Seven? The blood will be upon my hands as well as yours. It is an
awful responsibility, Carse. There must be no more."

"There won't be. I swear there won't be!"

He threw himself at me in an hysterical outburst of emotion. He tried
to smile through the tears in his eyes, but the sight was so awful
that I turned my head.

"I am still unconvinced," I said grimly. "The possibility of Number
Seven is too important to overlook. Let me see Drukker's diary."

"Why?" he backed away and stared at me. "Why do you want to read the
diary?"

"I want to read account Number Seven."

Carse came forward again and grabbed my arm. He shook it. "What good
will that do?" he asked anxiously, "if there are only six of them?
Besides, it's not a book you ought to read."

"Give me the diary!" I demanded again.

He scowled at me for a moment; then, shrugging, he reached into his
pocket and withdrew a small leather-bound book. It was well worn, as
if by many thumbs, and in faded gold letters across the cover were the
words: Personal Diary of Emil Drukker, J. U. D.

"Sit down," I commanded. "And try to keep your nerves together. I
shall do everything I can for you."

He backed away and dropped into a chair, his eyes fastened upon me in
a look of almost majestic joy. And yet there was an undertone in his
expression which I could not define. There was defiance there ... and
fear. One of his hands rested on the near-by table, less than two feet
from the hilt of the butcher knife, and the fingers of that hand
twitched nervously.

~ ~ ~

With an odd sense of uneasiness I flicked open the first several pages
of the book and skimmed through the contents. My German was poor, yet
I was able to understand the significance of what Emil Drukker had
written in his large, scrawling hand. I read the first six accounts,
then stared at Carse in amazement. His six crimes and Drukker's first
six were so identical they might have been conscious reproductions. In
all cases the victims were the same sex, the same age, and were in the
same general walk of life. I then turned to account Number Seven and
after reading a few wretched lines I gasped with horror: _it was a
seven-year-old girl!_

Carse was on his feet, his jaw grim and determined. He stared fiercely
at me, waiting my response.

"Carse," I muttered dazedly, "it--it----"

"You can't back out," he cried as he stepped toward me. "There will be
no seven, I tell you. It's ended on