Mr. Richard Tharington's business was fear. But it was not only his business; it was his pleasure, his desire; indeed, his obsession. This idiosyncrasy brought him to a small New England restaurant on a frigid winter's night. He sat at a table in a dim corner, awaiting his client. Darkness pressed around him, held at bay by a single flickering candle upon the crimson tablecloth. The atmosphere was subdued and muted; not many came to this particular establishment, and those who did seemed inclined to whisper. This suited Tharington perfectly, which was why he met clients here. His flint-gray eyes roved leisurely about, taking in the atmosphere, but not the people. They were merely part of the surroundings, wholly unconnected to him. He was glad that the whisperings of their mundane conversations were merely a background hum, unintelligible. The candlelight flickered upon his sharp features, which could appear cordial, even amiable, though most often they were as cold and expressionless as chiseled marble. His attire was impeccable, almost too much so, bespeaking the well dressed English gentleman.

Soon he noted the approach of his client, a lumbering, corpulent man named Nicholas Brundt. Tharington found him rather distasteful, and did not relish the thought of another meal with him. He was certainly put off by Brundt's excessive obesity and lack of table manners, and inwardly he resented the intrusion of reality into this dark and muted atmosphere. Still, they had one thing in common which had brought them together. Tharington stood to shake hands with his client, smiling amiably, though if his eyes betrayed any emotion, it was a slight contempt. Mr. Brundt took his seat. His eyes glowed brightly from his round face, and a smile played upon his jowls.

"You know, Mr. Tharington, I am truly excited about tonight. I feel absolutely giddy!"

Tharington, who had retreated again to the darkness enveloping his own seat, nodded at the large man. "I envy you this opportunity, Mr. Brundt; I almost wish that I were in your place."

"Well, I must admit, I am somewhat nervous," Brundt continued. "I suppose that in itself must say something for the recommendations I have heard about your services." He reached a pudgy hand forward to take a piece of cheese from a platter that sat before them on the table, and continued. "I'm very curious - how did you get into this line of work?"

Tharington leaned back so that he was almost completely obscured by shadow, but the candlelight still flickered in his unblinking eyes. "I am much like you in one respect," he replied. "I have lost the capacity to feel fear. Strange how that should seem an affliction, but I know that you will understand."

Brundt nodded between mouthfuls of cheese, and mumbled an "Mmffp" in agreement.

"You know, of course, that I do not refer to the mundane sort of everyday fear that plagues common people. I refer to the unreasoning terror of the unknown, the kind of fear a small child possesses in a darkened room, awaiting an imminent attack from some unnameable, ghastly terror. A supernatural fear, elevated beyond the common world." Tharington paused, and leaned forward to take a sip of wine. His movements were measured and deliberate; he did not take his eyes off the man sitting across from him. He reclined again and continued.

"By the time I was an adolescent, I could no longer be frightened by the most horrifying stories or films. I took to creeping out at night to camp alone in old cemeteries, just to feel the thrill of fear. However, as nothing ever happened, this lost its effect as well. While I was a student at Oxford I tried to visit nearly every famous site of hauntings and spend the night, if I could. Unfortunately, I never once came even remotely close to what I would consider a supernatural encounter.

"By then I was certain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there are absolutely no supernatural phenomena at all. I ceased even to accept the tenets of religion, as they too rely upon the supernatural. I was convinced, as I still am, that all we see, all we know, are the results of mundane scientific laws."

Again Tharington paused, for he knew that he was probably pressing close to the feelings of Mr. Brundt himself, and that perhaps his client would feel that Tharington compromised the effectiveness of his services. No matter; Brundt would certainly believe in the supernatural before this night ended. As his client still occupied himself with the hors d'oeuvres, Tharington resumed his narrative:

"At this point I began to research the occult. I engaged in what you might term Satanic rituals, trying to call forth demons or raise the dead."

Brundt now stared at Tharington with some concern. The anxious look upon his client's face, the betrayal of some inward fear, greatly pleased Tharington. The barest hint of a smile flickered across his face.

"I assure you, Mr. Brundt, I sacrificed no one, and was in no fear for my eternal soul. How could I fear for something which I was, and still am, convinced does not exist? I have told you that at this point I had relinquished all beliefs in the supernatural. My actions were merely whims, my last efforts to arouse that fear which had left me forever. I failed. I could no longer feel those luxurious pangs of unreasoning terror which had delighted me in my youth. I had completely proven to myself that all talk of the supernatural was utter nonsense, and so the supernatural lost its ability to inspire fear.

"I hope that you may now see how my present career is a logical extension of my tale. If I am unable to feel this fear that I desire, I might at least bring it to others, and thereby share in it vicariously. Still, it is not the same, and so I envy you."

Brundt swallowed a mouthful of bread and washed it quickly down with a gulp of wine before speaking. "Well, Mr. Tharington, our stories are remarkably similar, but I confess I haven't gone to the lengths that you have. America does not offer as much in the way of old graveyards and haunted houses as England does."

Most would not go to the lengths that Mr. Richard Tharington went to in a quest for fear. Not many would be able to truly set aside all qualms about religion and the eternal soul. No matter how scientific the mind, there almost always exists some corner of the conscious, or perhaps subconscious, that still believes, that at least says, "What if?" Perhaps Tharington had truly extinguished even this level of belief in the supernatural, or perhaps his obsession with inspiring fear had overcome this slight uncertainty. Of course, most people are also much too concerned in the day to day affairs of living to even consider the steps that he had undertaken. Yet Tharington, being the only male heir of an extremely wealthy and old English family, had the luxury of idleness, which often leads to boredom and in turn to the eccentric.

The waiter appeared for their order. Tharington would pay the bill as a matter of professional courtesy; Nicholas Brundt would pay much more later.

After the waiter had left, Brundt continued talking, often with his mouth full of bread or cheese. Tharington felt his irritation at the man steadily increasing.

"You know, Mr. Tharington, I would also watch the most terrifying movies I could find. I watched them alone, with all the lights out in the house, but they lost their effect. I just wasn't frightened any more."

Tharington recalled to mind the many trips he had made to lonely, God-forsaken places in the dead of night, where even brave men feared to venture. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he masked his contempt with a disarmingly cordial smile. "Fascinating, Mr. Brundt. You must have extremely strong nerves."

The rest of the dinner passed in a similar manner, with fear remaining the subject of discourse and Brundt doing most of the talking. Eventually even Brundt's vast appetite was satisfied, and the meal drew to a close. Tharington offered his client a final glass of wine before they departed.

Brundt nodded, but when he looked up Tharington's eyes were fixed on some point across the restaurant. He appeared quite discomposed; his features were extremely unsettling. Brundt turned quickly around to see what he gazed at.

"What is it?" he asked in a whisper. He turned back to Tharington, who had regained his composure.

"Nothing, Mr.Brundt... nothing at all. I simply thought I saw someone that I once knew, but I was mistaken."

In spite of these assurances, Mr. Brundt appeared shaken, for the look upon Tharington's face had been dreadful. As he took up his wine glass, his hand trembled slightly, and he downed the entire contents in a gulp.

Tharington stood abruptly. "We must be on our way, Mr. Brundt."

"What, right now?"

Tharington pulled a gold watch from the pocket of his vest and glanced at its face. "Yes, we must leave now. You were driven here?"

Brundt hesitated, as though startled by this sudden change in Tharington. "Yes, I got a taxi..."

"And you told no one of your intentions, or of our business engagement tonight, as were my instructions?"

"No, I told no one."

"Very good. Then let us go."

Tharington quickly threw some bills upon the table and strode to the exit. At the door he turned and impatiently waited for Brundt, who moved more slowly. The two walked out into the bitter night air and were soon in Tharington's car, moving along a winding country road.

"Well, Mr. Brundt, you are about to embark upon your adventure. How do you feel?" Tharington's voice had become soft and soothing.

"Perfectly well," Brundt replied. "Very relaxed, really."

The only sound was the monotonous hum of the car's engine. Snow-laden pines materialized like specters in the glow of the headlights, but all else was dark. There were no signs of human habitation upon this route.

Tharington finally spoke again, but his voice had become so soft, almost hypnotic, that it seemed he added to the relative silence rather than disturbed it. "I must admit, Mr. Brundt, I do love this countryside. It reminds me not a little of my native England; rolling hills, curving roads, the sense of solitude. Solitude is a great thing, Mr. Brundt, for it is only in solitude that man can truly feel irrational, terrifying fear. We ease our fears by sharing them with others, or by seeking company, but when there is no one else around, those fears multiply tenfold."

Tharington continually glanced over at his companion, and watched with satisfaction as the drug he had slipped in Brundt's wine began to take effect. The man's gaze was transfixed on the trees materializing from the blackness. Soon his eyelids began to droop, and before long Brundt had fallen into a deep sleep.

* * *

The young woman noted that the obese man in the cell opposite her had awakened. In the flickering torchlight she could see him sit up on his wooden bunk and shake his head.

"You're awake," she whispered. Her dark, disheveled hair framed a pallid face with wide, staring eyes.

"Where am I?" Brundt asked, rubbing his temples. A sickening stench of mold and human waste reached his nostrils, and he could discern the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of dripping water.

"Speak more quietly!" the woman hissed. She glanced about nervously. "It's better if they think you're still asleep. Maybe they won't come down here yet."

"Who won't come down here?" he whispered. "What's going on?"

Again the woman looked around before answering. "We're in some kind of a dungeon. We're being held by a man named Tharington and his followers. I don't know what they plan to do."

"Tharington and his followers?" Brundt forgot to whisper, and the woman tried to shush him. "What do you mean? I was with Tharington, in his car, before I woke up here. I'm his client - he's supposed to..." Brundt hesitated, then chuckled. "Ah, of course. I see now. This is all part of it, right? You're an actress, aren't you?"

The woman looked puzzled. "Yes, I am. How did you know?"

"Well, this is part of the show, right? That's what I hired Mr. Tharington for, to frighten me, sort of a personalized haunted house. You're just part of the act."

The woman shook her head. "I fell for that, too. I met Mr. Tharington in New York. I was a struggling actress, and he offered me a job - just like you said, to frighten people. The whole idea seemed weird to me, but I needed the money, and he looked like such a gentleman. But as soon as we got here, he and three other men grabbed me and put me in this cell. I've been in here for about a week, I think."

Brundt hesitated, but he chuckled again. "A very good story, but the game is up now. Did you hear that, Mr. Tharington?" he called out loudly. "The game is up - you'll have to try harder next time!"

"Quiet!" the woman hissed, but Brundt continued to call loudly for Tharington. The woman's agitation grew, and she nearly screamed at Brundt, "Shut up!"

At that moment a hideous sound tore through the darkness of the narrow passage. It began low, like the snarl of a large dog, escalated into something like a scream, and ended with a guttural growl. It was ghastly, horrendous, a demonic cry that froze the blood. The woman sprang back from the bars, a look of absolute terror transfixed upon her face. Brundt staggered back as well.

"What the hell was that?" he asked after a minute had passed in silence. He was whispering now.

The woman did not respond; she was huddled in the back of the cell, nearly obscured by darkness, but Brundt could hear her low moans and saw that she was rocking back and forth, her hands pressed over her ears.

Brundt slowly stepped up to the bars and tried to peer down the hall in either direction, but the only light flickered dimly from a torch set in the wall to Brundt's left; the right side of the passage, from which the noise seemed to have come, was shrouded in darkness. Suddenly Brundt sprang back from the bars.

The woman roused herself momentarily when she saw Brundt leap back. "What is it?" she whispered anxiously.

"Something moved - I could swear it!"

Brundt also retreated to the back of the cell, until he could feel the cold dampness of the wall against his back. Several minutes of eternity passed in silence, except for the infernal dripping, which now seemed to echo thunderously throughout the passage.

"Well, that was effective. Certainly frightened me for a moment." Brundt's shaking voice belied his attempt at composure.

The woman did not respond; she sat with her knees drawn up, her head bowed.

"Look, I know this is all just an act. This is what Mr. Tharington does. I heard about his service from a man at a convention for readers of horror stories. He told me all about it."

The sound of people chanting became faintly discernible. The woman pressed her hands against her ears, and her moans took on a tone of utter despair. The chanting grew louder, mingled with the sound of a door opening, and the passage was flooded with a hazy light. Footsteps echoed down the hall, and four men in scarlet robes, hoods masking their features, approached the woman's cell. The woman pressed against the back wall, her wide eyes staring in terror, her chest heaving. Two of the men unlocked and entered the cell.

"Get the hell away from me!" she screamed. One of the men grabbed her arm.

"No!" she shrieked, wrenching free from his grasp and running for the door. One of the hooded figures waiting there caught her. She fought against him, kicking, hitting, and pulling at his robe. In the struggle, the man's hood was thrown back, and the light of the torch fell upon his features. It was the man who had spoken to Brundt at the convention. Brundt gasped and sank to his knees.

"Help me!" the woman cried out. Two men now held her on each side, and the one man had replaced his hood. They dragged the struggling, crying woman down the passage. Brundt heard the door close; the woman's screams slowly died away. He got up, sat on the wooden bunk, and waited.

After nearly an hour, the door again opened down the hall. Brundt quickly stood, his breathing rapid. The same four men approached his cell. This time one of them drew a dagger while another opened the door. Brundt retreated against the far wall as three of the men entered; the one with the dagger remained outside.

"Keep away from me!" Brundt cried out. His entire body trembled. "You tell Tharington this has gone far enough! I demand to be let out of here!"

"Shut up, fool!" one of the robed men hissed. Another man, the largest of the four by far, approached Brundt and grasped his arms, forcing them down to his sides. The one who had spoken came forward and chained his wrists and ankles.

The obese man sobbed loudly. "Please let me go. I'll do anything, pay anything. I have a family. Please let me out of here!"

"The Master is waiting," the man at the door of the cell called in. "Bring him."

The large man moved behind Brundt and pushed him forward, but he sank to his knees and began sobbing uncontrollably. The man with the dagger came into the cell and held the blade close to Brundt's throat.

"Maybe I should just slice his throat here," he hissed. "I could butcher him like a pig."

Brundt staggered to his feet and, still sobbing, moved out of the cell flanked by the four men. They walked slowly down the passage, through a heavy wooden door and up a narrow flight of stairs. They passed through a short hall leading to a cavernous room. The robed men led Brundt to a small cell set against one wall of the room. He walked in a daze, a sheep being led to the slaughter. The large man again held him while another removed the chains. The door to the cell clanged shut; Brundt collapsed to his knees, sobbing and pleading with the men who walked away.

"Please! I'm begging you - let me go! I have a family!" His cries were useless. The men ignored him and exited through a door on the far side of the room.

The atmosphere of the room shimmered in a blood-red haze, for it was lit by half-seen fires behind crimson-tinted Gothic windows set high in the walls. A large stone table, carved with fiendish skill into the form of a grotesque beast, occupied the far end of the room. Ram's horns protruded from a bestial head, and two arms extended downward on either side of the table, ending in clawed hands which each held a goblet. Stone wings lay folded against the back of the creature, beneath the table.

The Devil's sign, a pentagram enclosed by a circle, was inlaid with the tile of the floor directly in front of this horrific sculpture. Behind the table, in a shallow alcove of the wall, sat a human skull in front of a small fire.

Within moments Brundt heard the screams of the woman. The four robed men dragged her to the stone table. They forcibly lifted her onto it and bound her with straps. The woman writhed and struggled, but the straps held her tight. The men assumed positions at four points of the pentagram on the floor. They knelt and began chanting softly, while the woman continued to struggle and cry out for help.

A tall, black-robed figure appeared in the doorway and approached the far side of the table. As he raised his hands the men stopped chanting. He threw back his hood, and Brundt gasped. It was Tharington, but horribly transformed. His features had become unnaturally drawn and tight, his face devoid of color. The eyes, though, were much worse; they glowed from the corpse-like features, a wolfish yellow.

Tharington withdrew a bright, curved blade from under his robe and held it above the woman, whose screams increased in urgency. He spoke, not to his kneeling followers, but into the air.

"Lord Satan, Prince of Darkness and Ruler of the Underworld, we present to you this sacrifice. Grant us power to achieve victory over our enemies, grant us strength to do your bidding, grant us renewed life to continue your work here on earth."

He spoke additional verses in a foreign tongue, then ceased and looked down at the struggling woman, eyes narrowed and a snarl upon his lips. The blade flashed down, and the woman's last wailing shriek rent the air, echoed back, seemed to build upon itself in the deafening cry of a lost soul.

Tharington raised the knife and stabbed again, and blood began to flow down deep grooves in the arms of the sculpted beast, draining into the goblets.

Tharington took up an overflowing goblet and called out in a loud voice, "An offering to you, Lord Satan." He turned and poured some of the blood upon the skull; the flames leapt as though in receipt of the sacrifice. Tharington lifted the goblet above his head, and intoned a supplication.

"Lucifer, invest this blood with your power; let the life it once sustained flow into our bodies!"

The black-robed priest brought the goblet to his lips and drank deeply. He walked slowly in front of the table, holding the cup out before him. The men rose to receive the goblet, and they each drank in turn. Tharington removed the second goblet from the clawed hand and started towards Brundt's cell; the others fell in behind him. He stopped a few feet in front of the bars and again held the cup aloft.

"Master, we have satisfied our craving. Now may you satisfy yours."

The fat man, whimpering softly, had moved away from the front of the cell as Tharington approached, but now there came a loud snarl behind him. He spun around and stumbled back. Mist spread out along the cold stone floor from a dark opening in the back wall of the cell, covered by an iron gate. A second snarl erupted from the darkness, louder than before; two red eyes glowed eerily from its depths. Brundt retreated farther, until he was pressed against the bars of the front of the cell. Suddenly Tharington poured the contents of the goblet on him. Brundt collapsed, looking horror-struck at the woman's blood upon his clothes and skin.

"Please, Mr. Tharington, I'm begging you - please stop," Brundt whimpered.

A wicked smile spread across Tharington's unnatural features. "The Master grows hungry," he whispered.

A series of snarls and growls echoed in the dark passage. Brundt again turned to face the opening; his breathing became labored. The iron gate slowly rose, and Brundt could see the shape of some large, wolfish creature pacing in the darkness. In seconds the gate would be high enough; Brundt pressed himself against the far side of the cell and threw his arms up in front of his face. The gate rose higher yet; the creature sprang at Brundt, who let out a terrified wail.

Nicholas Brundt opened one eye. A large dog rested on his shoulders, licking his face. Although it did look somewhat wolf-like, it did not appear particularly fierce. He attempted to push the animal away, which only increased its efforts to lick him.

"Down, Dante!" Tharington's voice commanded. The dog backed away and sat on its haunches, its tongue lolling to the side, its tail swishing noisily on the floor.

"I am sorry, Mr. Brundt," Tharington continued as he unlocked the door of the cell, "but I'm afraid he has a tendency to get carried away with excitement. Don't you, Dante?" He reached down and rubbed the dog's head. He straightened back up and faced the large man who was still cowering in the corner. "I trust that you were sufficiently frightened by our services? We do try to put on a good show."

Brundt sat as a man stunned. "You mean... this was all a show? But - everything was so real..."

Tharington smiled, a genuine, self-satisfied smile. "That is what we strive for, Mr. Brundt. Strategically placed speakers, hidden controls, theater make-up; the impression of realism can be quite intense." He turned to two of the robed men and told them to prepare a room for their client with fresh clothes, toiletries, and refreshments. The men left to do his bidding. Tharington was about to continue his conversation with Brundt when the dog growled and backed away from the obese man. It turned and bolted from the cell, its tail tucked between its legs.

"Dante!" Tharington shouted. He turned to the two remaining men. "What came over him? Go find him." The men ran out after the animal, which had fled from the room.

Tharington turned again to Brundt. "I'm very sorry," he said. "I really don't know what got into him. Dante has never acted like that before."

Brundt smiled in return. "That's quite all right, Mr. Tharington," he said, rising to his feet. He seemed to have made an amazing recovery from his recent fright. "I just can't get over how real everything seemed; the screams of the poor woman, the blood, everything."

"Well, you were right about the woman, Mr. Brundt," Tharington replied, confused by the man's cool, calm manner, in complete contrast to his obvious agitation only moments before. "She was only part of the act. In fact, Elizabeth is more than just an actress in my little troop, she's my wife. I assure you that she is fine; I love her dearly and would never even consider harming her." Tharington smiled slightly as he thought of his wife, for she was the one person in the world with whom he felt connected. He turned towards the table at the other side of the room. "Elizabeth, please come here."

Silence. Not a whisper, not a stirring came from the table. Drops of crimson liquid still fell from the claws of the stone beast. An icy chill went through Tharington, as he felt a growing dread that something was terribly wrong.

"Elizabeth?" Tharington could barely make his lips form the name; a strange feeling pressed upon his chest, long unremembered - horror, terror.

Tharington moved slowly towards the table as though in a nightmare; the room seemed shrouded in mist; the floor tilted at a crazy angle. He reached the still figure of his wife, saw the look of terror frozen on her features, her eyes staring blindly up at him. He tore open her loose gown, revealing the large, jagged scars left by a very real blade. Tharington staggered back from the table in horror. The room spun around him, and he crumpled to the floor. He did not notice the doors slamming shut.

"Oh, God, it can't be possible. The knife is fake!"

"Many times, those things which we think are false turn out to be real. Most people discover that, sooner or later."

Brundt's cold voice, so different from before, cut through Tharington's horror and anguish. He looked up at the man as though he had never seen him before. Brundt stood a short distance away. His face was unusually drawn, with the skin stretched tight; an unnatural grin pulled back his lips into thin strips of red, framing two rows of small, sharp teeth. His face had become like an ill-fitting, grotesque mask.

Tharington was benumbed with horror. "Mr. Brundt," he whispered.

Brundt's grin widened, exposing the horrible teeth even more. "Must we still be so formal, Richard? I feel that I've known you for so long. Please, call me Nicholas, or better yet, Old Nick."

Tharington started at the use of the name. He staggered to his feet and slowly backed away from the grotesque figure before him.

"That's not possible."

"Oh ye of little faith," Brundt replied, still grinning wickedly. "I always answer a summons, but in my own good time."

"I am sorry about your lovely wife," he continued, mocking an expression of remorse, "but I do believe it added a certain dramatic flair, don't you? As you have seen, I do a little acting myself, and I fancy that I can put on quite a good show."

Tharington felt a terror deeper than any he had ever known grip his heart. "What kind of a monster are you?" he whispered.

"A monster?" Brundt feigned surprise. "Why, how can you possibly call me that, Richard, after all I've done for you? I merely came here because you called me - oh, years earlier, it's true, but better late than never. And my only desire was to fulfill your ardent wish, to let you feel wild, unreasoning fear. You do feel it, don't you? I wish that I might enjoy it as well, but I must be content to experience it vicariously. I hope that you don't blame me for your wife's death; after all, it was you who killed her, not I. Besides, you yourself said that terror is best experienced alone, and you are quite alone now, Richard."

A pounding came from one of the doors to the room. Tharington was vaguely aware of someone calling his name, but he was transfixed by fear, and by Brundt's penetrating gaze.

"Well, Richard, now that I have fulfilled your wish, it is time for me to take my payment."

Brundt lumbered towards Tharington, looking more bestial with every passing second. Tharington sank to his knees and began whimpering.

"Please, in the name of God..."

Instantly Brundt's expression changed to one of malignant hatred. "How dare you! In the name of God! I am the god you prayed to!" He struck Tharington with tremendous force, sending him sprawling to the floor. Tharington scrambled to his feet and ran to the opposite side of the stone table, grabbing the sacrificial knife as he did so.

With amazing speed and agility that belied his huge bulk Brundt leapt over the table and was in front of Tharington in an instant. Tharington could feel his hot breath, rank with the decay of centuries.

"Now, Richard, we end this little game of yours."

Tharington struck out wildly with the knife and felt it plunge deeply into the creature's body. Again and again he stabbed, the sound of Brundt's maniacal laughter ringing in his ears. At last Tharington could raise his arm no more; he looked at the large, bloody bulk standing in front of him, the face horribly mangled from the slashes of the knife. Brundt's eyes still glared malevolently from the bloody mass of flesh; the knife fell from Tharington's feeble grip.

Brundt's hand shot out and grabbed Tharington's throat in an iron grip; the bloody face came closer.

"I have collected part of my payment, Richard. You will be alone with your horror, your remorse, your terror, for a very long time. But don't worry; I'll collect the rest of my payment at the end." Brundt's tremendous bulk collapsed to the floor, and at that instant a door burst open. Two men came running into the room.

The large man who had earlier held Brundt's arms took in the entire ghastly scene before him: the body of Brundt, slashed and mangled; Tharington with blood splattered on his face and hands.

"My God, Mr. Tharington, what happened here?"

Tharington turned towards him, a wild look in his eyes. "He was the devil, Anthony!" He pointed a shaking hand at the lifeless form on the floor. "He made me kill Elizabeth! Don't you see his horrible face, his teeth?" Trembling and weak, he sank to the floor and buried his face in his blood-soaked hands.

Anthony looked but only saw the mangled face of their client. The other man had moved to the stone table where Elizabeth's lifeless body lay. He retched violently, realizing with horror that they had truly drunk the woman's blood. Anthony maintained a grim composure. He turned to his companion.

"We'd better call the police," he said, looking again at the shaking, pathetic figure of Tharington rocking slowly on the floor.