“I’m—­I’m afraid,” whined the old man.

Detroit Jim’s fingers dug into the other’s arm, and he pulled the latter along.  Their groping hands touched a wall—­a wall of wood.  Detroit Jim stood up and pulled Anderson beside him.  He felt the old man shiver.  He shoved him gently in to the left and himself moved cautiously to the right, slowly, catlike.

Finally, Jim came to a door.  He could perceive no light through the chinks in the door.  Sensing the increasing uncanniness of a room without windows, without furniture, with flagging for a floor, he turned the knob of the door gently, and it gave under his touch.

Just then there came to him a hoarse whisper from across the room.  It made him jump.  “I’ve—­I’ve found some wires,” the old man was saying, “in a cable running along the floor——­”

“See where they lead!” Detroit Jim was breathless, in anticipation.

And then, shattering the overwhelming tension of the moment, shrilled, suddenly, a horrible, prolonged, piercing shriek ending in a gasp and the sound of a heavy body falling to the floor!  What, in God’s name, had happened to the old man?  And that yell was enough to awaken the entire world!

Detroit Jim groped his way across the room.  He could hear now no further sound from the old man....  Steps outside!  He sank upon his knees, his hands outstretched.  He heard a lock turn; then following upon a click the whole universe went white, and dazzling and scorching!

He raised one arm to his blinking, throbbing eyes.  A rough voice shouted:  “Hands up!”

There was a rush of feet, the rough clutch of hands at his shoulders....  Presently he found himself blinking down upon the fear-contorted face of Old Man Anderson dirt-streaked, bearded, gaunt, dead!

Slowly his eyes crawled beyond the body on the floor....  Before him, its empty arms stretched toward him, its straps and wires twisting snakily in front of him, was The Chair!

“AURORE”

By ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD

From Pictorial Review

“Your name!—­Votre nom?” Crossman added, for in the North Country not many of the habitants are bilingual.

She looked at him and smiled slowly, her teeth white against cardinal-flower lips.

“Ma name?  Aurore,” she answered in a voice as mystically slow as her smile, while the mystery of her eyes changed and deepened.

Crossman watched her, fascinated.  She was like no woman he had ever seen, radiating a personality individual and strange.  “Aurore,” he repeated.  “You’re not the dawn, you know; not a bit like it.”  He did not expect her to own to any knowledge of the legend of her name, but she nodded her head understandingly.

“It was the Cure name’ me so,” she explained.  “But the Cure and me,” she shrugged, “never could—­how you say?—­see—­hear—­one the other—­so, I would not be a blonde just for spite to him—­I am a very black dawn, n’est-ce pas?”