a medium between the man and its
demon. This medium has none of the traits of the vampire, but
it senses the being of this creature (when the metamorphosis is
about to occur) by reason of intense pains in the head and
throat. Both the vampire and the medium undergo similar
reactions, involving nausea, nocturnal visions, and physical
disquietude.

When these two outcasts are within a certain distance of each
other, the coalescence of inherent demonism is completed, and
the vampire is subject to its attacks, demanding blood for its
sustenance. No member of the family is safe at these times, for
the _vrykolakas_, acting in its true agency on earth, will
unerringly seek out the blood. In rare cases, where other
victims are unavailable, _the vampire will even take the blood
from the very medium which made it possible_.

This vampire is born into certain aged families, and naught but
death can destroy it. It is not conscious of its blood-madness,
and acts only in a psychic state. The medium, also, is unaware
of its terrible role; and when these two are together, despite
any lapse of years, the fusion of inheritance is so violent
that no power known on earth can turn it back.

3

The lodge door slammed shut with a sudden, interrupting bang. The lock
grated, and Henry Duryea's footsteps sounded on the planked floor.

Arthur shook himself from the bed. He had only time to fling that
haunting book into the Gladstone bag before he sensed his father
standing in the doorway.

"You--you're not shaving, Arthur." Duryea's words, spliced hesitantly,
were toneless. He glanced from the table-top to the Gladstone, and to
his son. He said nothing for a moment, his glance inscrutable. Then,

"It's blowing up quite a storm outside."

Arthur swallowed the first words which had come into his throat, nodded
quickly. "Yes, isn't it? Quite a storm." He met his father's gaze, his
face burning. "I--I don't think I'll shave, Dad. My head aches."

Duryea came swiftly into the room and pinned Arthur's arms in his grasp.
"What do you mean--your head aches? How? Does your throat----"

"No!" Arthur jerked himself away. He laughed. "It's that French stew of
yours! It's hit me in the stomach!" He stepped past his father and
started up the stairs.

"The stew?" Duryea pivoted on his heel. "Possibly. I think I feel it
myself."

Arthur sto