The FIEND of the MARSH
by
MAJOR ROBERT EMMETT LEWIS
MARTHA MAY COCKRILL
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"MY GOD! What’s that!”Graveland Stannard spoke nervously, the tense, strained tones betraying marked alarm.
Prom somewhere outside the magnificent residence of the famous expert in plastic surgery there had suddenly come a long, piercing, brutelike wail, splitting the sultry blackness of the warm June night with startling and mournful cadence. Weirdly, like a melancholy warning from the spirit world, the terrifying, unearthly cry had come to these two erring young souls.
The girl-wife of the great surgeon—blond, shapely and pretty, a weak flapper whose prayerbook was a pack of cards, whose rosary was a cigarette case, and whose prayer was made to a bottle of synthetic gin—answered the man’s nervous inquiry lightly as she again pressed her warm, red lips to those of the dark young artist, but there was also a noticeable trace of agitation present in her voice.
“It is only Terror, the doctor’s great wolf,” she said, reassuringly. “Don’t be such a coward, Stan—it’s only Terror quarreling with some of the animals the doctor keeps for his nasty experiments! Oh, Stan! He is a wonderful man—but I hate him! I’m afraid of him, too, Stan dear—he’s so cold and hard and cruel!"
“The doctor is a great man,” young Stannard declared, “but I’ve heard that in his vivisection-experiments he is absolutely without feeling!”
The doctor’s pretty young wife lay contentedly in the young artist’s arms. Suddenly he felt her tremble a little.
