locked upon him. The mule team drew up with the wagon.
"Here, Will," said the doctor to the half-wit, "climb into the wagon. We're going before we get wet." The doctor appeared highly elated.
Simple Will, who had stood by as if in a stupor, swung his heavy body up behind the gorilla's cage.
No sooner had the wagon drawn out of sight than the heavens seemed to loosen in wrath. Rain fell in torrents, driving the spectators in a wild rush for shelter. As I reached the hotel, the water dripping from my drenched garments, the storm increased its fury. All that day it rained—and the next.
As I lay on my bed that night and listened to the roar of the wind and rain beating upon the roof and window panes, my mind kept drifting to the inmates of Thornsdale place—the queer doctor, Simple Will and his ward, Horace, the gigantic gorilla.
III.
It was three days later that I learned Dr. Calgroni had wired to New York, and on the next morning an exceptionally well-dressed stranger, whose goatee, bearing and satchel smacked of a medical man, stepped off the train.
Espying me, he asked:
"Will you kindly direct me to the Thornsdale place?"
I told him the best way to reach Dr. Calgroni's without wading in mud, and he departed, with a brief "Thank You."
The next night I saw the stranger, ashen of face and decidedly inwardly shaken, hurriedly purchase a ticket and leave on the 9:45 train for New York.
Immediately I sought the telegraph dispatcher.
"You are aware of the queer actions of Dr. Calgroni—"
"I should say! He's a nut."
"I can't say as to that, but to whom did he send the message the other night?"
"You won't let it out I tipped you off?"
I solemnly held up my right hand.
"Well," in a whisper, "he wired a hospital for their best surgical man."
So the assistant had gone back, frightened. And why?
Several weeks later Barber's World-famous 3-Ring Show gave a return exhibition at Belleville. That night I wandered toward the Thornsdale place.
Again the clouds had banked for a storm, fitful rays of the moon now and then shifting through, only to be absorbed in mist.
Drawing around in front of the old homestead, looming dark behind the gloom-shadowed trees, I seated myself on the stump hitching-post. I was glad that in my coat pocket nestled a neat automatic. Why I lingered there in front of the quiet old place I do not know. Not a light glimmered in the house; not a noise issued from its muffled depths.
Then to my ears came a shriek and to my startled gaze a light flared in the house. I could dimly see that a figure appeared at its open door. It looked behind it for an instant, then madly bolted toward me.
Upon the wet gravel came the tread of rapidly-moving feet, and the gate in front of me swung abruptly back. In the hazy reflected light I got one look at Dr. Calgroni who, hat and raincoat in his hands, the muscles of his face quivering, his face deathly pale, emerged and turned, running madly toward town.
I drew back, automatic in hand, waiting for whatever might follow the doctor. Nothing happened. Obeying an impulse, I took out after the fleeing surgeon. Over soggy soil I followed him, around corners, down Main Street to the depot. I got there in time to see him swing on the platform of the rear coach of the 9:45 train, bound for New York.
Throbbing with excitement, scarce knowing what I was doing, I made my way back toward the Thornsdale place. Several blocks away, I caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered, thick-set dishevled figure in breech-clout, running—or, rather, prancing and hopping—toward the circus grounds. The automatic in my hand, I followed.
