“Finally, rousing myself from a lethargy of horror, I got on my feet again and began following the footprints. Who the murderer was, I could not even faintly guess, nor could I try to explain the absence of the servants. I vaguely felt that I ought to go up to Marsh’s attic quarters, but before I had fully formulated the idea I saw that the bloody trail was indeed taking me there. Was he himself the murderer? Had he gone mad under the strain of the morbid situation and suddenly run amok?
“In the attic corridor the trail became faint, the prints almost ceasing as they merged with the dark carpet. I could still, however, discern the strange single path of the entity who had gone first; and this led straight to the closed door of Marsh’s studio, disappearing beneath it at a point about half way from side to side. Evidently it had crossed the threshold at a time when the door was wide open.
“Sick at heart, I tried the knob and found the door unlocked. Opening it, I paused in the waning north light to see what fresh nightmare might be awaiting me. There was certainly something human on the floor, and I reached for the switch to turn on the chandelier.
“But as the light flashed up my gaze left the floor and its horror — that was Marsh, poor devil — to fix itself frantically and incredulously upon the living thing that cowered and stared in the open doorway leading to Marsh’s bedroom. It was a tousled, wild-eyed thing, crusted with dried blood and carrying in its hand a wicked machete which had been one of the ornaments of the studio wall. Yet even in that awful moment I recognised it as one whom I had thought more than a thousand miles away. It was my own boy Denis — or the maddened wreck which had once been Denis.
“The sight of me seemed to bring back a trifle of sanity — or at least of memory — in the poor boy. He straightened up and began to toss his head about as if trying to shake free from some enveloping influence. I could not speak a word, but moved my lips in an effort to get back my voice. My eyes wandered for a moment to the figure on the floor in front of the heavily draped easel — the figure toward which the strange blood-trail led, and which seemed to be tangled in the coils of some dark, ropy object. The shifting of my glance apparently produced some impression in the twisted brain of the boy, for suddenly he began to mutter in a hoarse whisper whose purport I was soon able to catch.
“‘I had to exterminate her — she was the devil — the summit and high-priestess of all evil — the spawn of the pit — Marsh knew, and tried to warn me. Good old Frank — I didn’t kill him, though I was ready to before I realised. But I went down there and killed her — then that cursed hair—’
“I listened in horror as Denis choked, paused, and began again.
“‘You didn’t know — her letters got queer and I knew she was in love with Marsh. Then she nearly stopped writing. He never mentioned her — I felt something was wrong, and thought I ought to come back and find out. Couldn’t tell you — your manner would have given it away. Wanted to surprise them. Got here about noon today — came in a cab and sent the house-servants all off — let the field hands alone, for their cabins are all out of earshot. Told McCabe to get me some things in Cape Girardeau and not bother to come back till tomorrow. Had all the niggers take the old car and let Mary drive them to Bend Village for a vacation — told ’em we were all going on some sort of outing and wouldn’t need help. Said they’d better stay all night with Uncle Scip’s cousin, who keeps that nigger boarding-house.’
“Denis was getting very incoherent now, and I strained my ears to grasp every word. Again I thought I heard that wild, far-off wail, but the story had first place for the present.
“‘Saw you sleeping in the parlour, and took a chance you wouldn’t wake up. Then went upstairs on the quiet to hunt up Marsh and . . . that woman!’
“The boy shuddered as he avoided pronouncing Marceline’s name. At the same time I saw his eyes dilate in unison with a bursting of the distant crying, whose vague familiarity had now become very great.
“‘She was not in her room, so I went up to the studio. Door was shut, and I could hear voices inside. Didn’t knock — just burst in and found her posing for the picture. Nude, but with that hellish hair all draped around her. And making all sorts of sheep’s eyes at Marsh. He had the easel turned half away from the door, so I couldn’t see the picture. Both of them were pretty well jolted when I shewed up, and Marsh dropped his brush. I was in a rage and told him he’d have to shew me the portrait, but he got calmer every minute. Told me it wasn’t quite done, but would be in a day or two — said I could see it then — she — hadn’t seen it.