CHAPTER 5

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      The two sentences tingled in my brain as though charged with electricity. Absurd as they might have sounded under any other circumstances, here they were as far removed from absurdity as anything I have ever known.

      Those lashless, intensely alive blue eyes in the immobile face were —Satanic! I had long sensed the diabolic touch in every experience I had undergone that night. In the stillness of the huge body, in the strangeness of the organ pipe voice that welled, expressionless, from the almost still lips was something diabolic too—as though the body were but an automaton in which dwelt some infernal spirit, some alien being that made itself manifest through eyes and voice only. That my host was the exact opposite of the long, lank, dark Mephisto of opera, play and story made him only the more terrifying. And it has long been my experience that fat men are capable of far greater deviltries than thin men.

      No, this man who bade me call him Satan had nothing of the absurd about him. I acknowledged to myself that he was—dreadful.

      A bell rang, a mellow note. A light pulsed on a wall, a panel slid aside and Consardine stepped into the room. Vaguely, I noted that the panel was a different one than that through which the Manchu butler had gone. At the same time I recalled, aimlessly it seemed, that I had seen no stairway leading up from the great hall. And on the heels of that was recollection that I had noticed neither windows nor doors in the bedroom to which I had been conducted by the valet. The thoughts came and went without my mind then taking in their significance. That was to come later.

      I arose, returning Consardine’s bow. He seated himself without salutation or ceremony at Satan’s right.

      “I have been telling James Kirkham how entertaining I have found him,” said my host.

      “And I,” smiled Consardine. “But I am afraid my companions did not. Cobham was quite upset. That was really cruel of you, Kirkham. Vanity is one of Cobham’s besetting sins.”

      So Walter’s name was Cobham. What was Eve’s, I wondered.

      “Your stratagem of the rag-doll was—demoralizing,” I said. “I thought I was rather restrained in my observations upon Mr. Cobham. There was so much more opportunity, you know. And after all, so much provocation.”

      “The rag-doll was a diverting idea,” observed Satan. “And effective.”

      “Diabolically so,” I spoke to Consardine. “But I find that was to have been expected. Just before you entered I discovered that I have been dining with—Satan.”

      “Ah, yes,” said Consardine, coolly. “And you are no doubt expecting me to produce a lancet and open a vein in your wrist while Satan puts in front of you a document written in brimstone and orders you to sign away your soul in your blood.”

      “I am expecting no such childish thing,” I replied with some show of indignation.

      Satan chuckled; his face did not move but his eyes danced.

      “Obsolete methods,” he said. “I gave them up after my experiences with the late Dr. Faustus.”

      “Perhaps,” Consardine addressed me, blandly, “you think I may be the late Dr. Faustus. No, no—or if so, Kirkham,” he looked at me slyly, “Eve is not Marguerite.”

      “Let us say, not your Marguerite,” amended Satan.

      I felt the blood rush up into my face. And again Satan chuckled. They were playing with me, these two. Yet under that play the sinister note persisted, not to be mistaken. I felt uncomfortably like a mouse between a pair of cats. I had a sudden vision of the girl as just such another helpless mouse.

      “No,” it was Satan’s sonorous voice. “No, I have become more modern. I still buy souls, it is true. Or take them. But I am not so rigorous in my terms as of old. I now also lease souls for certain periods. I pay well for such leases, James Kirkham.”

      “Is it not time that you ceased treating me like a child?” I asked coldly. “I admit all that you have said of me. I believe all that you have said of yourself. I concede that you are—Satan. Very well. What then?”

      There was a slight pause. Consardine lighted a cigar, poured himself some brandy and pushed aside a candle that stood between us so, I thought, that he could have a clearer view of my face. Satan for the first time turned his eyes away from me, looking over my head. I had come to the third stage of this mysterious game.

      “Did you ever hear the legend of the seven shining footsteps of Buddha?” he asked me. I shook my head.

      “It was that which made me change my ancient methods of snaring souls,” he said gravely. “Since it caused the beginning of a new infernal epoch, the legend is important. But it is important to you for other reasons as well. So listen.

      “When the Lord Buddha, Gautama, the Enlightened One,” he intoned, “was about to be born, he was seen gleaming like a jewel of living light in his Mother’s womb. So filled with light was he that he made of her body a lantern, himself the holy flame.”

      For the first time there was expression in the voice, a touch of sardonic unctuousness.

      “And when the time came for him to be delivered, he stepped forth from his Mother’s side, which miraculously closed behind him.

      “Seven footsteps the infant Buddha took before he halted for the worship of the devis, genii, rishis and all the Heavenly hierarchy that had gathered round. Seven shining footsteps they were, seven footsteps that gleamed like stars upon the soft greensward.

      “And, lo! Even as Buddha was being worshipped, those shining footsteps of his stirred and moved and marched away, beginning the opening of the paths which later the Holy One would traverse. Seven interesting little John the Baptists going before him—Ho! Ho! Ho!” laughed Satan, from unchanged face and motionless lips.

      “West went one and East went one,” he continued. “One North and one South —opening up the paths of deliverance to the whole four quarters of the globe.

      “But what of the other three? Ah—alas! Mara, the King of Illusion, had watched with apprehension the advent of Buddha, because the light of Buddha’s words would be a light in which only the truth had shadow and by it would be rendered useless the snares by which mankind, or the most of it, was held in thrall by Mara. If Buddha conquered, Mara would be destroyed. The King of Illusion did not take kindly to the idea, since his supreme enjoyment was in wielding power and being entertained. In that,” commented Satan, apparently quite seriously, “Mara was much like me. But in intelligence much inferior, because he did not realize that truth, aptly manipulated, creates far better illusions than do lies. However—

      “Before those laggard three could get very far away, Mara had captured them!

      “And then by wile and artifice and sorcery Mara seduced them. He taught them naughtiness, schooled them in delicious deceptions—and he sent them forth to wander!

      “What happened? Well, naturally men and women followed the three. The paths they picked out were so much pleasanter, so much more delectable, so much softer and more fragrant and beautiful than the stony, hard, austere, cold trails broken by the incorruptible four. Who could blame people for following them? And besides, superficially, all seven footprints were alike. The difference, of course, was in the ending. Those souls who followed the three deceitful prints were inevitably led back into the very heart of error, the inner lair of illusion, and were lost there: while those who followed the four were freed.

      “And more and more followed the naughty prints while Mara waxed joyful. Until it seemed that there would be none left to take the paths of enlightenment. But now Buddha grew angry. He sent forth a command and back to him from the four quarters of the world came hurrying the shining holy quartette. They tracked down the erring three and made them prisoners.

      “Now