althily watching him from behind a tree.
The door was wide open. He called out, but no one answered.
He stepped in. He knocked at a door, but again there was no
answer. He turned the handle and entered. The stench that
assailed him turned him horribly sick. He put his
handkerchief to his nose and forced himself to go in. The
light was dim, and after the brilliant sunshine for a while he
could see nothing. Then he gave a start. He could not make
out where he was. He seemed on a sudden to have entered a
magic world. He had a vague impression of a great primeval
forest and of naked people walking beneath the trees. Then he
saw that there were paintings on the walls.

"<i Mon Dieu>, I hope the sun hasn't affected me," he muttered.

A slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw that Ata
was lying on the floor, sobbing quietly.

"Ata," he called. "Ata."

She took no notice. Again the beastly stench almost made him
faint, and he lit a cheroot. His eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness, and now he was seized by an overwhelming sensation
as he stared at the painted walls. He knew nothing of
pictures, but there was something about these that
extraordinarily affected him. From floor to ceiling the walls
were covered with a strange and elaborate composition. It was
indescribably wonderful and mysterious. It took his breath away.
It filled him with an emotion which he could not
understand or analyse. He felt the awe and the delight which
a man might feel who watched the beginning of a world. It was
tremendous, sensual, passionate; and yet there was something
horrible there, too, something which made him afraid. It was
the work of a man who had delved into the hidden depths of
nature and had discovered secrets which were beautiful and
fearful too. It was the work of a man who knew things which
it is unholy for men to know. There was something primeval
there and terrible. It was not human. It brought to his mind
vague recollections of black magic. It was beautiful and obscene.

"<i Mon Dieu>, this is genius."

The words were wrung from him, and he did not know he had spoken.

Then his eyes fell on the bed of mats in the corner, and he
went up, and he saw the dreadful, mutilated, ghastly object
which had been Strickland. He was dead. Dr. Coutras made an
effort of will and bent over that battered horror. Then he
started violently, and terror blazed in his heart, for he felt
that someone was