orway into the
workshop, from the darkness of which they saw the patch of moonlight
through the open door upon the opposite side. Toward this they
scurried as von Horn turned back into the court of mystery for the
others.

Three more herculean efforts he made before he beat the last of the
creatures through the outer doorway of the workshop into the north
campong.

Among the age old arts of the celestials none is more strangely
inspiring than that of medicine. Odd herbs and unspeakable things when
properly compounded under a favorable aspect of the heavenly bodies are
potent to achieve miraculous cures, and few are the Chinamen who do not
brew some special concoction of their own devising for the lesser ills
which beset mankind.

Sing was no exception in this respect. In various queerly shaped,
bamboo covered jars he maintained a supply of tonics, balms and
lotions. His first thought when he had made Professor Maxon
comfortable upon the couch was to fetch his pet nostrum, for there
burned strong within his yellow breast the same powerful yearning to
experiment that marks the greatest of the profession to whose mysteries
he aspired.

Though the hideous noises from the inner campong rose threateningly,
the imperturbable Sing left the bungalow and passed across the north
campong to the little lean-to that he had built for himself against the
palisade that separated the north enclosure from the court of mystery.

Here he rummaged about in the dark until he had found the two phials he
sought. The noise of the monsters upon the opposite side of the
palisade had now assumed the dimensions of pandemonium, and through it
all the Chinaman heard the constant crack that was the sharp voice of
the bull whip.

He had completed his search and was about to return to the bungalow
when the first of the monsters emerged into the north campong from the
workshop. At the door of his shack Sing Lee drew back to watch, for he
knew that behind them some one was driving these horribly grotesque
creatures from their prison.

One by one they came lumbering into the moonlight until Sing had
counted eleven, and then, after them, came a white man, bull whip and
revolver in hand. It was von Horn. The equatorial moon shone full
upon him--there could be no mistake. The Chinaman saw him turn and
lock the workshop door; saw him cross the campong to the outer gate;
saw him pass through toward the jungle, closing the gate.

Of a sudde