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.
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.
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.
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