ctim, and during the trans-country flight I read Carse's own
statement in the _Metropolitan Gazette_ citing the crime as an
atavistic expression of animalism. The fact that two of the five
victims had been men, according to Carse's theory, belied the popular
suspicion that the criminal was a homicidal sadist. Carse expressed
the belief that the murderer was in the grip of some inherent
savagery, and that the ghastly murders would continue until he wore
himself out by the sheer expenditure of energy.

I reached the city shortly after sundown, and at once I felt the awful
tension which had settled upon everyone in it. Men and women moved
furtively, airport officials and police examined every strange face
with cold and scrutinizing suspicion, and even my taxi-driver, a small
mousy man, kept his fear-laden dark eyes continually reverting to the
mirror as he whirled me through the slight evening traffic. I was
surprized, therefore, in view of this mutual distrust, to find that
Jason Carse, a veteran criminalist, had discharged all of his servants
and was living alone in his grim house behind a barricaded door.

The most unpleasant shock was the unaccountably cold manner in which
Carse received my visit, and his positive annoyance that I had forced
myself so unexpectedly upon him. He would not explain why he had
discharged his servants, nor the secluded life he was now leading, but
there was little difficulty in realizing the fatiguing effects which
these recent crimes had pronounced upon him. He was virtually a
stranger as we met in the hallway and shook hands.

"I wish you'd go to a hotel," he said bluntly. "I don't want anyone
here."

But I didn't go to a hotel. I told him flatly that there was no other
course open to me but to stay and take care of him; for obviously he
wasn't taking care of himself, and his dismissal of the household help
had precipitated a needless burden on his already over-laden
shoulders. He needed food, for he was thin to emaciation, and I made
him dress at once and accompany me to a restaurant where I saw that he
ate a decent meal. I then led him to the theater, a particularly
lively musical comedy, and kept him in his seat until the curtain had
fallen. But my efforts seemed of no avail, as he was continually
depressed and absorbed in his own reflections. That night before
retiring he came to my room and again asked me to leave.

"It's for your own good," he said with strange harshness. "For G