Avon Fantasy Reader No. 14 — page 126: what you’re looking at

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

“Then,” said I, “perhaps you will recognize its arrangement and even some of the details of its furnishing,” and I unfolded the picture and handed it to Mr. Bonesteel. It I had anticipated its effect upon the old man, I would have been more diserect, but I confess I was nettled by their attitude. By handing it to Mr. Bonesteel (I could not give it to both of them at once) I did the natural thing, for he was our host. Fhe old man looked at what I had handed him, and (this is the only way I can describe what happened) became, suddenly, as though petrified. His eyes bulged out of his head, his lower jaw dropped and hung open. The paper slipped from his nerveless grasp and fluttered and zigzagycd to the floor, landing at Desparu’s feet. Despard stooped and picked it up, ostensibly to restore it to me, but in doing so, he glanced at it, and had his reaction. He leaped frantically to his feet, and positively goggled at the picture, then at me. Oh, | was having my little revenge for their reticence, right enough! “My God!” shouted Despard. “My God, Mr. Stewart, where did you get such a thing?” Mr. Bonesteel drew in a deep breath, the first, it seemed, for sixty seconds, and added his word. “Oh my God!” muttered the old man, shakily. “Mr. Stewart, Mr. Stewart! what is it, what is it? where—” “It is a Martinique fish-zombie, what is known to professional occult in- vestigators like Elliott O'Donnell and William Hope Hodgson as an ‘elemen- tal,” I explained, calmly. “It is a representation of how poor Mr. Morris actually met his death; until now, as I understood it, a purely conjectural matter. Christiansted is built on the ruins of French Bassin, you will remem- ber,” I added. “It is a very likely spot for an ‘elemental’!” “But, but,” almost shouted Mr, Despard, “Mr. Stewart, where did you get this, its—” “I made it,” said I, quietly, folding up the picture and placing it back in my inside pocket. “But how—?” this from both Despard and Bonesteel, speaking in unison. “I saw it happen, you sce,” I replied, taking my hat, bowing formally to both gentlemen, and murmuring my regret at not being able to remain for breakfast, I departed. And as I reached the bottom of Mr. Bonesteel’s gallery steps and turned along the street in the direction of Old Morris’ house, where I live, I could hear their voices speaking together: “But how, how—?” This was Bonesteel, “Why, why—?” And that was Despard. 324 comicbooks. com