have done so. He began with
some comparatively mild things. Red Riding Hood was one, and even
then, Mr. Farrer said, the wolf was so dreadful that several of the
smaller children had to be taken out: and he said Mr. Karswell began
the story by producing a noise like a wolf howling in the distance,
which was the most gruesome thing he had ever heard. All the slides he
showed, Mr. Farrer said, were most clever; they were absolutely
realistic, and where he had got them or how he worked them he could
not imagine. Well, the show went on, and the stories kept on becoming
a little more terrifying each time, and the children were mesmerized
into complete silence. At last he produced a series which represented
a little boy passing through his own park--Lufford, I mean--in the
evening. Every child in the room could recognize the place from the
pictures. And this poor boy was followed, and at last pursued and
overtaken, and either torn in pieces or somehow made away with, by a
horrible hopping creature in white, which you saw first dodging about
among the trees, and gradually it appeared more and more plainly. Mr.
Farrer said it gave him one of the worst nightmares he ever
remembered, and what it must have meant to the children doesn't bear
thinking of. Of course this was too much, and he spoke very sharply
indeed to Mr. Karswell, and said it couldn't go on. All _he_ said was:
'Oh, you think it's time to bring our little show to an end and send
them home to their beds? _Very_ well!' And then, if you please, he
switched on another slide, which showed a great mass of snakes,
centipedes, and disgusting creatures with wings, and somehow or other
he made it seem as if they were climbing out of the picture and
getting in amongst the audience; and this was accompanied by a sort of
dry rustling noise which sent the children nearly mad, and of course
they stampeded. A good many of them were rather hurt in getting out of
the room, and I don't suppose one of them closed an eye that night.
There was the most dreadful trouble in the village afterwards. Of
course the mothers threw a good part of the blame on poor Mr. Farrer,
and, if they could have got past the gates, I believe the fathers
would have broken every window in the Abbey. Well, now, that's Mr.
Karswell: that's the Abbot of Lufford, my dear, and you can imagine
how we covet _his_ society."

"Yes, I think he has all the possibilities of a distinguished
criminal, has Karswell," said the host. "I should be sorry for anyone
who got into his bad books."

"Is he the man, or am I mixing him up with someone else?" asked the
Secretary (who for some minutes had been wearing the frown of the man
who is trying to recollect something). "Is he the man who brought out
a _History of Witchcraft_ some time back--ten years or more?"

"That's the man; do you remember the reviews of it?"

"Certainly I do; and what's equally to the point, I knew the author of
the most incisive of the lot. So did you: you must remember John
Harrington; he was at John's in our time."

"Oh, very well indeed, though I don't think I saw or heard anything of
him between the time I went down and the day I read the account of the
inquest on him."

"Inquest?" said one of the ladies. "What has happened to him?"

"Why, what happened was that he fell out of a tree and broke his neck.
But the puzzle was, what could have induced him to get up there. It
was a mysterious business, I must say. Here was this man--not an
athletic fellow, was he? and with no eccentric twist about him that
was ever noticed--walking home along a country road late in the
evening--no tramps about--well known and liked in the place--and he
suddenly begins to run like mad, loses his hat and stick, and finally
shins up a tree--quite a difficult tree--growing in the hedgerow: a
dead branch gives way, and he comes down with it and breaks his neck,
and there he's found next morning with the most dreadful face of fear
on him that could be imagined. It was pretty evident, of course, that
he had been chased by something, and people talked of savage dogs, and
beasts escaped out of menageries; but there was nothing to be made of
that. That was in '89, and I believe his brother Henry (whom I
remember as well at Cambridge, but _you_ probably don't) has been
trying to get on the track of an explanation ever since. He, of
course, insists there was malice in it, but I don't know. It's
difficult to see how it could have come in."

After a time the talk reverted to the _History of Witchcraft_. "Did
you ever look into it?" asked the host.

"Yes, I did," said the Secretary. "I went so far as to read it."

"Was it as bad as it was made out to be?"

"Oh, in point of style and form, quite hopeless. It deserved all the
pulverizing it got. But, besides that, it was an evil book. The man
believed every word of what he was saying, and I'm very much mistaken
if he hadn't tried the greater part of his receipts."

"Well, I only remember Harrington's review of it, and I must say if
I'd been the author it would have quenched my literary ambition for
good. I should never have held up my head again."

"It hasn't had that effect in the present case. But come, it's
half-past three; I must be off."

On the way home the Secretary's wife said, "I do hope that horrible
man won't find out that Mr. Dunning had anything to do with the
rejection of his paper." "I don't think there's much chance of that,"
said the Secretary. "Dunning won't mention it himself, for these
matters are confidential, and none of us will for the same reason.
Karswell won't know his name, for Dunning hasn't published anything on
the same subject yet. The only danger is that Karswell might find out,
if he was to ask the British Museum people who was in the habit of
consulting alchemical manuscripts: I can't very well tell them not to
mention Dunning, can I? It would set them talking at once. Let's hope
it won't occur to him."

However, Mr. Karswell was an astute man.

    *    *    *    *    *

This much is in the way of prologue. On an evening rather later in the
same week, Mr. Edward Dunning was returning from the British Museum,
where he had been engaged in Research, to the comfortable house in a
suburb where he lived alone, tended by two excellent women who had
been long with him. There is nothing to be added by way of description
of him to what we have heard already. Let us follow him as he takes
his sober course homewards.

    *    *    *    *    *

A train took him to within a mile or two of his house, and an electric
tram a stage farther. The line ended at a point some three hundred
yards from his front door. He had had enough of reading when he got
into the car, and indeed the light was not such as to allow him to do
more than study the advertisements on the panes of glass that faced
him as he sat. As was not unnatural, the advertisements in this
particular line of cars were objects of his frequent contemplation,
and, with the possible exception of the brilliant and convincing
dialogue between Mr. Lamplough and an eminent K.C. on the subject of
Pyretic Saline, none of them afforded much scope to his imagination. I
am wrong: there was one at the corner of the car farthest from him
which did not seem familiar. It was in blue letters on a yellow
ground, and all that he could read of it was a name--John
Harrington--and something like a date. It could be of no interest to
him to know more; but for all that, as the car emptied, he was just
curious enough to move along the seat until he could read it well. He
felt to a slight extent repaid for his trouble; the advertisement was
_not_ of the usual type. It ran thus: "In memory of John Harrington,
F.S.A., of The Laurels, Ashbrooke. Died Sept. 18th, 1889. Three months
were allowed."

The car stopped. Mr. Dunning, still contemplating the blue letters on
the yellow ground, had to be stimulated to rise by a word from the
conductor. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I was looking at that
advertisement; it's a very odd one, isn't it?" The conductor read it
slowly. "Well, my word," he said, "I never see that one before. Well,
that is a cure, ain't it? Someone bin up to their jokes 'ere, I should
think." He got out a duster and applied it, not without saliva, to the
pane and then to the outside. "No," he said, returning, "that ain't
no transfer; seems to me as if it was reg'lar _in_ the glass, what I
mean in the substance, as you may say. Don't you think so, sir?" Mr.
Dunning examined it and rubbed it with his glove, and agreed. "Who
looks after these advertisements, and gives leave for them to be put
up? I wish you would inquire. I will just take a note of the words."
At this moment there came a call from the driver: "Look alive, George,
time's up." "All right, all right; there's somethink else what's up at
this end. You come and look at this 'ere glass." "What's gorn with the
glass?" said the driver, approaching. "Well, and oo's 'Arrington?
What's it all about?" "I was just asking who was responsible for
putting the advertisements up in your cars, and saying it would be as
well to make some inquiry about this one." "Well, sir, that's all done
at the Company's orfice, that work is: it's our Mr. Timms, I believe,
looks into that. When we put up to-night I'll leave word, and per'aps
I'll be able to tell you to-morrer if you 'appen to be coming this
way."

This was all that passed that evening. Mr. Dunning did just go to the
trouble of looking up Ashbrooke, and found that it was in
Warwickshire.

Next day he went to town again. The car (it was the same car) was too
full in the morning to allow of his getting a word with the conductor:
he could only be sure that the curious advertisement had been made
away with. The close of the day brought a further element of mystery
into the transaction. He had missed the tram, or else preferred
walking home, but at a rather late hour, while he was at work in his
study, one of the maids came to say that two men from the tramways was
very anxious to speak to him. This was a reminder of the
advertisement, which he had, he says, nearly forgotten. He had the men
in--they were the conductor and driver of the car--and when the matter
of refreshment had been attended to, asked what Mr. Timms had had to
say about the advertisement. "Well, sir, that's what we took the
liberty to step round about," said the conductor. "Mr. Timm's 'e give
William 'ere the rough side of his tongue about that: 'cordin' to 'im
there warn't no advertisement of that description sent in, nor
ordered, nor paid for, nor put up, nor nothink, let alone not bein'
there, and we was playing the fool takin' up his time. 'Well,' I says,
'if that's the case, all I ask of you, Mr. Timms,' I says, 'is to take
and look at it for yourself,' I says. 'Of course if it ain't there,' I
says, 'you may take and call me what you like.' 'Right,' he says, 'I
will': and we went straight off. Now, I leave it to you, sir, if that
ad., as we term 'em, with 'Arrington on it warn't as plain as ever you
see anythink--blue letters on yeller glass, and as I says at the time,
and you borne me out, reg'lar _in_ the glass, because, if you
remember, you recollect of me swabbing it with my duster." "To be sure
I do, quite clearly--well?" "You may say well, I don't think. Mr.
Timms he gets in that car with a light--no, he telled William to 'old
the light outside. 'Now,' he says, 'where's your precious ad. what
we've 'eard so much about?" ''Ere it is,' I says, 'Mr. Timms,' and I
laid my 'and on it." The conductor paused.

"Well," said Mr. Dunning, "it was gone, I suppose. Broken?"

"Broke!--not it. There warn't, if you'll believe me, no more trace of
them letters--blue letters they was--on that piece o' glass,
than--well, it's no good _me_ talkin'. _I_ never see such a thing. I
leave it to William here if--but there, as I says, where's the benefit
in me going on about it?"

"And what did Mr. Timms say?"

"Why 'e did what I give 'im leave to--called us pretty much anythink
he liked, and I don't know as I blame him so much neither. But what we
thought, William and me did, was as we seen you take down a bit of a
note about that--well, that letterin'----"

"I certainly did that, and I have it now. Did you wish me to speak to
Mr. Timms myself, and show it to him? Was that what you came in
about?"

"There, didn't I say as much?" said William. "Deal with a gent if you
can get on the track of one, that's my word. Now perhaps, George,
you'll allow as I ain't took you very far wrong to-night."

"Very well, William, very well; no need for you to go on as if you'd
'ad to frog's-march me 'ere. I come quiet, didn't I? All the same for
that, we 'adn't ought to take up your time this way, sir; but if it
so 'appened you could find time to step round to the Company's orfice
in the morning and tell Mr. Timms what you seen for yourself, we
should lay under a very 'igh obligation to you for the trouble. You
see it ain't bein' called--well, one thing and another, as we mind,
but if they got it into their 'ead at the orfice as we seen things as
warn't there, why, one thing leads to another, and where we should be
a twelvemunce 'ence--well, you can understand what I mean."

Amid further elucidations of the proposition, George, conducted by
William, left the room.

The incredulity of Mr. Timms (who had a nodding acquaintance with Mr.
Dunning) was greatly modified on the following day by what the latter
could tell and show him; and any bad mark that might have been
attached to the names of William and George was not suffered to remain
on the Company's books; but explanation there was none.

Mr. Dunning's interest in the matter was kept alive by an incident of
the following afternoon. He was walking from his club to the train,
and he noticed some way ahead a man with a handful of leaflets such as
are distributed to passers-by by agents of enterprising firms. This
agent had not chosen a very crowded street for his operations: in
fact, Mr. Dunning did not see him get rid of a single leaflet before
he himself reached the spot. One was thrust into his hand as he
passed: the hand that gave it touched his, and he experienced a sort
of little shock as it did so. It seemed unnaturally rough and hot. He
looked in passing at the giver, but the impression he got was so
unclear that, however much he tried to reckon it up subsequently,
nothing would come. He was walking quickly, and as he went on glanced
at the paper. It was a blue one. The name of Harrington in large
capitals caught his eye. He stopped, startled, and felt for his
glasses. The next instant the leaflet was twitched out of his hand by
a man who hurried past, and was irrecoverably gone. He ran back a few
paces, but where was the passer-by? and where the distributor?

It was in a somewhat pensive frame of mind that Mr. Dunning passed on
the following day into the Select Manuscript Room of the British
Museum, and filled up tickets for Harley 3586, and some other volumes.
After a few minutes they were brought to him, and he was settling the
one he wanted first upon the desk, when he thought he heard his own
name whispered behind him. He turned round hastily, and in doing so,
brushed his little portfolio of loose papers on to the floor. He saw
no one he recognized except one of the staff in charge of the room,
who nodded to him, and he proceeded to pick up his papers. He thought
he had them all, and was turning to begin work, when a stout gentleman
at the table behind him, who was just rising to leave, and had
collected his own belongings, touched him on the shoulder, saying,
"May I give you this? I think it should be yours," and handed him a
missing quire. "It is mine, thank you," said Mr. Dunning. In another
moment the man had left the room. Upon finishing his work for the
afternoon, Mr. Dunning had some conversation with the assistant in
charge, and took occasion to ask who the stout gentleman was. "Oh,
he's a man named Karswell," said the assistant; "he was asking me a
week ago who were the great authorities on alchemy, and of course I
told him you were the only one in the country. I'll see if I can't
catch him: he'd like to meet you, I'm sure."

"For heaven's sake don't dream of it!" said Mr. Dunning, "I'm
particularly anxious to avoid him."

"Oh! very well," said the assistant, "he doesn't come here often: I
dare say you won't meet him."

More than once on the way home that day Mr. Dunning confessed to
himself that he did not look forward with his usual cheerfulness to a
solitary evening. It seemed to him that something ill-defined and
impalpable had stepped in between him and his fellow-men--had taken
him in charge, as it were. He wanted to sit close up to his neighbours
in the train and in the tram, but as luck would have it both train and
car were markedly empty. The conductor George was thoughtful, and
appeared to be absorbed in calculations as to the number of
passengers. On arriving at his house he found Dr. Watson, his medical
man, on his doorstep. "I've had to upset your household arrangements,
I'm sorry to say, Dunning. Both your servants _hors de combat_. In
fact, I've had to send them to the Nursing Home."

"Good heavens! what's the matter?"

"It's something like ptomaine poisoning, I should think: you've not
suffered yourself, I can see, or you wouldn't be walking about. I
think they'll pull through all right."

"Dear, dear! Have you any idea what brought it on?"

"Well, they tell me they bought some shell-fish from a hawker at their
dinner-time. It's odd. I've made inquiries, but I can't find that any
hawker has been to other houses in the street. I couldn't send word to
you; they won't be back for a bit yet. You come and dine with me
to-night, anyhow, and we can make arrangements for going on. Eight
o'clock. Don't be too anxious."

The solitary evening was thus obviated; at the expense of some
distress and inconvenience, it is true. Mr. Dunning spent the time
pleasantly enough with the doctor (a rather recent settler), and
returned to his lonely home at about 11.30. The night he passed is not
one on which he looks back with any satisfaction. He was in bed and
the light was out. He was wondering if the charwoman would come early
enough to get him hot water next morning, when he heard the
unmistakable sound of his study door opening. No step followed it on
the passage floor, but the sound must mean mischief, for he knew that
he had shut the door that evening after putting his papers away in his
desk. It was rather shame than courage that induced him to slip out
into the passage and lean over the banister in his nightgown,
listening. No light was visible; no further sound came: only a gust of
warm, or even hot air played for an instant round his shins. He went
back and decided to lock himself into his room. There was more
unpleasantness, however. Either an economical suburban company had
decided that their light would not be required in the small hours, and
had stopped working, or else something was wrong with the meter; the
effect was in any case that the electric light was off. The obvious
course was to find a match, and also to consult his watch: he might as
well know how many hours of discomfort awaited him. So he put his hand
into the well-known nook under the pillow: only, it did not get so
far. What he touched was, according to his account, a mouth, with
teeth, and with hair about it, and, he declares, not the mouth of a
human being. I do not think it is any use to guess what he said or
did; but he was in a spare room with the door locked and his ear to it
before he was clearly conscious again. And there he spent the rest of
a most miserable night, looking every moment for some fumbling at the
door: but nothing came.

The venturing back to his own room in the morning was attended with
many listenings and quiverings. The door stood open, fortunately, and
the blinds were up (the servants had been out of the house before the
hour of drawing them down); there was, to be short, no trace of an
inhabitant. The watch, too, was in its usual place; nothing was
disturbed, only the wardrobe door had swung open, in accordance with
its confirmed habit. A ring at the back door now announced the
charwoman, who had been ordered the night before, and nerved Mr.
Dunning, after letting her in, to continue his search in other parts
of the house. It was equally fruitless.

The day thus begun went on dismally enough. He dared not go to the
Museum: in spite of what the assistant had said, Karswell might turn
up there, and Dunning felt he could not cope with a probably hostile
stranger. His own house was odious; he hated sponging on the doctor.
He spent some little time in a call at the Nursing Home, where he was
slightly cheered by a good report of his housekeeper and maid. Towards
lunch-time he betook himself to his club, again experiencing a gleam
of satisfaction at seeing the Secretary of the Association. At
luncheon Dunning told his friend the more material of his woes, but
could not bring himself to speak of those that weighed most heavily on
his spirits. "My poor dear man," said the Secretary, "what an upset!
Look here: we're alone at home, absolutely. You must put up with us.
Yes! no excuse: send your things in this afternoon." Dunning was
unable to stand out: he was, in truth, becoming acutely anxious, as
the hours went on, as to what that night might have waiting for him.
He was almost happy as he hurried home to pack up.

His friends, when they had time to take stock of him, were rather
shocked at his lorn appearance, and did their best to keep him up to
the mark. Not altogether without success: but, when the two men were
smoking alone later, Dunning became dull again. Suddenly he said,
"Gayton, I believe that alchemist man knows it was I who got his paper
rejected." Gayton whistled. "What makes you think that?" he said.
Dunning told of his conversation with the Museum assistant, and Gayton
could only agree that the guess seemed likely to be correct. "Not that
I care much," Dunning went on, "only it might be a nuisance if we were
to meet. He's a bad-tempered party, I imagine." Conversation dropped
again; Gayton became more and more strongly impressed with the
desolateness that came over Dunning's face and bearing, and
finally--though with a considerable effort--he asked him point-blank
whether something serious was not bothering him. Dunning gave an
exclamation of relief. "I was perishing to get it off my mind," he
said. "Do you know anything about a man named John Harrington?" Gayton
was thoroughly startled, and at the moment could only ask why. Then
the complete story of Dunning's experiences came out--what had
happened in the tramcar, in his own house, and in the street, the
troubling of spirit that had crept over him, and still held him; and
he ended with the question he had begun with. Gayton was at a loss
how to answer him. To tell the story of Harrington's end would perhaps
be right; only, Dunning was in a nervous state, the story was a grim
one, and he could not help asking himself whether there were not a
connecting link between these two cases, in the person of Karswell. It
was a difficult concession for a scientific man, but it could be eased
by the phrase "hypnotic suggestion." In the end he decided that his
answer to-night should be guarded; he would talk the situation over
with his wife. So he said that he had known Harrington at Cambridge,
and believed he had died suddenly in 1889, adding a few details about
the man and his published work. He did talk over the matter with Mrs.
Gayton, and, as he had anticipated, she leapt at once to the
conclusion which had been hovering before him. It was she who reminded
him of the surviving brother, Henry Harrington, and she also who
suggested that he might be got hold of by means of their hosts of the
day before. "He might be a hopeless crank," objected Gayton. "That
could be ascertained from the Bennetts, who knew him," Mrs. Gayton
retorted; and she undertook to see the Bennetts the very next day.

    *    *    *    *    *

It is not necessary to tell in further detail the steps by which Henry
Harrington and Dunning were brought together.

    *    *    *    *    *

The next scene that does require to be narrated is a conversation that
took place between the two. Dunning had told Harrington of the
strange ways in which the dead man's name had been brought before him,
and had said something, besides, of his own subsequent experiences.
Then he had asked if Harrington was disposed, in return, to recall any
of the circumstances connected with his brother's death. Harrington's
surprise at what he heard can be imagined: but his reply was readily
given.

"John," he said, "was in a very odd state, undeniably, from time to
time, during some weeks before, though not immediately before, the
catastrophe. There were several things; the principal notion he had
was that he thought he was being followed. No doubt he was an
impressionable man, but he never had had such fancies as this before.
I cannot get it out of my mind that there was ill-will at work, and
what you tell me about yourself reminds me very much of my brother.
Can you think of any possible connecting link?"

"There is just one that has been taking shape vaguely in my mind. I've
been told that your brother reviewed a book very severely not long
before he died, and just lately I have happened to cross the path of
the man who wrote that book in a way he would resent."

"Don't tell me the man was called Karswell."

"Why not? that is exactly his name."

Henry Harrington leant back. "That is final to my mind. Now I must
explain further. From something he said, I feel sure that my brother
John was beginning to believe--very much against his will--that
Karswell was at the bottom of his trouble. I want to tell you what
seems to me to have a bearing on the situation. My brother was a great
musician, and used to run up to concerts in town. He came back, three
months before he died, from one of these, and gave me his programme to
look at--an analytical programme: he always kept them. 'I nearly
missed this one,' he said. 'I suppose I must have dropped it: anyhow,
I was looking for it under my seat and in my pockets and so on, and my
neighbour offered me his: said "might he give it me, he had no further
use for it," and he went away just afterwards. I don't know who he
was--a stout, clean-shaven man. I should have been sorry to miss it;
of course I could have bought another, but this cost me nothing.' At
another time he told me that he had been very uncomfortable both on
the way to his hotel and during the night. I piece things together now
in thinking it over. Then, not very long after, he was going over
these programmes, putting them in order to have them bound up, and in
this particular one (which by the way I had hardly glanced at), he
found quite near the beginning a strip of paper with some very odd
writing on it in red and black--most carefully done--it looked to me
more like Runic letters than anything else. 'Why,' he said, 'this must
belong to my fat neighbour. It looks as if it might be worth returning
to him; it may be a copy of something; evidently someone has taken
trouble over it. How can I find his address?' We talked it over for a
little and agreed that it wasn't worth advertising about, and that my
brother had better look out for the man at the next concert, to which
he was going very soon. The paper was lying on the book and we were
both by the fire; it was a cold, windy summer evening. I suppose the
door blew open, though I didn't notice it: at any rate a gust--a warm
gust it was--came quite suddenly between us, took the paper and blew
it straight into the fire: it was light, thin paper, and flared and
went up the chimney in a single ash. 'Well,' I said, 'you can't give
it back now.' He said nothing for a minute: then rather crossly, 'No,
I can't; but why you should keep on saying so I don't know.' I
remarked that I didn't say it more than once. 'Not more than four
times, you mean,' was all he said. I remember all that very clearly,
without any good reason; and now to come to the point. I don't know if
you looked at that book of Karswell's which my unfortunate brother
reviewed. It's not likely that you should: but I did, both before his
death and after it. The first time we made game of it together. It was
written in no style at all--split infinitives, and every sort of thing
that makes an Oxford gorge rise. Then there was nothing that the man
didn't swallow: mixing up classical myths, and stories out of the
_Golden Legend_ with reports of savage customs of to-day--all very
proper, no doubt, if you know how to use them, but he didn't: he
seemed to put the _Golden Legend_ and the _Golden Bough_ exactly on a
par, and to believe both: a pitiable exhibition, in short. Well, after
the misfortune, I looked over the book again. It was no better than
before, but the impression which it left this time on my mind was
different. I suspected--as I told you--that Karswell had borne
ill-will to my brother, even that he was in some way responsible for
what had happened; and now his book seemed to me to be a very sinister
performance indeed. One chapter in particular struck me, in which he
spoke of 'casting the Runes' on people, either for the purpose of
gaining their affection or of getting them out of the way--perhaps
more especially the latter: he spoke of all this in a way that really
seemed to me to imply actual knowledge. I've not time to go into
details, but the upshot is that I am pretty sure from information
received that the civil man at the concert was Karswell: I suspect--I
more than suspect--that the paper was of importance: and I do believe
that if my brother had been able to give it back, he might have been
alive now. Therefore, it occurs to me to ask you whether you have
anything to put beside what I have told you."

By way of answer, Dunning had the episode in the Manuscript Room at
the British Museum to relate. "Then he did actually hand you some
papers; have you examined them? No? because we must, if you'll allow
it, look at them at once, and very carefully."

They went to the still empty house--empty, for the two servants were
not yet able to return to work. Dunning's portfolio of papers was
gathering dust on the writing-table. In it were the quires of
small-sized scribbling paper which he used for his transcripts: and
from one of these, as he took it up, there slipped and fluttered out
into the room with uncanny quickness, a strip of thin light paper. The
window was open, but Harrington slammed it to, just in time to
intercept the paper, which he caught. "I thought so," he said; "it
might be the identical thing that was given to my brother. You'll have
to look out, Dunning; this may mean something quite serious for you."

A long consultation took place. The paper was narrowly examined. As
Harrington had said, the characters on it were more like Runes than
anything else, but not decipherable by either man, and both hesitated
to copy them, for fear, as they confessed, of perpetuating whatever
evil purpose they might conceal. So it has remained impossible (if I
may anticipate a little) to ascertain what was conveyed in this
curious message or commission. Both Dunning and Harrington are firmly
convinced that it had the effect of bringing its possessors into very
undesirable company. That it must be returned to the source whence it
came they were agreed, and further, that the only safe and certain way
was that of personal service; and here contrivance would be necessary,
for Dunning was known by sight to Karswell. He must, for one thing,
alter his appearance by shaving his beard. But then might not the blow
fall first? Harrington thought they could time it. He knew the date of
the concert at which the "black spot" had been put on his brother: it
was June 18th. The death had followed on Sept. 18th. Dunning reminded
him that three months had been mentioned on the inscription on the
car-window. "Perhaps," he added, with a cheerless laugh, "mine may be
a bill at three months too. I believe I can fix it by my diary. Yes,
April 23rd was the day at the Museum; that brings us to July 23rd.
Now, you know, it becomes extremely important to me to know anything
you will tell me about the progress of your brother's trouble, if it
is possible for you to speak of it." "Of course. Well, the sense of
being watched whenever he was alone was the most distressing thing to
him. After a time I took to sleeping in his room, and he was the
better for that: still, he talked a great deal in his sleep. What
about? Is it wise to dwell on that, at least before things are
straightened out? I think not, but I can tell you this: two things
came for him by post during those weeks, both with a London postmark,
and addressed in a commercial hand. One was a woodcut of Bewick's,
roughly torn out of the page: one which shows a moonlit road and a man
walking along it, followed by an awful demon creature. Under it were
written the lines out of the 'Ancient Mariner' (which I suppose the
cut illustrates) about one who, having once looked round--


                  'walks on,
    And turns no more his head,
    Because he knows a frightful fiend
    Doth close behind him tread.'


The other was a calendar, such as tradesmen often send. My brother
paid no attention to this, but I looked at it after his death, and
found that everything after Sept. 18 had been torn out. You may be
surprised at his having gone out alone the evening he was killed, but
the fact is that during the last ten days or so of his life he had
been quite free from the sense of being followed or watched."

The end of the consultation was this. Harrington, who knew a neighbour
of Karswell's, thought he saw a way of keeping a watch on his
movements. It would be Dunning's part to be in readiness to try to
cross Karswell's path at any moment, to keep the paper safe and in a
place of ready access.

They parted. The next weeks were no doubt a severe strain upon
Dunning's nerves: the intangible barrier which had seemed to rise
about him on the day when he received the paper, gradually developed
into a brooding blackness that cut him off from the means of escape to
which one might have thought he might resort. No one was at hand who
was likely to suggest them to him, and he seemed robbed of all
initiative. He waited with inexpressible anxiety as May, June, and
early July passed on, for a mandate from Harrington. But all this time
Karswell remained immovable at Lufford.

At last, in less than a week before the date he had come to look upon
as the end of his earthly activities, came a telegram: "Leaves
Victoria by boat train Thursday night. Do not miss. I come to you
to-night. Harrington."

He arrived accordingly, and they concocted plans. The train left
Victoria at nine and its last stop before Dover was Croydon West.
Harrington would mark down Karswell at Victoria, and look out for
Dunning at Croydon, calling to him if need were by a name agreed upon.
Dunning, disguised as far as might be, was to have no label or
initials on any hand luggage, and must at all costs have the paper
with him.

Dunning's suspense as he waited on the Croydon platform I need not
attempt to describe. His sense of danger during the last days had only
been sharpened by the fact that the cloud about him had perceptibly
been lighter; but relief was an ominous symptom, and, if Karswell
eluded him now, hope was gone: and there were so many chances of that.
The rumour of the journey might be itself a device. The twenty minutes
in which he paced the platform and persecuted every porter with
inquiries as to the boat train were as bitter as any he had spent.
Still, the train came, and Harrington was at the window. It was
important, of course, that there should be no recognition: so Dunning
got in at the farther end of the corridor carriage, and only gradually
made his way to the compartment where Harrington and Karswell were. He
was pleased, on the whole, to see that the train was far from full.

Karswell was on the alert, but gave no sign of recognition. Dunning
took the seat not immediately facing him, and attempted, vainly at
first, then with increasing command of his faculties, to reckon the
possibilities of making the desired transfer. Opposite to Karswell,
and next to Dunning, was a heap of Karswell's coats on the seat. It
would be of no use to slip the paper into these--he would not be safe,
or would not feel so, unless in some way it could be proffered by him
and accepted by the other. There was a handbag, open, and with papers
in it. Could he manage to conceal this (so that perhaps Karswell might
leave the carriage without it), and then find and give it to him? This
was the plan that suggested itself. If he could only have counselled
with Harrington! but that could not be. The minutes went on. More than
once Karswell rose and went out into the corridor. The second time
Dunning was on the point of attempting to make the bag fall off the
seat, but he caught Harrington's eye, and read in it a warning.
Karswell, from the corridor, was watching: probably to see if the two
men recognized each other. He returned, but was evidently restless:
and, when he rose the third time, hope dawned, for something did slip
off his seat and fall with hardly a sound to the floor. Karswell went
out once more, and passed out of range of the corridor window. Dunning
picked up what had fallen, and saw that the key was in his hands in
the form of one of Cook's ticket-cases, with tickets in it. These
cases have a pocket in the cover, and within very few seconds the
paper of which we have heard was in the pocket of this one. To make
the operation more secure, Harrington stood in the doorway of the
compartment and fiddled with the blind. It was done, and done at the
right time, for the train was now slowing down towards Dover.

In a moment more Karswell re-entered the compartment. As he did so,
Dunning, managing, he knew not how, to suppress the tremble in his
voice, handed him the ticket-case, saying, "May I give you this, sir?
I believe it is yours." After a brief glance at the ticket inside,
Karswell uttered the hoped-for response, "Yes, it is; much obliged to
you, sir," and he placed it in his breast pocket.

Even in the few moments that remained--moments of tense anxiety, for
they knew not to what a premature finding of the paper might
lead--both men noticed that the carriage seemed to darken about them
and to grow warmer; that Karswell was fidgety and oppressed; that he
drew the heap of loose coats near to him and cast it back as if it
repelled him; and that he then sat upright and glanced anxiously at
both. They, with sickening anxiety, busied themselves in collecting
their belongings; but they both thought that Karswell was on the point
of speaking when the train stopped at Dover Town. It was natural that
in the short space between town and pier they should both go into the
corridor.

At the pier they got out, but so empty was the train that they were
forced to linger on the platform until Karswell should have passed
ahead of them with his porter on the way to the boat, and only then
was it safe for them to exchange a pressure of the hand and a word of
concentrated congratulation. The effect upon Dunning was to make him
almost faint. Harrington made him lean up against the wall, while he
himself went forward a few yards within sight of the gangway to the
boat, at which Karswell had now arrived. The man at the head of it
examined his ticket, and, laden with coats, he passed down into the
boat. Suddenly the official called after him, "You, sir, beg pardon,
did the other gentleman show his ticket?" "What the devil do you mean
by the other gentleman?" Karswell's snarling voice called back from
the deck. The man bent over and looked at him. "The devil? Well, I
don't know, I'm sure," Harrington heard him say to himself, and then
aloud, "My mistake, sir; must have been your rugs! ask your pardon."
And then, to a subordinate near him, "'Ad he got a dog with him, or
what? Funny thing: I could 'a' swore 'e wasn't alone. Well, whatever
it was, they'll 'ave to see to it aboard. She's off now. Another week
and we shall be gettin' the 'oliday customers." In five minutes more
there was nothing but the lessening lights of the boat, the long line
of the Dover lamps, the night breeze, and the moon.

Long and long the two sat in their room at the "Lord Warden." In spite
of the removal of their greatest anxiety, they were oppressed with a
doubt, not of the lightest. Had they been justified in sending a man
to his death, as they believed they had? Ought they not to warn him,
at least? "No," said Harrington; "if he is the murderer I think him,
we have done no more than is just. Still, if you think it better--but
how and where can you warn him?" "He was booked to Abbeville only,"
said Dunning. "I saw that. If I wired to the hotels there in Joanne's
Guide, 'Examine your ticket-case, Dunning,' I should feel happier.
This is the 21st: he will have a day. But I am afraid he has gone into
the dark." So telegrams were left at the hotel office.

It is not clear whether these reached their destination, or whether,
if they did, they were understood. All that is known is that, on the
afternoon of the 23rd, an English traveller, examining the front of
St. Wulfram's Church at Abbeville, then under extensive repair, was
struck on the head and instantly killed by a stone falling from the
scaffold erected round the north-western tower, there being, as was
clearly proved, no workman on the scaffold at that moment: and the
traveller's papers identified him as Mr. Karswell.

Only one detail shall be added. At Karswell's sale a set of Bewick,
sold with all faults, was acquired by Harrington. The page with the
woodcut of the traveller and the demon was, as he had expected,
mutilated. Also, after a judicious interval, Harrington repeated to
Dunning something of what he had heard his brother say in his sleep:
but it was not long before Dunning stopped him.




[End of _Casting the Runes_ by M. R. James]
