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THE JAILER OF SOULS · The Jailer of Souls

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  Chapter thirteen of the Jailure of Souls by Hamilton Craigie. This libyvox recording is
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  in the public domain. Read by yoganand The Jailer of Souls, Chapter thirteen,
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  The Jailer of Souls. Anister's gun went up and out as a black
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  bearded man turning saw him where he stood. Travis Anister Parchment Pale took two
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  forward, lurching steps, as a doctor, backing stiffly against the wall,
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  Hans appraised, called something in a high sing song, savage inarticulate. Then
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  everything seemed to happen at once. A snarling animal outcry echoed from the passage,
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  just without it rose as there came a far, gobbling mutter of voices,
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  and the pad pad of running feet, the hooded familiars, as one
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  man turned, and the long knives flashed luminous under the lights, as Kane
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  and Ellison, meeting them halfway, raised the heavy guns covering the doctor froze
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  suddenly in motion as the gobbling horror mounted, and then, feeling that narrow
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  way, like figures in a dream, they came the outcasts, the lost
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  Battalion, the men who had no right to live in They wan, but
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  running rather as if pursued than as if in answer to the snarling call.
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  There came three men, guards by their dress, their face contorted agonized upon
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  them the impress of a crawling fear. They streamed past the door, pursue
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  us, and pursued as black. Steve Vanister finger upon the trigger of his
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  pistol, saw that lean hands sweep upward. It flicked the thin lips,
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  the dark faced, gray wind, blank, the dark doctor, his caze
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  in queer frozen look upon eternity pitched forward upon his face. In some way,
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  as Anister could understand, the madman had won free. But how turning,
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  he saw a white face at his elbow. As they sounded from without
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  the staccato explosions of a motor and a swift hammering thunder upon the great door.
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  I am knew you, bald, Humeston, said the face. And
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  I am not mad, Or rather I am but mad. Not north west
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  when the wind is southerly, he coated, with a ghastly smile. This
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  devil, he pointed to the body of Elphinston, has gone to his own
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  place, But the evil that he did lives after him in us. His
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  voice rose to a shriek, as there came a rush of feet along the
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  corridor, a compact body of men at their head a tall man out sight
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  of whom Stephen Annister flung up a hand. Well, Childers, he said,
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  I'm glad. Childers spoke pantingly in quick gasps. We just made it
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  all man, he said, A day I heard at that the station agent
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  put us on the track. We got them all lunon and the rest all
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  but Rook. He paused at Anster's inquiring look, turning his thumb down with
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  an expressive gesture, we foundom strangled in his office. A queervousness. Anester
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  gave an exclamation the Indian, he said, well, Rooke, was it
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  hard light? Sure enough? Again he was seeing the lean avid face in
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  the vestibule of the smoker, the lighted match himself and the conductor, and
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  Rooke, the lawyer's pale eyes brooding about the glowing end of his cigarette.
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  And again, as the picture passed, he was aware of the white face
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  at his elbow, as Mary Allerton, her hand in his behind her,
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  the golden hair and the white eyes of Cleo richly turned to child Eers with
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  a smile that yet had in it a hint of tears. He that had
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  been new bald humestone, continued, the others, they're quiet now. The
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  guards have gone to follow him. The others saw to that. He gestured
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  toward the silent figure on the floor. His plan was worthy of his master,
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  the devil, because it was diabolically simple. Rooke was his procurer and
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  his clearing house. You see, Rooke found the victims and cash the checks
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  that Elphinston wrung from them. And then when they cleaned up, or when
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  they deemed the time was ripe, the victims disappeared. Roke secretary. They
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  kidnapped for revenge Miss Ellerton because she knew much. They suspected that she was
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  in the secret service. And so these others disappeared. He laughed, the
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  laugh of a dead man risen from the tomb. They disappeared, yes,
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  but they remained, as you see myself, a living ghost. But how
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  asked the young anister, in the sudden quiet, the realization of what his
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  father and Mariad escaped, burning like a quick fire in his wains, The
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  toneless voice went on, Elphinston was a surgeon, a master. You've heard
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  of dermatology, Well it's been done. In India, I believe practiced there
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  to an extent unknown here, of course, an anesthetic and then an operation.
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  New faces were old forged faces. The thing was diabolically simple, and
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  so when they the victims, saw themselves in a mirror, sometimes they went
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  mad, for who could prove it? Who would be believed? His voice
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  rose, died, gathered strength as a candle flames at the last with a
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  brief spark of life. It's done, she muttered. He's gone, but
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  his work lives after him, even as he called himself the Jailer of Souls.
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  The end of chapter thirteen. The End of The Jailer of Souls by Hamilton Craigie