Avon Fantasy Reader No. 14 — page 125: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“Gentlemen,” said I, “I trust that you will not regard me as too much of a bore, but I have, I believe, a legitimate reason for asking you if you will tell me the manner in which the gentleman known as Old Morris, who once oc- cupied my house, met his death.” I stopped there, and immediately discovered that I had thrown my kind old host into a state of embarrassed confusion. Glancing at Mr. Despard, I saw at once that if I had not actually offended him, I had, by my question, at least put him “on his dignity.” He was looking at me severely, rather, and I confess that for a moment I felt a bit like a schoolboy. Mr. Bonesteel caught something of this atmosphere, and looked helplessly at Despard. Both men shifted uneasily in their chairs; each waited for the other to speak. Despard, at last, cleared his throat. “You will excuse me, Mr. Stewart,” said he, slowly, “but you have asked a question which for certain reasons, no one, aware of the circumstances, would desire to answer. The reasons are, briefly, that Mr. Morris, in certain respects, was—what shall I say, not to do the matter an injustice?—well, perhaps I might say he was abnormal. I do not mean that he was crazy. He was, though, eccentric. His end was such that stating it would open up a consider- able argument, one which agitated this island for a long time after he was found dead. By a kind of general consent, that matter is taboo on the island. That will explain to you why no one wishes to answer your question. I am free to say that Mr. Bonesteel here, in considerable distress, told me that you had asked it of him. You also asked me about it not long ago. I can add only that the manner of Mr. Morris’ end was such that—” Mr. Despard hesitated, and looked down, a frown on his brow, at his shoc, which he tapped nerv- ously on the tiled floor of the gallery where we were seated. “Old Morris, Mr. Stewart,” he resumed, after a moment’s reflection, in which, I imagined, he was carefully choosing his words, “was, to put it plain- ly, murdered! There was much discussion over the identity of the murderer, but the most of it, the unpleasant part of the discussion, was rather whether he was killed by human agency or not! Perhaps you will sce now, sir, the difficulty of the matter. To admit that he was murdered by an ordinary mur- derer is, to my mind, an impossibility. To assert that some other agency, something abhuman, killed him, opens up the question ot one’s belief. one’s credulity. ‘Magic’ and occult agencies are, as you are aware, strongly in- trenched in the minds of the ignorant people of these islands. None of us cares to admit a similar belief. Does that satisfy you, Mr. Stewart, and will you let the matter rest there, sir?” I drew out the picture, and, without unfolding it, laid it across my knees. I nodded to Mr. Despard, and, turning to our host, asked: “As a child, Mr. Bonesteel, were you familiar with the arrangeinent of Mr. Morris’ bedroom?” “Yes, sir,” replicd Mr. Bonesteel, and added: “Everybody was! Persons who had never been in the old man’s house, crowded in when—” I intercepted a kind of warning look passing from Despard to the speaker. Mr. Bonesteel, looking much embarrassed, looked at me in that helpless fashion I have al- ready mentioned, and remarked that it was hot weather these days! 123 comicloooks. conn