1 THE RIFT

As he dropped the last grisly fragment of the dismembered and mutilated body into the small vat of nitric acid that was to devour every trace of the horrid evidence which might easily send him to the gallows, the man sank weakly into a chair and throwing his body forward upon his great, teak desk buried his face in his arms, breaking into dry, moaning sobs.

Beads of perspiration followed the seams of his high, wrinkled forehead, replacing the tears which might have lessened the pressure upon his overwrought nerves. His slender frame shook, as with ague, and at times was racked by a convulsive shudder. A sudden step upon the stairway leading to his workshop brought him trembling and wide eyed to his feet, staring fearfully at the locked and bolted door.

Although he knew perfectly well whose the advancing footfalls were, he was all but overcome by the madness of apprehension as they came softly nearer and nearer to the barred door. At last they halted before it, to be followed by a gentle knock.

“Daddy!” came the sweet tones of a girl’s voice.

The man made an effort to take a firm grasp upon himself that no tell-tale evidence of his emotion might be betrayed in his speech.

“Daddy!” called the girl again, a trace of anxiety in her voice this time. “What is the matter with you, and what are you doing? You’ve been shut up in that hateful old room for three days now without a morsel to eat, and in all likelihood without a wink of sleep. You’ll kill yourself with your stuffy old experiments.”

The man’s face softened.

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” he replied in a well controlled voice. “I’ll soon be through now—soon be through—and then we’ll go away for a long vacation—for a long vacation.”