Avon Fantasy Reader No. 13 — page 56: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

During the drive back to Norton Hoorne’s studio, Dr. Johns showed a peculiar reticence in discussing the interview we had just had. The few ques- tions and comments I volunteered he answered so shortly and with such abstraction of manner that I soon gave up and remained silent. Back at the house on Riverside Drive, we went immediately to Hoorne’s studio. We found nothing unusual had occurred during our absence. Norton Hoorne’s body still lay motionless on the cot. After we had dismissed the housekeeper with such assurances of ae master’s recovery as we could give, and were again alone, Dr. Johns locked both doors of the room, and turning to face me, began abruptly: “Will, whatever you or I may think about this case, it is obvious that theo- Revie! discussion of it is futile. I am convinced of but one thing—the secret lies with Norton; we must make him tell us.” “Do we dare?” I asked; I dreaded further musical experiments. “We must—there is no other way. And to do nothing—” Dr. Johns broke off and shuddered. “Shall I play now?” I asked. My companion nodded and seated himself beside the cot. I began to play, softly at first, then louder. For whee seemed ages there was no response. Again I heard the sound of that weird voice, babbling incoher- ently, with low moans, and once interrupted by a piercing shrick. I ceased playing and heard Dr. Johns say: “You must speak more clearly, Norton. Now—try—what is it you want to tell us?” In the silence that followed I played slowly a series of soft modulations. Then I waited, and after a time, from the lips of Norton Hoorne came the words: “In the desk—another drawer—the letter—for you. Use it, for God's sake, use it.” We found it after a long search, in a secret drawer of the desk. It was a large envelope, sealed, and inscribed with both our names. It contained a folded sheet of music manuscript and a letter. The letter, which was in Hoorne’s handwriting, we opened first. It contained only two lines: I fear this thing. I cannot tell to what it will lead. I know I can trust you both, if need arises, to use the enclosed. That was all. The music was written in Hoorne’s careless, hurried way, with which I was quite familiar. It was a composition of perhaps sixty bars. And at the top, for its title, was the one word: “RELEASE” For a moment we stared at this cryptic paper in silence. Then our glances met, and in Dr. Johns’s eyes I read the same doubt of its meaning that he must have seen in mine. 54° 4 conlchooks (eo)