The Weaving
Shadows
By W. H. Holmes
Chet Burke was lazily reclining in his favorite easy chair, absorbed in a rare book on alchemy and black magic, when his sister answered a summons at the door.
In addition to managing the household affairs of the apartment in which she and Burke lived alone, her duties also consisted in scrutinizing the many visitors. Most of them could be persuaded to call at the book stall, which Burke conducted when not devoted to some criminal mystery that held him until it was solved. Others, whose cases were urgent, were admitted to the apartment, thus infringing on Burke's only recreation, reading and study.
The visitors were Chief Rhyne, a friend of Burke's, of the Rhyne Detective Agency, and a stranger.
Burke laid aside his book and greeted the callers with a friendly nod. Rhyne, a portly, flushed man, settled his sturdy body into a convenient chair. The stranger, an intelligent-looking man, appeared ill at ease. He stood self-consciously beside Rhyne, absently running the brim of his soft hat through browned, muscular-looking fingers.
"Burke," grunted Rhyne heavily, "meet Mr. Hayden. He is bothered about a very mysterious affair. It has worked on his nerves until he has decided to consult an expert. It's beyond me, so I brought him around to you."
Rhyne sighed with relief, and eased back in his chair.
Hayden stuck out a rough, calloused hand to Burke. His bronzed face flushed slightly and Rhyne's statement.
"I am more concerned," he said, in a surprisingly agreeable voice, "about how you will receive what I have to relate. I can hardly believe yet that the things exist, although I have seen them three nights in succession."
He shook his head in doubt, and sat down mechanically in the chair the Burke drew up.
While Hayden was gathering his thoughts, Burke quietly sized him up. Hayden appeared to be a man of about forty-five. His face was deeply tanned, and his appearance suggested many hours spent out of doors. Burke noted at once his trait of eying one direct from warm brown eyes. He was garbed quietly, and evidently in his best. His dark suit was set off by square-toed shows, above which glared white socks. A low, soft, white collar, with a black string tie, completed his obviously habitual concession to dress. On the whole, Hayden struck the detective as a wholesome type of the practical mechanic.
"Now, Mr. Hayden," said Burke musingly, his eyes half closed and vacant,
