Two miles west of the village of Laketon there
lived an aged recluse who was known only as Old Crompton. As far back as the
villagers could remember he had visited the town regularly twice a month, each
time tottering his lonely way homeward with a load of provisions. He appeared
to be well supplied with funds, but purchased sparingly as became a miserly
hermit. And so vicious was his tongue that few cared to converse with him, even
the young hoodlums of the town hesitating to harass him with the banter usually
accorded the other bizarre characters of the streets.
Tom's extraordinary machine glowed - and the years
were banished from Old Crompton's body. But there still remained, deep-seated
in his century-old mind, the memory of his crime.
The oldest
inhabitants knew nothing of his past history, and they had long since lost
their curiosity in the matter. He was a fixture, as was the old town hall with
its surrounding park. His lonely cabin was shunned by all who chanced to pass
along the old dirt road that led through the woods to nowhere and was rarely
used.
His only
extravagance was in the matter of books, and the village book store profited
considerably by his purchases. But, at the instigation of Cass Harmon, the
bookseller, it was whispered about that Old Crompton was a believer in the
black art - that he had made a pact with the devil himself and was leagued with
him and his imps. For the books he bought were strange ones; ancient volumes
that Cass must needs order from New York or Chicago and that cost as much as
ten and even fifteen dollars a copy; translations of the writings of the
alchemists and astrologers and philosophers of the dark ages.
It was no wonder
Old Crompton was looked at askance by the simple-living and deeply religious
natives of the small Pennsylvania town.
But there came a
day when the hermit was to have a neighbor, and the town buzzed with excited
speculation as to what would happen.
The property
across the road from Old Crompton's hut belonged to Alton Forsythe, Laketon's
wealthiest resident - hundreds of acres of scrubby woodland that he considered
well nigh worthless. But Tom Forsythe, the only son, had returned from college
and his ambitions were of a nature strange to his townspeople and utterly
incomprehensible to his father. Something vague about biology and chemical
experiments and the like is what he spoke of, and, when his parents objected on
the grounds of possible explosions and other weird accidents, he prevailed upon
his father to have a secluded laboratory built for him in the woods.
When the workmen
started the small frame structure not a quarter of a mile from his own hut, Old
Crompton was furious. He raged and stormed, but to no avail. Tom Forsythe had
his heart set on the project and he was somewhat of a successful debater
himself. The fire that flashed from his cold gray eyes matched that from the
pale blue ones of the elderly anchorite. And the law was on his side.
So the building
was completed and Tom Forsythe moved in, bag and baggage.
For more than a
year the hermit studiously avoided his neighbor, though, truth to tell, this
required very little effort. For Tom Forsythe became almost as much of a
recluse as his predecessor, remaining indoors for days at a time and visiting
the home of his people scarcely oftener than Old Crompton visited the village.
He too became the target of village gossip and his name was ere long linked
with that of the old man in similar animadversion. But he cared naught for the
opinions of his townspeople nor for the dark looks of suspicion that greeted
him on his rare appearances in the public places. His chosen work engrossed him
so deeply that all else counted for nothing. His parents remonstrated with him
in vain. Tom laughed away their recriminations and fears, continuing with his
labors more strenuously than ever. He never troubled his mind over the nearness
of Old Crompton's hut, the existence of which he hardly noticed or considered.
It so happened
one day that the old man's curiosity got the better of him and Tom caught him prowling
about on his property, peering wonderingly at the many rabbit hutches, chicken
coops, dove cotes and the like which cluttered the space to the rear of the
laboratory.
Seeing that he
was discovered, the old man wrinkled his face into a toothless grin of
conciliation.
"Just
looking over your place, Forsythe," he said. "Sorry about the fuss I
made when you built the house. But I'm an old man, you know, and changes are
unwelcome. Now I have forgotten my objections and would like to be friends. Can
we?"
Tom peered
searchingly into the flinty eyes that were set so deeply in the wrinkled,
leathery countenance. He suspected an ulterior motive, but could not find it
within him to turn the old fellow down.
"Why - I guess so, Crompton," he
hesitated: "I have nothing against you, but I came here for seclusion and
I'll not have anyone bothering me in my work."
"I'll not
bother you, young man. But I'm fond of pets and I see you have many of them
here; guinea pigs, chickens, pigeons, and rabbits. Would you mind if I make
friends with some of them?"
"They're not
pets," answered Tom dryly, "they are material for use in my
experiments. But you may amuse yourself with them if you wish."
"You mean
that you cut them up - kill them, perhaps?"
"Not that.
But I sometimes change them in physical form, sometimes cause them to become of
huge size, sometimes produce pigmy offspring of normal animals."
"Don't they
suffer?"
"Very
seldom, though occasionally a subject dies. But the benefit that will accrue to
mankind is well worth the slight inconvenience to the dumb creatures and the
infrequent loss of their lives."
Old Crompton
regarded him dubiously. "You are trying to find?" he interrogated.
"The secret
of life!" Tom Forsythe's eyes took on the stare of fanaticism.
"Before I have finished I shall know the nature of the vital force - how
to produce it. I shall prolong human life indefinitely; create artificial life.
And the solution is more closely approached with each passing day."
The hermit
blinked in pretended mystification. But he understood perfectly, and he
bitterly envied the younger man's knowledge and ability that enabled him to
delve into the mysteries of nature which had always been so attractive to his
own mind. And somehow, he acquired a sudden deep hatred of the coolly confident
young man who spoke so positively of accomplishing the impossible.
During the winter
months that followed, the strange acquaintance progressed but little. Tom did
not invite his neighbor to visit him, nor did Old Crompton go out of his way to
impose his presence on the younger man, though each spoke pleasantly enough to
the other on the few occasions when they happened to meet.
With the coming
of spring they encountered one another more frequently, and Tom found
considerable of interest in the quaint, borrowed philosophy of the gloomy old
man. Old Crompton, of course, was desperately interested in the things that
were hidden in Tom's laboratory, but he never requested permission to see them.
He hid his real feelings extremely well and was apparently content to spend as
much time as possible with the feathered and furred subjects for experiment,
being very careful not to incur Tom's displeasure by displaying too great
interest in the laboratory itself.
Then there came a day in early summer when an accident served to draw
the two men closer together, and Old Crompton's long-sought opportunity
followed.
He was starting
for the village when, from down the road, there came a series of tremendous
squawkings, then a bellow of dismay in the voice of his young neighbor. He
turned quickly and was astonished at the sight of a monstrous rooster which had
escaped and was headed straight for him with head down and wings fluttering
wildly. Tom followed close behind, but was unable to catch the darting monster.
And monster it was, for this rooster stood no less than three feet in height
and appeared more ferocious than a large turkey. Old Crompton had his shopping
bag, a large one of burlap which he always carried to town, and he summoned
enough courage to throw it over the head of the screeching, over-sized fowl. So
tangled did the panic-stricken bird become that it was a comparatively simple
matter to effect his capture, and the old man rose to his feet triumphant with
the bag securely closed over the struggling captive.
"Thanks,"
panted Tom, when he drew alongside. "I should never have caught him, and
his appearance at large might have caused me a great deal of trouble - now of
all times."
"It's all
right, Forsythe," smirked the old man. "Glad I was able to do
it."
Secretly he
gloated, for he knew this occurrence would be an open sesame to that laboratory
of Tom's. And it proved to be just that.
A few nights
later he was awakened by a vigorous thumping at his door, something that had
never before occurred during his nearly sixty years occupancy of the tumbledown
hut. The moon was high and he cautiously peeped from the window and saw that
his late visitor was none other than young Forsythe.
"With you in
a minute!" he shouted, hastily thrusting his rheumatic old limbs into his
shabby trousers. "Now to see the inside of that laboratory," he
chuckled to himself.
It required but a
moment to attire himself in the scanty raiment he wore during the warm months,
but he could hear Tom muttering and impatiently pacing the flagstones before
his door.
"What is
it?" he asked, as he drew the bolt and emerged into the brilliant light of
the moon.
"Success!"
breathed Tom excitedly. "I have produced growing, living matter
synthetically. More than this, I have learned the secret of the vital force - the
spark of life. Immortality is within easy reach. Come and see for
yourself."
They quickly
traversed the short distance to the two-story building which comprised Tom's
workshop and living quarters. The entire ground floor was taken up by the
laboratory, and Old Crompton stared aghast at the wealth of equipment it
contained. Furnaces there were, and retorts that reminded him of those pictured
in the wood cuts in some of his musty books. Then there were complicated
machines with many levers and dials mounted on their faces, and with huge glass
bulbs of peculiar shape with coils of wire connecting to knoblike protuberances
of their transparent walls. In the exact center of the great single room there
was what appeared to be a dissecting table, with a brilliant light overhead and
with two of the odd glass bulbs at either end. It was to this table that Tom
led the excited old man.
"This is my
perfected apparatus," said Tom proudly, "and by its use I intend to
create a new race of supermen, men and women who will always retain the vigor
and strength of their youth and who can not die excepting by actual destruction
of their bodies. Under the influence of the rays all bodily ailments vanish as
if by magic, and organic defects are quickly corrected. Watch this now."
He stepped to one
of the many cages at the side of the room and returned with a wriggling
cottontail in his hands. Old Compton watched anxiously as he picked a nickeled
instrument from a tray of surgical appliances and requested his visitor to hold
the protesting animal while he covered its head with a handkerchief.
"Ethyl
chloride," explained Tom, noting with amusement the look of distaste on
the old man's face. "We'll just put him to sleep for a minute while I
amputate a leg."
The struggles of
the rabbit quickly ceased when the spray soaked the handkerchief and the
anaesthetic took effect. With a shining scalpel and a surgical saw, Tom
speedily removed one of the forelegs of the animal and then he placed the limp
body in the center of the table, removing the handkerchief from its head as he
did so. At the end of the table there was a panel with its glittering array of
switches and electrical instruments, and Old Crompton observed very closely the
manipulations of the controls as Tom started the mechanism. With the ensuing
hum of a motor-generator from a corner of the room, the four bulbs adjacent to
the table sprang into life, each glowing with a different color and each
emitting a different vibratory note as it responded to the energy within.
"Keep an eye
on Mr. Rabbit now," admonished Tom.
From the body of
the small animal there emanated an intangible though hazily visible aura as the
combined effects of the rays grew in intensity. Old Crompton bent over the
table and peered amazedly at the stump of the foreleg, from which blood no
longer dripped. The stump was healing over! Yes - it seemed to elongate as one
watched. A new limb was growing on to replace the old! Then the animal
struggled once more, this time to regain consciousness. In a moment it was
fully awake and, with a frightened hop, was off the table and hobbling about in
search of a hiding place.
Tom Forsythe
laughed. "Never knew what happened," he exulted, "and excepting
for the temporary limp is not inconvenienced at all. Even that will be gone in
a couple of hours, for the new limb will be completely grown by that
time."
"But - but,
Tom," stammered the old man, "this is wonderful. How do you
accomplish it?"
"Ha! Don't
think I'll reveal my secret. But this much I will tell you: the life force
generated by my apparatus stimulates a certain gland that's normally inactive
in warm blooded animals. This gland, when active, possesses the function of
growing new members to the body to replace lost ones in much the same manner as
this is done in case of the lobster and certain other crustaceans. Of course,
the process is extremely rapid when the gland is stimulated by the vital rays
from my tubes. But this is only one of the many wonders of the process. Here is
something far more remarkable."
He took from a
large glass jar the body of a guinea pig, a body that was rigid in death.
"This guinea
pig," he explained, "was suffocated twenty-four hours ago and is
stone dead."
"Suffocated?"
"Yes. But
quite painlessly, I assure you. I merely removed the air from the jar with a
vacuum pump and the little creature passed out of the picture very quickly. Now
we'll revive it."
Old Crompton
stretched forth a skinny hand to touch the dead animal, but withdrew it hastily
when he felt the clammy rigidity of the body. There was no doubt as to the
lifelessness of this specimen.
Tom placed the
dead guinea pig on the spot where the rabbit had been subjected to the action
of the rays. Again his visitor watched carefully as he manipulated the controls
of the apparatus.
With the glow of
the tubes and the ensuing haze of eery light that surrounded the little body, a
marked change was apparent. The inanimate form relaxed suddenly and it seemed
that the muscles pulsated with an accession of energy. Then one leg was
stretched forth spasmodically. There was a convulsive heave as the lungs drew
in a first long breath, and, with that, an astonished and very much alive
rodent scrambled to its feet, blinking wondering eyes in the dazzling light.
"See?
See?" shouted Tom, grasping Old Crompton by the arm in a viselike grip. "It
is the secret of life and death! Aristocrats, plutocrats and beggars will beat
a path to my door. But, never fear, I shall choose my subjects well. The name
of Thomas Forsythe will yet be emblazoned in the Hall of Fame. I shall be
master of the world!"
Old Crompton
began to fear the glitter in the eyes of the gaunt young man who seemed
suddenly to have become demented. And his envy and hatred of his talented host
blazed anew as Forsythe gloried in the success of his efforts. Then he was
struck with an idea and he affected his most ingratiating manner.
"It is a
marvelous thing, Tom," he said, "and is entirely beyond my poor
comprehension. But I can see that it is all you say and more. Tell me - can you
restore the youth of an aged person by these means?"
"Positively!"
Tom did not catch the eager note in the old man's voice. Rather he took the
question as an inquiry into the further marvels of his process.
"Here," he continued, enthusiastically, "I'll prove that to you
also. My dog Spot is around the place somewhere. And he is a decrepit old
hound, blind, lame and toothless. You've probably seen him with me."
He rushed to the
stairs and whistled. There was an answering yelp from above and the pad of
uncertain paws on the bare wooden steps. A dejected old beagle blundered into
the room, dragging a crippled hind leg as he fawned upon his master, who
stretched forth a hand to pat the unsteady head.
"Guess Spot
is old enough for the test," laughed Tom, "and I have been meaning to
restore him to his youthful vigor, anyway. No time like the present."
He led his
trembling pet to the table of the remarkable tubes and lifted him to its
surface. The poor old beast lay trustingly where he was placed, quiet, save for
his husky asthmatic breathing.
"Hold him,
Crompton," directed Tom as he pulled the starting lever of his apparatus.
And Old Crompton
watched in fascinated anticipation as the ethereal luminosity bathed the dog's
body in response to the action of the four rays. Somewhat vaguely it came to
him that the baggy flesh of his own wrinkled hands took on a new firmness and
color where they reposed on the animal's back. Young Forsythe grinned
triumphantly as Spot's breathing became more regular and the rasp gradually
left it. Then the dog whined in pleasure and wagged his tail with increasing
vigor. Suddenly he raised his head, perked his ears in astonishment and looked
his master straight in the face with eyes that saw once more. The low throat
cry rose to a full and joyous bark. He sprang to his feet from under the
restraining hands and jumped to the floor in a lithe-muscled leap that carried
him half way across the room. He capered about with the abandon of a puppy,
making extremely active use of four sound limbs.
"Why - why,
Forsythe," stammered the hermit, "it's absolutely incredible. Tell me
- tell me - what is this remarkable force?"
His host laughed
gleefully. "You probably wouldn't understand it anyway, but I'll tell you.
It is as simple as the nose on your face. The spark of life, the vital force,
is merely an extremely complicated electrical manifestation which I have been
able to duplicate artificially. This spark or force is all that distinguishes
living from inanimate matter, and in living beings the force gradually
decreases in power as the years pass, causing loss of health and strength. The
chemical composition of bones and tissue alters, joints become stiff, muscles
atrophied, and bones brittle. By recharging, as it were, with the vital force,
the gland action is intensified, youth and strength is renewed. By repeating
the process every ten or fifteen years the same degree of vigor can be
maintained indefinitely. Mankind will become immortal. That is why I say I am
to be master of the world."
For the moment
Old Crompton forgot his jealous hatred in the enthusiasm with which he was
imbued. "Tom - Tom," he pleaded in his excitement, "use me as a
subject. Renew my youth. My life has been a sad one and a lonely one, but I
would that I might live it over. I should make of it a far different one - something
worth while. See, I am ready."
He sat on the
edge of the gleaming table and made as if to lie down on its gleaming surface.
But his young host only stared at him in open amusement.
"What?
You?" he sneered, unfeelingly. "Why, you old fossil! I told you I
would choose my subjects carefully. They are to be people of standing and
wealth, who can contribute to the fame and fortune of one Thomas
Forsythe."
"But Tom, I
have money," Old Crompton begged. But when he saw the hard mirth in the
younger man's eyes, his old animosity flamed anew and he sprang from his
position and shook a skinny forefinger in Tom's face.
"Don't do
that to me, you old fool!" shouted Tom, "and get out of here. Think
I'd waste current on an old cadger like you? I guess not! Now get out. Get out,
I say!"
Then the old
anchorite saw red. Something seemed to snap in his soured old brain. He found
himself kicking and biting and punching at his host, who backed away from the
furious onslaught in surprise. Then Tom tripped over a wire and fell to the
floor with a force that rattled the windows, his ferocious little adversary on
top. The younger man lay still where he had fallen, a trickle of blood showing
at his temple.
"My God!
I've killed him!" gasped the old man.
With trembling
fingers he opened Tom's shirt and listened for his heartbeats. Panic-stricken,
he rubbed the young man's wrists, slapped his cheeks, and ran for water to dash
in his face. But all efforts to revive him proved futile, and then, in awful
fear, Old Crompton dashed into the night, the dog Spot snapping at his heels as
he ran.
Hours later the
stooped figure of a shabby old man might have been seen stealthily re-entering
the lonely workshop where the lights still burned brightly. Tom Forsythe lay rigid
in the position in which Old Crompton had left him, and the dog growled
menacingly.
Averting his gaze
and circling wide of the body, Old Crompton made for the table of the marvelous
rays. In minute detail he recalled every move made by Tom in starting and
adjusting the apparatus to produce the incredible results he had witnessed. Not
a moment was to be wasted now. Already he had hesitated too long, for soon
would come the dawn and possible discovery of his crime. But the invention of
his victim would save him from the long arm of the law, for, with youth
restored, Old Crompton would cease to exist and a new life would open its doors
to the starved soul of the hermit. Hermit, indeed! He would begin life anew, an
active man with youthful vigor and ambition. Under an assumed name he would
travel abroad, would enjoy life, and would later become a successful man of
affairs. He had enough money, he told himself. And the police would never find
Old Crompton, the murderer of Tom Forsythe! He deposited his small traveling
bag on the floor and fingered the controls of Tom's apparatus.
He threw the
starting switch confidently and grinned in satisfaction as the answering whine
of the motor-generator came to his ears. One by one he carefully made the
adjustments in exactly the manner followed by the now silenced discoverer of
the process. Everything operated precisely as it had during the preceding
experiments. Odd that he should have anticipated some such necessity! But
something had told him to observe Tom's movements carefully, and now he
rejoiced in the fact that his intuition had led him aright. Painfully he
climbed to the table top and stretched his aching body in the warm light of the
four huge tubes. His exertions during the struggle with Tom were beginning to
tell on him. But the soreness and stiffness of feeble muscles and stubborn
joints would soon be but a memory. His pulses quickened at the thought and he
breathed deep in a sudden feeling of unaccustomed well-being.
The dog growled continuously from his position at
the head of his master, but did not move to interfere with the intruder. And
Old Crompton, in the excitement of the momentous experience, paid him not the
slightest attention.
His body tingled
from head to foot with a not unpleasant sensation that conveyed the assurance
of radical changes taking place under the influence of the vital rays. The
tingling sensation increased in intensity until it seemed that every corpuscle
in his veins danced to the tune of the vibration from those glowing tubes that
bathed him in an ever-spreading radiance. Aches and pains vanished from his
body, but he soon experienced a sharp stab of new pain in his lower jaw. With
an experimental forefinger he rubbed the gum. He laughed aloud as the
realization came to him that in those gums where there had been no teeth for
more than twenty years there was now growing a complete new set. And the
rapidity of the process amazed him beyond measure. The aching area spread
quickly and was becoming really uncomfortable. But then - and he consoled
himself with the thought - nothing is brought into being without a certain
amount of pain. Besides, he was confident that his discomfort would soon be
over.
He examined his
hand, and found that the joints of two fingers long crippled with rheumatism
now moved freely and painlessly. The misty brilliance surrounding his body was
paling and he saw that the flesh was taking on a faint green fluorescence
instead. The rays had completed their work and soon the transformation would be
fully effected. He turned on his side and slipped to the floor with the agility
of a youngster. The dog snarled anew, but kept steadfastly to his position.
There was a small
mirror over the wash stand at the far end of the room and Old Crompton made
haste to obtain the first view of his reflected image. His step was firm and
springy, his bearing confident, and he found that his long-stooped shoulders
straightened naturally and easily. He felt that he had taken on at least two
inches in stature, which was indeed the case. When he reached the mirror he
peered anxiously into its dingy surface and what he saw there so startled him
that he stepped backward in amazement. This was not Larry Crompton, but an
entirely new man. The straggly white hair had given way to soft, healthy waves
of chestnut hue. Gone were the seams from the leathery countenance and the eyes
looked out clearly and steadily from under brows as thick and dark as they had
been in his youth. The reflected features were those of an entire stranger.
They were not even reminiscent of the Larry Crompton of fifty years ago, but
were the features of a far more vigorous and prepossessing individual than he
had ever seemed, even in the best years of his life. The jaw was firm, the once
sunken cheeks so well filled out that his high cheek bones were no longer in
evidence. It was the face of a man of not more than thirty-eight years of age,
reflecting exceptional intelligence and strength of character.
"What a
disguise!" he exclaimed in delight. And his voice, echoing in the
stillness that followed the switching off of the apparatus, was deep-throated
and mellow - the voice of a new man.
Now, serenely confident that discovery was
impossible, he picked up his small but heavy bag and started for the door. Dawn
was breaking and he wished to put as many miles between himself and Tom's
laboratory as could be covered in the next few hours. But at the door he
hesitated. Then, despite the furious yapping of Spot, he returned to the table
of the rays and, with deliberate thoroughness smashed the costly tubes which
had brought about his rehabilitation. With a pinch bar from a nearby tool rack,
he wrecked the controls and generating mechanisms beyond recognition. Now he
was absolutely secure! No meddling experts could possibly discover the secret
of Tom's invention. All evidence would show that the young experimenter had met
his death at the hands of Old Crompton, the despised hermit of West Laketon.
But none would dream that the handsome man of means who was henceforth to be known
as George Voight was that same despised hermit.
He recovered his
satchel and left the scene. With long, rapid strides he proceeded down the old
dirt road toward the main highway where, instead of turning east into the
village, he would turn west and walk to Kernsburg, the neighboring town. There,
in not more than two hours time, his new life would really begin!
Had you, a
visitor, departed from Laketon when Old Crompton did and returned twelve years
later, you would have noticed very little difference in the appearance of the
village. The old town hall and the little park were the same, the dingy brick
building among the trees being just a little dingier and its wooden steps more
worn and sagged. The main street showed evidence of recent repaving, and, in
consequence of the resulting increase in through automobile traffic; there were
two new gasoline filling stations in the heart of the town. Down the road about
a half mile there was a new building, which, upon inquiring from one of the
natives, would be proudly designated as the new high school building. Otherwise
there were no changes to be observed.
In his
dilapidated chair in the untidy office he had occupied for nearly thirty years,
sat Asa Culkin, popularly known as "Judge" Culkin. Justice of the peace,
sheriff, attorney-at-law, and three times Mayor of Laketon, he was still a
controlling factor in local politics and government. And many a knotty legal
problem was settled in that gloomy little office. Many a dispute in the town
council was dependent for arbitration upon the keen mind and understanding wit
of the old judge.
The four o'clock
train had just puffed its labored way from the station when a stranger entered
his office, a stranger of uncommonly prosperous air. The keen blue eyes of the
old attorney appraised him instantly and classified him as a successful man of business,
not yet forty years of age, and with a weighty problem on his mind.
"What can I
do for you, sir?" he asked, removing his feet from the battered desk top.
"You may be
able to help me a great deal, Judge," was the unexpected reply. "I
came to Laketon to give myself up."
"Give
yourself up?" Culkin rose to his feet in surprise and unconsciously
straightened his shoulders in the effort to seem less dwarfed before the tall
stranger. "Why, what do you mean?" he inquired.
"I wish to
give myself up for murder," answered the amazing visitor, slowly and with
decision, "for a murder committed twelve years ago. I should like you to
listen to my story first, though. It has been kept too long."
"But I still
do not understand." There was puzzlement in the honest old face of the
attorney. He shook his gray locks in uncertainty. "Why should you come
here? Why come to me? What possible interest can I have in the matter?"
"Just this,
Judge. You do not recognize me now, and you will probably consider my story
incredible when you hear it. But, when I have given you all the evidence, you
will know who I am and will be compelled to believe. The murder was committed
in Laketon. That is why I came to you."
"A murder in
Laketon? Twelve years ago?" Again the aged attorney shook his head.
"But - proceed."
"Yes. I
killed Thomas Forsythe."
The stranger
looked for an expression of horror in the features of his listener, but there
was none. Instead the benign countenance took on a look of deepening amazement,
but the smile wrinkles had somehow vanished and the old face was grave in its
surprised interest.
"You seem
astonished," continued the stranger. "Undoubtedly you were convinced
that the murderer was Larry Crompton - Old Crompton, the hermit. He disappeared
the night of the crime and has never been heard from since. Am I correct?"
"Yes. He
disappeared all right. But continue."
Not by a lift of
his eyebrow did Culkin betray his disbelief, but the stranger sensed that his
story was somehow not as startling as it should have been.
"You will
think me crazy, I presume. But I am Old Crompton. It was my hand that felled
the unfortunate young man in his laboratory out there in West Laketon twelve
years ago to-night. It was his marvelous invention that transformed the old
hermit into the apparently young man you see before you. But I swear that I am
none other than Larry Crompton and that I killed young Forsythe. I am ready to
pay the penalty. I can bear the flagellation of my own conscience no
longer."
The visitor's
voice had risen to the point of hysteria. But his listener remained calm and
unmoved.
"Now just
let me get this straight," he said quietly. "Do I understand that you
claim to be Old Crompton, rejuvenated in some mysterious manner, and that you
killed Tom Forsythe on that night twelve years ago? Do I understand that you
wish now to go to trial for that crime and to pay the penalty?"
"Yes! Yes!
And the sooner the better. I can stand it no longer. I am the most miserable
man in the world!"
"Hm-m - hm-m,"
muttered the judge, "this is strange." He spoke soothingly to his
visitor. "Do not upset yourself, I beg of you. I will take care of this
thing for you, never fear. Just take a seat, Mister – er -"
"You may
call me Voight for the present," said the stranger, in a more composed
tone of voice, "George Voight. That is the name I have been using since
the mur - since that fatal night."
"Very well,
Mr. Voight," replied the counsellor with an air of the greatest
solicitude, "please have a seat now, while I make a telephone call."
And George Voight
slipped into a stiff-backed chair with a sigh of relief. For he knew the judge
from the old days and he was now certain that his case would be disposed of
very quickly.
With the
telephone receiver pressed to his ear, Culkin repeated a number. The stranger
listened intently during the ensuing silence. Then there came a muffled
"hello" sounding in impatient response to the call.
"Hello,
Alton," spoke the attorney, "this is Asa speaking. A stranger has
just stepped into my office and he claims to be Old Crompton. Remember the
hermit across the road from your son's old laboratory? Well, this man, who
bears no resemblance whatever to the old man he claims to be and who seems to
be less than half the age of Tom's old neighbor, says that he killed Tom on
that night we remember so well."
There were some
surprised remarks from the other end of the wire, but Voight was unable to
catch them. He was in a cold perspiration at the thought of meeting his
victim's father.
"Why, yes,
Alton," continued Culkin, "I think there is something in this story,
although I cannot believe it all. But I wish you would accompany us and visit
the laboratory. Will you?"
"Lord, man,
not that!" interrupted the judge's visitor. "I can hardly bear to
visit the scene of my crime - and in the company of Alton Forsythe. Please, not
that!"
"Now you
just let me take care of this, young man," replied the judge, testily.
Then, once more speaking into the mouthpiece of the telephone, "All right,
Alton. We'll pick you up at your office in five minutes."
He replaced the
receiver on its hook and turned again to his visitor. "Please be so kind
as to do exactly as I request," he said. "I want to help you, but
there is more to this thing than you know and I want you to follow
unquestioningly where I lead and ask no questions at all for the present.
Things may turn out differently than you expect."
"All right,
Judge." The visitor resigned himself to whatever might transpire under the
guidance of the man he had called upon to turn him over to the officers of the
law.
Seated in the
judge's ancient motor car, they stopped at the office of Alton Forsythe a few
minutes later and were joined by that red-faced and pompous old man. Few words
were spoken during the short run to the well-remembered location of Tom's
laboratory, and the man who was known as George Voight caught at his own throat
with nervous fingers when they passed the tumbledown remains of the hut in
which Old Crompton had spent so many years. With a screeching of well-worn
brakes the car stopped before the laboratory, which was now almost hidden
behind a mass of shrubs and flowers.
"Easy now,
young man," cautioned the judge, noting the look of fear which had clouded
his new client's features. The three men advanced to the door through which Old
Crompton had fled on that night of horror, twelve years before. The elder
Forsythe spoke not a word as he turned the knob and stepped within. Voight
shrank from entering, but soon mastered his feelings and followed the other
two. The sight that met his eyes caused him to cry aloud in awe.
At the dissecting
table, which seemed to be exactly as he had seen it last but with replicas of
the tubes he had destroyed once more in place, stood Tom Forsythe! Considerably
older and with hair prematurely gray, he was still the young man Old Crompton
thought he had killed. Tom Forsythe was not dead after all! And all of his
years of misery had gone for nothing. He advanced slowly to the side of the
wondering young man, Alton Forsythe and Asa Culkin watching silently from just
inside the door.
"Tom - Tom,"
spoke the stranger, "you are alive? You were not dead when I left you on
that terrible night when I smashed your precious tubes? Oh - it is too good to
be true! I can scarcely believe my eyes!"
He stretched
forth trembling fingers to touch the body of the young man to assure himself
that it was not all a dream.
"Why,"
said Tom Forsythe, in astonishment. "I do not know you, sir. Never saw you
in my life. What do you mean by your talk of smashing my tubes, of leaving me
for dead?"
"Mean?"
The stranger's voice rose now; he was growing excited. "Why, Tom, I am Old
Crompton. Remember the struggle, here in this very room? You refused to
rejuvenate an unhappy old man with your marvelous apparatus, a temporarily
insane old man - Crompton. I was that old man and I fought with you. You fell,
striking your head. There was blood. You were unconscious. Yes, for many hours
I was sure you were dead and that I had murdered you. But I had watched your
manipulations of the apparatus and I subjected myself to the action of the
rays. My youth was miraculously restored. I became as you see me now. Detection
was impossible, for I looked no more like Old Crompton than you do. I smashed
your machinery to avoid suspicion. Then I escaped. And, for twelve years, I
have thought myself a murderer. I have suffered the tortures of the
damned!"
Tom Forsythe
advanced on this remarkable visitor with clenched fists. Staring him in the
eyes with cold appraisal, his wrath was all too apparent. The dog Spot, young
as ever, entered the room and, upon observing the stranger, set up an ominous
growling and snarling. At least the dog recognized him!
"What are
you trying to do, catechise me? Are you another of these alienists my father
has been bringing around?" The young inventor was furious. "If you
are," he continued, "you can get out of here - now! I'll have no more
of this meddling with my affairs. I'm as sane as any of you and I refuse to
submit to this continual persecution."
The elder
Forsythe grunted, and Culkin laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Just a
minute now, Tom," he said soothingly. "This stranger is no alienist.
He has a story to tell. Please permit him to finish."
Somewhat
mollified, Tom Forsythe shrugged his assent.
"Tom," continued the stranger, more
calmly now, "what I have said is the truth. I shall prove it to you. I'll
tell you things no mortals on earth could know but we two. Remember the day I
captured the big rooster for you - the monster you had created? Remember the
night you awakened me and brought me here in the moonlight? Remember the rabbit
whose leg you amputated and re-grew? The poor guinea pig you had suffocated and
whose life you restored? Spot here? Don't you remember rejuvenating him? I was
here. And you refused to use your process on me, old man that I was. Then is
when I went mad and attacked you. Do you believe me, Tom?"
Then a strange
thing happened. While Tom Forsythe gazed in growing belief, the stranger's
shoulders sagged and he trembled as with the ague. The two older men who had
kept in the background gasped their astonishment as his hair faded to a sickly
gray, then became as white as the driven snow. Old Crompton was reverting to
his previous state! Within five minutes, instead of the handsome young
stranger, there stood before them a bent, withered old man - Old Crompton
beyond a doubt. The effects of Tom's process were spent.
"Well I'm
damned!" ejaculated Alton Forsythe. "You have been right all along,
Asa. And I am mighty glad I did not commit Tom as I intended. He has told us
the truth all these years and we were not wise enough to see it."
"We!"
exclaimed the judge. "You, Alton Forsythe! I have always upheld him. You
have done your son a grave injustice and you owe him your apologies if ever a
father owed his son anything."
"You are
right, Asa." And, his aristocratic pride forgotten, Alton Forsythe rushed
to the side of his son and embraced him.
The judge turned
to Old Crompton pityingly. "Rather a bad ending for you, Crompton,"
he said. "Still, it is better by far than being branded as a
murderer."
"Better?
Better?" croaked Old Crompton. "It is wonderful, Judge. I have never
been so happy in my life!"
The face of the
old man beamed, though scalding tears coursed down the withered and seamed
cheeks. The two Forsythes looked up from their demonstrations of peacemaking to
listen to the amazing words of the old hermit.
"Yes, happy
for the first time in my life," he continued. "I am one hundred years
of age, gentlemen, and I now look it and feel it. That is as it should be. And
my experience has taught me a final lasting lesson. None of you know it, but,
when I was but a very young man I was bitterly disappointed in love. Ha! ha!
Never think it to look at me now, would you? But I was, and it ruined my entire
life. I had a little money – inherited - and I traveled about in the world for
a few years, then settled in that old hut across the road where I buried myself
for sixty years, becoming crabbed and sour and despicable. Young Tom here was
the first bright spot and, though I admired him, I hated him for his
opportunities, hated him for that which he had that I had not. With the promise
of his invention I thought I saw happiness, a new life for myself. I got what I
wanted, though not in the way I had expected. And I want to tell you gentlemen
that there is nothing in it. With developments of modern science you may be
able to restore a man's youthful vigor of body, but you can't cure his mind
with electricity. Though I had a youthful body, my brain was the brain of an
old man - memories were there which could not be suppressed. Even had I not had
the fancied death of young Tom on my conscience I should still have been
miserable. I worked. God, how I worked - to forget! But I could not forget. I
was successful in business and made a lot of money. I am more independent - probably
wealthier than you, Alton Forsythe, but that did not bring happiness. I longed
to be myself once more, to have the aches and pains which had been taken from
me. It is natural to age and to die. Immortality would make of us a people of
restless misery. We would quarrel and bicker and long for death, which would
not come to relieve us. Now it is over for me and I am glad – glad - glad!"
He paused for
breath, looking beseechingly at Tom Forsythe. "Tom," he said, "I
suppose you have nothing for me in your heart but hatred. And I don't blame
you. But I wish - I wish you would try and forgive me. Can you?"
The years had
brought increased understanding and tolerance to young Tom. He stared at Old
Crompton and the long-nursed anger over the destruction of his equipment melted
into a strange mixture of pity and admiration for the courageous old fellow.
"Why, I
guess I can, Crompton," he replied. "There was many a day when I
struggled hopelessly to reconstruct my apparatus, cursing you with every bit of
energy in my make-up. I could cheerfully have throttled you, had you been
within reach. For twelve years I have labored incessantly to reproduce the
results we obtained on the night of which you speak. People called me insane - even
my father wished to have me committed to an asylum. And, until now, I have been
unsuccessful. Only to-day has it seemed for the first time that the experiments
will again succeed. But my ideas have changed with regard to the uses of the
process. I was a cocksure young pup in the old days, with foolish dreams of
fame and influence. But I have seen the error of my ways. Your experience, too,
convinces me that immortality may not be as desirable as I thought. But there
are great possibilities in the way of relieving the sufferings of mankind and
in making this a better world in which to live. With your advice and help I
believe I can do great things. I now forgive you freely and I ask you to remain
here with me to assist in the work that is to come. What do you say to the
idea?"
At the reverent
thankfulness in the pale eyes of the broken old man who had so recently been a
perfect specimen of vigorous youth, Alton Forsythe blew his nose noisily. The
little judge smiled benevolently and shook his head as if to say, "I told
you so." Tom and Old Crompton gripped hands - mightily.
