And John—still confused and silent—retired to bed, to lie awake for many hours, partly thrilled and partly elated by the awesome thought that there was a madman in the house.

But all that had happened seven years ago, and now Andrew Henderson lay waiting for his end. In those seven years John had passed through the mill of deadly monotony that saps even youth, and lulls every instinct save hope. The first enthusiasm of romance that had wrapped the discovery of his uncle's secret had faded out with time. By slow degrees he had learned—partly from his own observation, partly from the old man's occasional fanatic outbursts—that the strange chapel with its metal symbol and marble floor was not the outcome of a private whim, but the manifestation of a creed that boasted a small[Pg 24] but ardent band of followers. He had learned that—to themselves, if not to the world—these devotees were known as. . . Read More