some hand and proceeded to tie it in place with a piece of ribbon as one ties a ring upon a baby's finger.
"Pearls stand for tears, dear heart," he went on in that low monotone, "the tears I wept last night because I could not be with you."
Wayland drew still closer. The fingers were covered with precious gems, some of them worth thousands. There was one gorgeous diamond weighing at least three karats. Around the neck was a great string of emerald beads, a rope of pearls, and a diamond. pendant.
"Now, which gown tonight, Camille?"
Suddenly Wayland drew himself up rigidly, cold beads of perspiration breaking out upon his brow. Was he, too, succumbing to some weird spell? Did he hear some sepulchral voice calling:
"King King!"
As if in answer to his silent, startled question, Norman turned toward him for the first time.
"Yes, we have a guest tonight. You must look your best."
Norman crossed the room to a great built-in wardrobe and swung the door wide open. Inside hung row after row of wonderful gowns of all descriptions. Wayland sank weakly into a nearby chair. Glancing about the room, he saw that it was lavishly furnished, but over all was an accumulation of dust untouched for years. The air was close and stagnant.
He watched the man clothe the rattling bones in a gorgeous dinner gown of black lace and old rose satin, crooning all the while as if he were dressing a beloved child. Then, as he watched, he saw Norman turn and start a phonograph which stood near. Immediately the muffled tones of a weird oriental dance filled the room.
"Will you dance tonight? No? Well, then, we will sit and visit."
For an hour Norman talked. The scene was getting on Wayland's nerves, and he determined to put an end to it in some way. He was stifled. He had seen enough.
Approaching Norman softly, he put a hand upon his shoulder.
"Come, old man, let's go."
Norman raised his head and looked at him in a dazed, uncertain way; then, as if the sight of him brought back other memories, he started to his feet and looked about with wild, dilating eyes which roved from Wayland to the grinning thing in the chair, so grotesque in all its finery. Then he fell on his knees and began crying softly.
"King! King! Can't you see?" he murmured brokenly. "Can't you see the beautiful image of Camille sitting there? Oh, you do see more than that framework of bones, don't you? That is merely the house in which her beautiful spirit dwells. I'm not crazy, man! She is as real to me today as when she was with me in the flesh."
The doctor stooped and lifted the swaying man to his feet. In spite of all, he was touched.
"Why couldn't you have been content with her spirit, Dick? Why didn't you place Camille's remains in an honored grave instead of bringing them home like this?"
"I couldn't, King. The very night that I was notified that the bones had been found, she came to me in the spirit form and pledged me to do what I have done. She was jealous of Anne and bade me keep her frame. to deck with jewels her two of everything to Anne's one. and finery, demanding that I buy for I've been in bondage all these years, but I do love her. I was driven almost mad when I lost her."
Wayland could not help turning his head away in disgust.
"You were not long getting over it,"he remarked dryly.
Norman looked up quickly.
"I know you have always hated me for taking Anne. But, King, I have always been good to her outside of this. How did she find it out? I can't understand."
"I am not at liberty to tell you," Wayland answered. "Now let's get out of here. It's a foul atmosphere."
He took Norman firmly by the arm, and led him from the room, banging the door upon the horrors within. He was too much shaken himself to speak for a few minutes, and then he burst out almost savagely:
"Norman, I demand that you bury that thing in there at once. I don't want any publicity about this; I will arrange with an undertaker that I can trust to come and get it in the night. Then all of those things in there must be burned or otherwise destroyed and the room thrown open, or perhaps the wing torn down altogether. Will you agree to this?"
The face of the man before him turned ashen, and his lips trembled as he spoke.
"You-you are asking too much. I- can't do it."
He buried his face in his hands.
Wayland's face grew stern.
"Very well, Norman. I have already told you the alternative."
"You-you mean the asylum?"
"I do."
There was the silence of death in the room for a moment; then Norman raised bloodshot eyes to the grave face above him.
"Please, King, leave me alone for awhile. I will give you my word by noon. Meet me here."
Wayland nodded a silent consent and, without further words, passed out of the room. Although outwardly calm, he was mentally in a tumult of unrest. It was a difficult situation to handle alone, but he could not lay it bare to the prying eyes of strangers. For the sake of his old friendship for Dick, for the sake of his love for Anne, he must deal with it to the best of his ability.
Three hours later, as the clock in the hall struck the hour of twelve, he again knocked at the study door. No voice bade him enter, so he pushed it open and went in. The room was deserted.
He found the door to the mystery chamber standing ajar, but all was silence and darkness within. He called softly, but there was no answer. Stepping inside, with hands that trembled he felt for the switch where he had seen Dick reach for it. After a few seconds he found it and flooded the place with that weird light that had almost unnerved him before. Was he mistaken, or were his eyes, not used to the red glow, playing him tricks? For a moment he stood transfixed. A white shadowy presence seemed to hang over the chair in which he had last seen the skeleton reposing. Then the white mist disappeared, and he made out the kneeling form of Dick Norman, his arms wrapped about the grinning thing so gorgeously attired in fine raiment. His head lay against the bony breast and within the circle of those long dangling arms swathed in their flowing sleeves.
With a smothered cry of horror, Wayland hurried forward. Then he drew back in sheer amazement, for instead of that horrible thing of rattling bones, he seemed to see the beautiful face and form of Camille West as he remembered her years ago. Was he, too, going mad along with Dick Norman? He rubbed his eyes as a child might on awakening from a deep slumber. Reaching down, he shook his friend with none too steady hands, A dull thud on the floor answered him, and he saw he had shaken a revolver from the other's hand.
At once his strength came back. He was once more the dignified professional man.
One touch of the icy fingers-he hastily felt for Norman's heart. Pulling the fast stiffening form backward, he searched feverishly for the bullet wound,
(Continued on page 84)
