Real world data are generated when patients receive novel approved drugs in the clinical practice outside clinical trials. And there's often the question, can we bring that in reality, what was shown in the clinical trials leading to approval? And therefore, real world data are very important. And they are also important to generate more information about toxicity and life quality. We know that many patients receiving novel approved drugs would not fulfill the inclusion criteria of the trial leading to approval. We know that about 40% of patients would not fulfill these inclusion criteria. This is mainly due to reduced organ function, reduced blood cell counts, pre-treatments and other concerns which would prevent the patient from participating in a clinical trial. However, in the real world we know that also patients not per se meeting the strict inclusion criteria are absolutely of need to have access to this innovative drug. So real world data show what really happens when a drug is on the market and this is realized what was promised. For this, we do more and more effort to generate those data also to be critical in regard of our own data. Can we transport this? And I give you an example we just recently showed data of the so-called locomotion trial. This was a prospective trial where patients were included as they would get an innovative therapy like cortisol or biospecifics, but received the drugs the individual treating physician prescribed and data were documented. And this study was done for so-called triple refractory patients, so patients not anymore responding to proteasome inhibitors, immunomodulating agents and the monoclonal anti-CD38 antibody. And what we saw is that those patients received more than 90 different regiments showing that there is no established standard for example showing that there is an unmet need for novel drugs. We also generated for example real world data on salinex or novel oral drug which was approved recently in the U.S. also in Europe. And in the Pivotal trial there were significant side effects regarding gastrointestinal toxicity or nausea and there were supportive care measures established. However, the concern was that probably if the drug is out patients will not pretty well deal with that. However, real world data in the U.S. and also in Belgium showed that the patients taking this drug outside the clinical trials could deal in the same manner with the drug. And the results were exactly mirror. So, and there was a striking abstract at ASCO where the U.S. colleagues from the Mothe Cancer Center reported about the first close to 200 patients receiving the CAR T cells in the clinical practice after approval. And it was really astonishing all of us that the data of the so-called CARMA trial which established the CAR T cell treatment were exactly mimicked. So, a medium progression free survival in CARMA was reported with 8.8 months. And in this real world evidence database it was 8.9 months. However, it is good if we confirm that that we can transport our results into clinical reality. But we cannot be sure that this is always true. So, we need to generate continuously real world data and even expand this looking more into a life quality patient reported outcome. That we really can confirm after approval that the drug is in any sense, in sense of response, in sense of survival and in sense of life quality beneficial for our patients. This is a very important question and also advice. In a clinical trial you have always to balance out with the inclusion criteria who you can include because you need a homogenous, a comparable population. And at this time you have not this broad experience with the drug you have a bit later. So, you have also to assure patients safety, patients who are included in clinical trials. They need to be protected, they need to be safe. And on the other hand you want to generate broad data and you want to generate rapidly your data to get a novel investigation to approval. And so it's always a balance between being very broad and being very strict. And at the end those inclusion exclusion criteria are a mix of those proposed in the protocol, but also those which might be entered or assigned by the competent authorities or the other authorities being involved. And one always tries to make this as good as possible for a trial, but there's always a border and we absolutely should continuously review this. For example, yesterday evening I was involved in a clinical trial planning and all experts urged the company which will conduct the trial to lower the inclusion criteria in regards of the renal function so that patients with significant renal function impairment can be included in such a trial. And this is what we sometimes do and it's therefore very necessary that all parties talk together and give an advice on those criteria and also that patients and patient organizations and patient advocates are involved in clinical trial planning.


THE SIGNALMAN by Charles Dickens This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE SIGNALMAN by Charles Dickens Read by Megan Argo. Hello! Below there! When he heard a voice thus calling to him, he was standing at the door of his box with a flag in his hand, filled around its short pole. One would have thought, considering the nature of the ground, that he could not have doubted from what quarter the voice came. But instead of looking up to where I stood on the top of the steep cutting nearly over his head, he turned to himself about, and looked down the line. There was something remarkable in his manner of doing so, though I could not have said for my life what. But I know it was remarkable enough to attract my notice, even though his figure was foreshortened and shadowed, down in the deep trench, and mine was high above him. So steeped in the glow of an angry sunset that I had shaded my eyes with my hand before I saw him at all. Hello! Below! From looking down the line he turned himself about again, and, raising his eyes, saw my figure high above him. Is there any path by which I can come down and speak to you? He looked up at me without replying, and I looked down at him without pressing him too soon with the reputation of my idle question. Just then there came a vague vibration in the earth and air, quickly changing it to a violent pulsation, and an oncoming brush that caused me to start back, as though it had forced to draw me down. When such vapours rose to my height from this rapid train had passed me, and were skimming away over the landscape, I looked down again, and saw him refilling the flag he had shown while the train went by. I repeated my inquiry. After a pause, during which he seemed to regard me with fixed attention, he motioned with his rolled-up flag toward a point on my level, some two or three hundred yards distant. I called down to him, all right! and made for that point. There, by dint of looking closely about me, I found a rough zigzag descending path notched out which I followed. The cutting was extremely deep and unusually precipitate. It was made through a clammy stone that became oozier and wetter as I went down. For these reasons I found the way long enough to give me time to recall a singular air of reluctance or compulsion with which he had pointed out the path. When I came down low enough upon the zigzag descent to see him again, I saw that he was standing between the rails on the way by which the train had lately passed, in an attitude as if he were waiting for me to appear. He had his left hand at his chin, and that left elbow rested in his right hand, crossed over his breast. His attitude was one of such expectation and watchfulness that I stopped a moment wondering at it. I resumed my downward way, and stepping out upon the level of the railroad and drawing nearer to him saw that he was a dark salo man with a dark beard and rather heavy eyebrows. His post was in a solitary and dismal place as ever I saw, on either side a dripping wet wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of sky. The perspective one way only a crooked prolongation of this great dungeon, the shorter perspective in the other direction, terminating in a gloomy red light and the gloomy entrance to a black tunnel, in whose massive architecture there was a barbarous, depressing and forbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its way to this spot that it had an earthy, deadly smell, and so much cold wind rushed through it that it struck chill to me as if I had left the natural world. Before he stirred I was near enough to him to have touched him. Not even then removing his eyes from mine he stepped back one step and lifted his hand. This was a lonesome post to occupy, I said, and it had riveted my attention when I looked down from up yonder. A visitor was a rarity, I should suppose. Not an unwelcome rarity, I hoped. In me he merely saw a man who had been shut up with the narrow limits all his life, and who, being at last set free, had a newly awakened interest in these great works. To such purpose I spoke to him, but I am far from sure of the terms I used. For, besides that I am not happy in opening any conversation, there was something in the man that daunted me. He directed a most curious look toward the red light near the tunnel's mouth, and looked all about it as if something were missing from it, and then looked at me. That light was part of his charge, was it not? He answered in a low voice. Don't you know it is? The monstrous thought came into my mind, as I perused the fixed eyes and the satanine face, that this was a spirit, not a man. I have speculated since whether there may have been an infection in his mind. In my turn I stepped back, but in making the action I detected in his eyes some latent fear of me. This put the monstrous thought to flight.  I was doubtful, he returned, whether I had seen you before. Where? He pointed at the red light he had looked at. There, I said. Intently watchful of me, he replied, but without sound. Yes. My good fellow, what should I do there? However, be that as it may, I never was there, you may swear. I think I may, he rejoined. Yes, I am sure I may. His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to my remarks with readiness and in well-chosen words. Had he much to do there? Yes. That was to say he had enough responsibility to bear, but exactness and watchfulness were what was required of him, and of actual work, manual labour, he had next to none. To change that signal, to trim those lights, and to turn this iron handle now and then, was all he had to do under that head. Regarding those many long and lonely hours of which I seemed to make so much, he could only say that the routine of his life had shaped itself into that form, and he had grown used to it. He had taught himself a language down here, if only to know it by sight until he had formed his own crude ideas of its pronunciation could be called learning it. He had also worked at fractions and decimals, and tried a little algebra, but he was, as he had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures. Was it necessary for him, when on duty, all ways to remain in that channel of damp air, and could he never rise into the sunshine from between these high stone walls? Why, that depended on time and circumstances, and to some conditions there would be less upon the line than under others, and the same held good as to certain hours of the day and night. In bright weather he did choose occasions for getting a little above these lower shadows, but being at all times liable to be called by his electric bell, and at such times listening for it with a redoubled anxiety, the relief was less than I would suppose. He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk for an official book in which he had to make certain entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face, and needles, and the little bell of which he had spoken. On my trusting he would excuse the remark that he had been well educated, and, I hoped I might say without offence, perhaps educated above that station, he observed that instances of slight incongruity in such wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men, that he had heard it was so in workhouses, in the police force, even in that last desperate resource the army, and that he knew it was so, more or less, in any great railway staff. He had been, when young, if I could believe it, sitting in that hut, he scarcely could, a student of natural philosophy, and had attended lectures, but he had run wild, misused his opportunities, gone down and never risen again. He had no complaint to offer about that. He had made his bed, and he lay upon it. It was far too late to make another. All that I of here condensed he said in a quiet manner, with his grave dark regards divided between me and the fire. He threw in the words, sir, from time to time, and especially when he referred to his youth, as though to request me to understand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him. He was several times interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages and send replies. Thus he had to stand without the door, and display a flag as a train passed, and make some verbal communication to the driver. In the discharge of his duties I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off his discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what he had to do was done. In a word I should have set this man down as one of the safest of men to be employed in that capacity, but for the circumstance that while he was speaking to me he twice broke off with a fallen colour, turned his face toward the little bell when it did not ring, opened the door of the hut, which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp, and looked out toward the red light near the mouth of the tunnel. On both of those occasions he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon him which I had remarked, without being able to define, when we were so far asunder. He said, I, when I rose to leave him, you almost make me think that I have met with a contented man. I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on. I believe I used to be so, he rejoined, in the low voice in which he had first spoken. But I am troubled, sir. I am troubled. He would have recalled the words if he could. He had said them, however, and I took them up quickly. With what? What is your trouble? It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very difficult to speak of. If ever you make another visit I will try to tell you. But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say, when shall it be? I go off early in the morning, and I shall be on again at ten to-morrow night, sir. I will come at eleven. He thanked me, and went out at the door with me. I'll show my white light, sir. He said, in his peculiar low voice, till you have found the way up. When you have found it, don't call out. And when you are at the top, don't call out. His manner seemed to make the place strike colder to me, but I said no more than, very well. And when you come down to-morrow night, don't call out. Let me ask you a parting question. What made you cry, hello, below there, to-night? Heaven knows, said I. I cried something to that effect. Not to that effect, sir. Those were the very words. I know them well. Admit those were the very words. I said them no doubt, as I saw you below. For no other reason. What other reason could I possibly have? You had no feeling that they would convey to you in any supernatural way? No. He wished me good night, and held up his light. I walked by the side of the down-line of rails, with a very disagreeable sensation of a train coming behind me, until I found the path. It was easier to mount than to descend, and I got back to my inn without any adventure. Punctual to my appointment, I placed my foot on the first notch of the zigzag next night, as the distant clocks were striking eleven. He was waiting for me at the bottom with his white light on. I have not called out, I said, when we came close together. May I speak now? By all means, sir. Good night, then, and here's my hand. Good night, sir, and here's mine. With that, we walked side by side to his box, entered it, closed the door, and sat down by the fire. I have made up my mind, sir. He began, bending forward as soon as we were seated, and speaking in a tone a little above a whisper, that you shall not have to ask me twice what troubles me. I took you for someone else yesterday evening. That troubles me. That mistake? No, but someone else. Who is it? I don't know. Like me? I don't know. I never saw the face. The left arm is across the face, and the right arm is waved, violently waved, this way. I followed his action with my eyes, and it was the action of an arm just articulating with the utmost passion environments, for God's sake, clear the way. One moonlit night, said the man, I was sitting here when I heard a voice cry, Hello! Below there! I started up, looked from the door, and saw this someone else standing by the red light near the tunnel, waving, as I just now showed you. The voice seemed hoarse with shouting, and it cried, Look out! Look out! And then, a tain, Hello! Below there! Look out! I caught up my lamp, turned it on red, and ran towards the figure calling, What's wrong? What has happened? Where? It stood just outside the blackness of the tunnel. I advanced so close upon it that I wandered at its keeping the sleeve across its eyes. I ran right up at it, and had my hand stretching out to pull the sleeve away, when it was gone. Into the tunnel? said I. No. I ran on into the tunnel, five hundred yards. I stopped, and held my lamp above my head, and saw the figures of the measured distance, and saw the wet stains stealing down the walls and trickling through the arch. I ran out again, faster than I had run in, for I had a mortal abhorrence of the place upon me, and I looked all around the red light with my own red light, and I went up the iron ladder to the gallery atop of it, and I came down again, and ran back here. I telegraphed both ways. An alarm has been given. Is anything wrong? The answer came back both ways, all well. Having the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing out my spine, I showed him how that this figure must be a deception of his sense of sight, and how that figures, originating in disease of the delicate nerves that minister to the functions of the eye, were known to have often troubled patients, some of whom had become conscious of the nature of their affliction, and had even proved it by experiments upon themselves. As to an imaginary cry, said I, do but listen for a moment to the wind in this unnatural valley while we speak so low, and to the wild harp it makes of the telegraph wires. This was all very well, he returned, after he had sat listening for a while, and he ought to know something of the wind and the wires, he who so often passed long winter nights here alone and watching, but he would beg to remark that he had not finished. I asked his pardon, and he slowly added these words, touching my arm. Within six hours after the appearance, the memorable accident on this line happened, and within ten hours the dead and wounded were brought along through the tunnel over the spot where the figure had stood. A disagreeable shudder crept over me, but I did my best against it. It was not to be denied, I rejoined, that this was a remarkable coincidence, calculated deeply to impress his mind. But it was unquestionable that remarkable coincidences did continually occur, and they must be taken into account in dealing with such a subject. Though to be sure, I must admit, I added, for I thought I saw that he was going to bring the objection to bear upon me. Men of common sense did not allow much for coincidences in making the ordinary calculations of life. He again begged to remark that he had not finished. I again begged his pardon for being betrayed into interruptions. This, he said, again laying his hand upon my arm, and glancing over his shoulder with hollow eyes, was just a year ago. Six or seven months passed, and I had recovered from the surprise and shock when, one morning, as the day was breaking, I, standing at the door, looking toward the red light, and saw the spectre again. He stopped with a fixed look at me. Did it cry out? No, it was silent. Did it wave its arm? No. It leaned against the shaft of the light, with both hands before the face, like this. Once more I followed his action with my eyes. It was an action of mourning. I have seen such an attitude in stone figures on tombs. Did you go up to it? I came in and sat down, partly to collect my thoughts, partly because it had turned me faint. When I went to the door again, daylight was above me, and the ghost was gone. But nothing followed, nothing came of this. He touched me on the arm with his forefinger, twice or thrice, giving a ghastly nod each time. That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, I noticed, at a carriage window on my side, what looked like a confusion of hands and heads, and something waved. I saw it just in time to signal the driver, stop. He shut off and put his brake on, but the train drifted past here a hundred and fifty yards on more. I ran after it, and as I went along, heard terrible screams and cries. A beautiful young lady had died instantaneously in one of the compartments, and was brought in here and laid down on this floor between us. Involuntarily I pushed my chair back, as I looked from the boards at which he had pointed to himself. True, sir, true, precisely as it happened, so I tell it to you. I could think of nothing to say, to any purpose, and my mouth was very dry. The wind and the wires took up the story with a long, lamenting wail. He resumed, now, sir, mark this, and judge how my mind is troubled. The spectre came back a week ago, ever since it has been there, now and again, by fits and starts. At the light? At the danger light. What does it seem to do? He repeated, if possible, with increased passion environments, that former gesticulation of, for God's sake, clear the way. Then he went on. I have no peace or rest for it. It calls to me for many minutes together in an agonised manner. Below there! Look out! Look out! It stands, waving to me. It rings my little bell. I caught it that. Did it ring your bell yesterday evening, when I was here, and you went to the door? Twice. Why, see! said I, how your imagination misleads you. My eyes were on the bell, and my ears were open to the bell, and if I am a living man it did not ring at those times. No, nor at any other time, except when it was wrong in the natural course of physical things by the station communicating with you. He shook his head. I have never made a mistake as to that, yet, sir. I have never confused the spectre's ring with the man's. The ghost's ring is a strange vibration in the bell, that it derives from nothing else, and I have not asserted that the bell stirs to the eye. I don't wonder that you failed to hear it, but I heard it. And did the spectre seem to be there when you looked out? It was there. Both times? He repeated firmly. Both times. Will you come to the door with me and look for it now? He bit under his lip as though he was somewhat unwilling, but arose. I opened the door and stood on the step, while he stood in the doorway. There was the danger light. There was the dismal mouth of the tunnel. There were the high, wet stone walls of the cutting. There were the stars above them. Do you see it? I asked him, taking particular note of his face. His eyes were prominent and strained, but not very much more so, perhaps, than my own had been when I had directed them earnestly toward the same spot. No. He answered, it is not there. Agreed, said I.  I was thinking how best to improve this advantage, if it might be called one, when he took up the conversation in such a matter-of-course way, so assuming that there could be no serious question of fact between us, that I felt myself placed in the weakest of positions. By this time you will fully understand, sir," he said, that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question, what does the spectre mean? I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand. What is its warning against? he said, ruminating, with his eyes on the fire, and only by times turning them on me. What is the danger? Where is the danger? There is danger overhanging somewhere on the line. Some dreadful calamity will happen. It is not to be doubted this third time, after what has gone before. But surely this is a cruel haunting of me. What can I do? He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the drops from his heated forehead. If I telegraph danger on either side of me, or on both, I can give no reason for it. He went on, wiping the palms of his hands. I should get into trouble, and do no good. They would think I was mad. This is the way it would work. Message. Danger. Take care. Answer. What danger? Where? Message. Don't know, but for God's sake, take care. They would displace me. What else could they do? His pain of mind was most pitiable to see. It was the mental torture of a conscientious man oppressed beyond endurance by an unintelligible responsibility involving life. When it first stood under the danger light, he went on, putting his dark hair back from his head, and drawing his hands outward across, and across his temples in an extremity of feverish distress. Why not tell me where that accident was to happen? If it must happen, why not tell me how it could be averted? If it could have been averted. When on its second coming it hid its face, why not tell me instead? She is going to die. Let them keep her at home. If it came on those two occasions, only to show me that its warnings were true, and so to prepare me for a third, why not warn me plainly now? And I, Lord, help me a mere poor signalman on this solitary station. Why not go to somebody with credit to be believed and power to act? When I saw him in this state, I saw that for the poor man's sake, as well as for the public safety, what I had to do for the time was to compose his mind. Therefore, setting aside all question of reality or unreality between us, I had represented to him that whoever thoroughly discharged his duty must do well, and that at least it was his comfort that he understood his duty, though he did not understand his confounding appearances. In this effort I succeeded far better than in the attempt to reason him out of his conviction. He became calm. The occupation's incidentality as posed, as the night advanced, became to make larger demands on his attention, and I left him at two in the morning. I had offered to stay through the night, but he would not hear of it. That I more than once looked back at the red light as I ascended the pathway, that I did not like the red light, and that I should have slept but poorly if my bed had been under it. I seen a reason to conceal. Nor did I like the two sequences of the accident and the dead girl. I seen a reason to conceal that, either. But what ran most in my thoughts was the consideration how ought I to act, having become the recipient of this disclosure. I had proved the man to be intelligent, vigilant, painstaking, and exact, but how long might he remain so in his state of mind? Though in a subordinate position still he held a most important trust, and would I, for instance, like to stake my own life on the chances of his continuing to execute it with precision? Unable to overcome a feeling that there would be something treacherous in my communicating what he had told me to his superiors and the company without first being plain with himself and proposing a middle course to him, I ultimately resolved to offer to accompany him, otherwise keeping his secret for the present, to the wisest medical practitioner we could hear of in these parts, and to take his opinion. A change in his time of duty would come around next night, he appraised me, and he would be off an hour or two after sunrise, and on again soon after sunset. I had appointed to return accordingly. Next evening was a lovely evening, and I walked out early to enjoy it. The sun was not yet quite down when I traversed the field path near the top of the deep cutting. I would extend my walk for an hour, I said to myself, half an hour on, and half an hour back, and it would then be time to go to my signamon's box. Before pursuing my stroll I stepped to the brink, and mechanically looked down from the point from which I had first seen him. I cannot describe the thrill that seized upon me, when, close at the mouth of the tunnel, I saw the appearance of a man, with his left sleeve across his eyes, passionately waving his right arm. The nameless horror that oppressed me passed in a moment, for in a moment I saw that this appearance of a man was a man indeed, and that there was a little group of other men standing at a short distance, to whom he seemed to be rehearsing the gesture he made. The danger light was not yet lighted. Against its shaft a little low hut, entirely new to me, had been made of some wooden supports in Tarpaulin. It looked no bigger than a bed. With an irresistible sense that something was wrong, with a flashing self-reproachful fear that fatal mischief had come of my leaving the man there, and causing no one to be sent to overlook or correct what he did, I descended the notched path with all the speed I could make. What is the matter? I asked the men. Signamon killed this morning, sir. Not the man belonging to that box. Yes, sir. Not the man I know.  For his face is quite composed. Oh, how did this happen? How did this happen? I asked, turning from one to another as the hut closed in again. He was cut down by an engine, sir. No man in England knew his work better, but somehow he was not clear of the outer rail. It was just a broad day. He had struck the light, and had the lamp in his hand. As the engine came out of the tunnel, his back was to water, and she cut him down. That man drove her, and was showing how it happened. Show the gentleman, Tom. The man, who wore a rough, dark dress, stepped back to his former place at the mouth of the tunnel. Coming round the curve in the tunnel, sir, he said, I saw him at the end, like as if I saw him down a perspective glass. There was no time to check speed, and I knew him to be very careful. As he didn't seem to take heed of the whistle, I shut it off when we were running down upon him, and called to him as loud as I could call. What did you say? I said, below there! Look out! Look out! For God's sake, clear the way! I started. Ah, it was a dreadful time, sir. I never left off calling to him. I put this arm before my eyes, not to see, and I waved this arm to the last, but it was no use. Without prolonging the narrative to dwell on any one of its curious circumstances more than on any other, I may, in closing it, point out the coincidence that the warning of the engine driver included, not only the words which the unfortunate signalman had repeated to me as haunting him, but also the words which I myself, not he, had attached, and that, only in my own mind, did the gesticulation he had imitated. End of The Signalman by Charles Dickens, read by Megan Orgo. A Tale, Tale, Heart. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Brian Johnson. A Tale, Tale, Heart by Edgar Allen Poe. True. Nervous. Very, very dreadfully nervous. I had been and am. But will you say that I am mad? The disease has sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not doled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Harken and observe how healthfully, how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how the idea first entered my brain, but once conceived it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult for his gold. I had no desire. I think it was his eye. Yes, it was this. He had the eye of a vulture, a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold. And so by degrees very gradually I made up my mind to take the life of the old man and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point.  Mad men know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded with what caution, with what foresight, with what dissimilation I went to work. I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh so gently. And then when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed. Closed that no light shone out. And then I thrust my head in. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in. I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Would a mad man have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously. Oh so cautiously, cautiously for the hinges creaked. I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. In this I did for seven long nights. Every night, just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed. And so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his evil eye. And every morning when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see, he would have been a very profound old man indeed to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night, I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch minute's hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph to think that there I was opening the door little by little in he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you think that I drew back but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, for the shutters were closed fastened through the fear of robbers. And so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in and was about to open the lantern when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening and the old man sprang up in bed crying out, Who's there? I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in bed listening, just as I had done night after night harkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan. I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief. Oh, no, it was the low stifled sound that rises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night just at midnight when all the world's select, it was welled up from my own bosom, deepening with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt and I pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, it is nothing but the wind in the chimney. It is only a mouse crossing the floor, or it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp. Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions, but he had found them all in vain. All in vain, because death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim, and it was the mournful influence of the unpeer shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little, a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it, you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily, until at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of a spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open, wide, wide, open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness, all the dull blue with a hideous veil upon it that chilled the very marrow in my bones. But I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the sense? Now I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of the drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how stently I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme. It grew louder. I say louder every moment. Do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous. So I am. I now at the dead hour of the night amid the dreadful silence of that old house so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder. Louder. I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me. The sound would be heard by the neighbor. The old man's hour had come. With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once. Only once. In an instant I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This however did not vex me. It would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. As I would trouble me no more. If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I described the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned and I worked hastily but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all beneath the scatlings and then replaced the board so cleverly, so cunningly that no human eye, not even his, could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out, no stain of any kind, no blood spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all. When I had made an end to the labor it was four o'clock. Still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart for what had I to fear. There entered three men who introduced themselves with perfect suavity as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by neighbor during the night. Suspicion of foul play had been aroused. Information had been launched at the police office and they, the officers, had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled for what had I to fear. I made the gentleman welcome. The shriek I said was my own in a dream. The old man I mentioned was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search, search well. I led them at length to the chamber. I showed him his treasures secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room and desired them here to rest from their fatigues while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wish them gone. My head ached and I fancied of ringing in my ears. But still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct. It continued and became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definiteness. Until that length I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale. But I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice, yet the sound increased. And what could I do? It was a little dull, quick sound. Much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently. But the noise steadily increased. I rose and argued with trifles and a high key, and with violent gesticulations. But the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro, and with heavy strides as if excited to fury by the observation of the men. But the noise steadily increased. Oh God, what could I do? I phoned, I raved, I swore. I swung the chair upon which I'd been sitting, and I grated it upon the boards. But the noise arose overall and continually increased. It grew louder, louder, louder, and still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Oh my God, no, no, they heard. They suspected, they knew. They were making a mockery of my whore. This I thought and this I think. But anything was better than this agony. Anything was more tolerable than their derision. I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer. I felt that I must scream or die. And now again, hark louder, louder, louder. Villains I shrieked, dissemble no more, admit the deed, tear up the planks. Here, here, it is the beating of his hideous heart. This has been a recording of a Telltale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe recording by Brian Johnson. Thirteen at Table by Lord Dunsany. This is a live-revox recording. All live-revox recording are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit live-revox.org, recording by OM123. Thirteen at Table by Lord Dunsany. In front of a spacious fireplace of the old kind, when the logs were well alight and man with pipes and glasses were gathered before it in grey-teasful chairs, and a wild weather outside and a comfort that was within, and a season of the year, for it was Christmas, and hour of the night, all called for the weird and uncanny. Donald spoke to the ex-master of Foxhounds and told this tale. I once had an odd experience too. It was when I had the Bromley and Sydenham, the year I gave them up. As a matter of fact, it was the last day of the season. It was no use going on because there were no foxes left in the country, and London was sweeping down on us. You could see it from the canals all along the skyline, like a terrible army in grey, and masses of villas every year came skirmishing down our valleys. Our cowards were mostly on the hills, and as the town came clown up on the valleys the foxes used to leave them, and go right away out of the country, and they never returned. I think they went by night, and moved great distances. Well, it was early April, and we had drawn blank all day, and at the last draw ball, the very last of the season we found the fox. He lived a covert, which is back to London and its railways and villas and wire, and slipped away towards the chalk country and the open camp. I felt as I once felt as a child on one summer's day, when I found a door in a garden, where I played left luckily as a hour, and I pushed it open, and the wild lands were before me, and waving fields of corn. We settled down into a steady gallop, and the fields began to drift by under us, and a grey twinge arose full of fresh breath. We left the clay lands where the broken grows, and came to a valley at the edge of the chalk. As we went down into it, we saw the fox go up the other side, like a shadow that crosses the evening. Erie glided into a wood that stood on the top. We saw a flash of prime roses in the wood, and we were out the other side. Hound something perfectly, and the fox still going absolutely straight. It began to dawn on me then that we were in for a great hunt. I took a deep breath when I thought of it. The taste of the year of that perfect spring afternoon, as it came to one galloping, and the thought of a great run, went together like some old rare wine. Our face is nowhere to another valley. Lure's fields led down to it with easy herges. At the bottom of it, a bright blue stream went singing, and the rambling village smoked. The sunlight out of the opposite slopes danced like a fairy, and all along the top old woods were frowning, but the dreamed of spring. The fields had fallen off, and were far behind, and my only human companion was James, my old first whip, who had a hound's instinct and a personal animosity against the fox that even ambitured his speech. Across the valley, the fox went as straight as a railway line, and again we went without the check straight through the woods at the top. I remember hearing man's singing or shout as we walked home from work, and sometimes children whistled. The sounds came from the village to the woods at the top of the valley. After that we saw no more villages, but valley after valley arose and fell before us as though we were voicing some strange and stormy sea, and all the way before us the fox went at that upwind, like the fabulous flying Dutchman. There was no one inside now, but my first whip and me. We had both of us caught on to our second horses as we drew the last cohort. Two or three times we checked in those great lonely valleys beyond the village, but I began to have inspirations. I felt a strange certainty in me that this fox was going on straight upwind till he died or until night came and we could hunt no longer. So I reversed ordinary methods and only cast straight ahead, and always we picked up the scent again at once. I believed that this fox was the last one left in the villa haunted lands, and that he was prepared to leave them for remote uplands far from man. That if we had come the following day he would not have been there, and that we just happened to heat off his journey. Evening began to descend upon the valleys.  We heard a shepherd calling to his dog. We saw two maddens move toward a hidden farm, one of them singing softly. No other sounds, but I was disturbed by the laziness and loneliness of the haunts that seemed not yet to have known the inventions of steam and gunpowder. Another day and our horses were rearing out, but the traditional fox held on. I began to work out the run and to wonder where we were. The last landmark I had ever seen before must have been five miles back, and from there to the start was at least 10 miles more. If only you could kill, then the sun said. I wondered what chance we had of killing our fox. I looked at James' face as he rode beside me. He didn't seem to have lost any confidence, yet his horse was as tired as mine. It was a good clear twilight and the sand was as strong as ever, and the fences were easy enough, but those valleys were terribly drying, and the steel rolled on and on. It looked as if the light would outlast all possible endurance, both of the fox and the horses. If the sand held good and he did not go to ground, otherwise night would end it. For long we had seen no houses and no roads. Only chalk slopes with twilight on them, and here and there some ship and scattered corpses darkening in the evening. At some moment I seemed to realize all at once that the light was spent and that darkness was hovering. I looked at James. He was solemnly shaking his head. Suddenly in a little looted valley we saw climb over the orcs, the red-brown gavels of a queer old house. At that instant I shot a fox, scarcely leading by 50 years. We blundered through wood into the full side of the house, but no avenue led up to it or even a pad, nor whether any signs of wheel marks anywhere. Already lights shone here and there in windows. We were in a park and a fine park, but uncame to be on credibility. Brambles grew everywhere. It is too dull to see the fox anymore, but we knew he was dead with. The hounds were just before us and a four-foot railing awoke. I shouldn't have tried it on a fresh horse at the beginning of a run, and here was a horse near his last gas, but what a run. And even standing out in a lifetime and the hounds close upon their fox, slipping into the darkness as I hesitated. I decided to try it. My horse rose about eight inches and took it fair with his breast, and the oak long flew into handfuls of weight decay. It was rotten with years, and then we were on a lawn, and at the far end of it the hounds were tumbling over their fox. Fox, horses, and light were all done together at the end of a 20 mile point. We made some noise then, but nobody came out of the queer old house. I felt pretty stiff as I walked around to the hall door with the mask and the brush, while James went with the hounds and the two horses to look for the stables. I rang a bell marvelously and crusted with trust, and after a long while the door opened a little way, revealing a hall with much older armor in it, and the shabbiest butler that I have ever known. I asked him, who lived there? Sir Richard Allen. I explained that my horse could know for a night, and that I wished to ask Sir Richard Allen for a bit. Oh, no one ever comes here, sir, said the butler. I pointed out that I had come. I don't think it would be possible, sir, he said. This annoyed me, and I asked to see Sir Richard, and insisted until he came. Then I apologized and explained the situation. He looked only 50, but diversity over on the wall with the date of the early 70s made him older than that. His face had something of the shy look of the helmet. He regretted that he had no room to put me up. I was sure that this was untrue. Also I had to be put up there. There is no one else within miles, so I almost insisted. Then to my astonishment he returned to the butler and they talked it over in an undertone. At last they seemed to think that they could manage it, though clearly with reluctance. It was by now seven o'clock, and Sir Richard told me he died at half past seven. There is no question of clothes for me other than those I stood in, as my host was shorter and broader. He showed me presently to the drawing room, and then he reappeared before half past seven in evening dress and a white waist coat. The drawing room was large and contained old furniture, but it was rather worn than venerable. An embossed carpet flapped above the floor. The wind seemed momentarily to enter the room, and old wrought-scented corners. Still the feet of rats that were never addressed indicated the extent of the ruin that time had wrought in the waistcoat. Somewhere far off a shutter flapped to unfurl. The gathering candles were insufficient to light so large a room. The gloom that these things suggested was quiet in keeping with Sir Richard first remarked to me after he entered the room. I must tell you, Sir, that I have led a wicked life. Oh, a very wicked life! Such confidence is from a man much older than oneself, after one is known him for half an hour or so rare, that any possible answer merely does not suggest itself. I said it slowly, oh really? And chiefly to forestall another such remark I said, what a charming house you have. Yes, he said, I have not left it for nearly 40 years since I left the forest city. One is young, dear, you know, and one has opportunities, but I make no excuses, no excuses. And the door slipping its rustle latch came drifting on the draught into the room, and a long carpet flapped and hanging upon the walls. Then the draught fell rustling away and the door slammed to again. Oh, Marianne, he said, we have a guest tonight. Mr. Linton, this is Marianne Gibb, and everything became clear to me. Mad, I said to myself, for no one had entered the room. The rats ran on the length of the room behind the Wayne Scott Seas Leslie, and the wind unlatched the door again and folds of the carpet fluttered up to our feet and stopped there. For our wait, we held it down. Let me introduce Mr. Linton, said my host. Lady Mary Arinza, the door slammed back again. I bowed politely. Even had I been invited, I should have humbled him, but it was the very least that an uninvited guest could do. This kind of thing happened 11 times, the rustling, the fluttering of the carpet, the footsteps of the rats, the restless door, and then the sad voice of my host introducing me to phantoms. Then for some while we waited while I struggled with the situation. Conversation flowed slowly, and again the drat came trailing up the room, while the flaring candles filled in with harrowing shadows. Ah, let again Sicily, said my host in his soft, modful way, always late Sicily. Then I went down to dinner with that man, and his mind and the twelve phantoms that haunted it. I found a long table with fine old silver on it, and places late for fourteen. The butler was now in evening grace. There were fewer drats in the dining room. The scene was less gloomy there. Will you sit next to Rosalind at other end? Sir Richard said to me, Sicily takes the head of the table. I wronged her most of all. I said, I said with delight. I looked at the butler closely, but never did I see by an expression of his face or by anything that he did, and a suggestion that he waited upon laced and fought on people in the complete position of all their faculties.  At first I found little to say, but when Sir Richard speaking from the far end of the table said, he was tired, Mr. Linton. I was reminded that I owed something to a host upon whom I had forced myself. It was excellent champagne. I earned the help of a second glass. I went effort to begin a conversation with Miss Helen Arold, for whom the place upon one side of me was laid. It came more easy to me very soon. I frequently paused in my monologue, like Mark Anthony for a reply. For sometimes I turned and spoke to Miss Rosalind Smith. Sir Richard had uttered and talked sorrowfully on. His spoke, as a condom man might speak to his judge, and yet somewhat as a judge might speak to one that he once condemned wrongly. My own mind began to turn to more and full things. I drank another glass of champagne, but I was still thirsty. I felt as if all the moisture in my body had been blown away over the dawns of Kent by the wind-up which we had covered. Still I was not talking enough. My host was looking at me. I made another effort. After all, I had something to talk about. A 20-mile point is not often seen in a lifetime, especially south of the Thames. I began to describe the run to Rosalind Smith. I could see then that my host was pleased. The sad look in his face gave it kind of a flicker. Like mist upon the mountains on a miserable day, when a faint puff comes from the sea, and a mist would lift if it could. And the butler refilled my glass very attentively. I asked her first if she hunted, and pause and began my story. I told her where we found the fox and how fast and straight he had gone, and how I had got through the village by keeping to the road well a little guidance and wear, and the river had stopped the rest of the field. I told her the kind of country that we crossed and how splendid it looked in the spring, and how mysterious the valleys were as soon as the twilight came, and what a glorious horse I had, and how wonderfully he went. I was so fearfully thirsty after the great hunt that I had to stop for a moment now and then. But I went on at my description of that famous run. For I had won to the subject, and after all there is nobody to tell of it, but me except my old whipper in, and the old fellow's probably drunk by now, I thought. I described to her minutely the eject spot in the run at which it had come to me clearly that this was going to be the greatest hunt in the whole history of Kant. Sometimes I forgot incidents that had happened, as one well made in a run of 20 miles, and then I had to fill in the gaps by inventing. I was pleased to be able to make the party go off well by means of my conversation, and besides that the lady to whom I was speaking was extremely pretty. I do not mean in a flesh-and-blood kind of way, but there were little shadowy lines about the chair beside me that hinted at an unusually graceful figure when Miss Rosalith Smith was alive. And I began to foresee that what I first mistook for the smoke of guttering candles and a tablecloth waving their draught was in reality an extremely animated company who listened and not without interest to my story of by far the greatest hunt that the world had ever known. Indeed, I told them that I would confidently go further and predict that, neighboring the history of the world, would there be such a run again. Only my throat was terribly dry. And then, as it seemed, they wanted to hear more about my horse.  They looked so charming leaning over the table and turned upon what I said, that I told them everything they wanted to know. Everything was going so pleasantly, if only Sir Richard would cheer up. I heard his mournful voice every now and then. Did a very pleasant people, if only he would take the right way? I could understand that he regretted his past, but the early 17th century is away. And I felt now that he misunderstood these ladies. They were not revengeful, as it seemed to suppose. I wanted to show him how cheerful they really were. And so I made a joke, and they all laughed at it. And then I shoved them a bit, especially Rosalind, and nobody resented it in the very least. And still, Sir Richard said dear, with that unhappy look, like one that has ended whipping because it is vain, and has not the consolation even of tears. We had been along them here, and many of the candles had bound out. But there was a light enough. I was glad to have audience for my exploit, and being happy myself was determined Sir Richard should be. I made more jokes, and they still laughed good naturally. Some of the jokes were a little broad perhaps, but no harm was made. And then I do not wish to excuse myself, but I had had a harder day than I ever had had before. And without knowing it, I must have been complexly exhausted. In this day the champagne had found me. And what would have been harmless at any other time, must somehow have got the better of me when quite tired out. Anyhow, I went too far. I made some joke. I cannot in the least remember what that suddenly seemed to offend them. I felt all at once a commotion in the air. I looked up and saw that they had all risen from the table and were sweeping towards the floor. I had no time to open it, but it blew up and on a wind. I could scarcely see what Sir Richard was doing, because only two candles were left. I think the rest blew out when the lady suddenly rose. I sprang up to apologize to assure them, and then Fatigue overcome me, as it had overcome my horse at the last fence. I clutched at the table, but the clock came away, and then I fell. The fall and the darkness on the floor, and the pant of Fatigue of the day overcome me, all treat together. The sun soon over glittering fields, and in at a bedroom window, and thousands of bars were chanting to the spring. And there I was, in an old four-hosted bed, in a quite old panel bedroom, fully dressed and wearing long muddy boots. Someone had taken my spars, and that was all. For a moment I failed to realize, and then it all came back. My enormity and appraising need of an abject apology to Sir Richard. I pulled an embroidered bell rope until the butter came. He came in perfectly cheerful and indescribably shabby. I asked him if Sir Richard was up, and he said he had just gone down, and told me to my amazement that it is 12 o'clock. I asked to be shown to Sir Richard at once. He was in the smoking room. Good morning, he said cheerfully the moment I went in. I went directly to the matter in hand. I feared that I insulted some ladies in your house. I began. You did indeed, they said. You did indeed. And then he burst into tears, and took me by the hand. How can I ever thank you? He said to me then. We have been taught in a table for 30 years, and I never dared to insult them because I had wronged them all. And now you have done it, and I know they will never die in here again. And for a long time he still held my hand, and then he gave it a grip, and a kind of shake which I took to mean goodbye. And I drew my hand away then, and left the house. And I found James in the disused table, so he de-hounds and asked him how he had failed. And James, who is a man of very few words, said, he could not rightly remember. And I got my sparse from the butler, and climbed down to my horse.  For the hounds were footsore, but happy, and the horses were tired still. And when we recalled that the hunting season was ended, we turned our faces to spring, and thought of the new things that tried to replace the old. And that very year I had, and have often heard since of dances and happy-deeders at Sir Richard Arlene's house. Thirteen at Devil, by Lord Dunsanny. Patricia Fleming threw the reins to a groom, and ran up the steps into the great house. Her thin lips white with rage. Lord Arlene followed her heavily. I'll be down in half an hour, she laughed merrily. Tell Dawson to bring you a drink. Then she went straight through the house, her gullish eyes the incarnation of a curse. For the third time she had felt to bring Jeffrey Arlene to her feet. She looked into her head. There in the lining was the talisman that she had tested, and it had tricked her. What do I need, she thought. Must it be blood? She was a maiden of the pure English stream, brave, gay, honest, shrewd, and there was not one that guessed the inmost fire that burned her, for she was butted out when the visitor came. The first of the visits was in a dream. She woke choking. The air, sweet, clear, and wholesome, as it blew through the open window from the children's, was filled with a musty stench, and she woke her governess with a tail of a tiger. The second visit was again at night. She had been hunting, was alone at the death, had beaten off the hounds. That night she heard a fox bark in her room. She spent a sleepless night of tenor. In the morning she found the red hairs of a fox upon her pillow. The third visit was not in sleep nor waking, but she tied on her lips and would have veiled the hateful gleam in her aisles.  She was so sane that she knew exactly where in her madness lay, and she set all her strength not to conquer, but to conceal it. Two years later, and Patricia Fleming, the orphan Harris of Carthwell Abbey, was the county toast Diana of the Children's. Yet, Jeffrey Iyer evaded her. His dog's fidelity and honesty kept him true to the little North Country girl, the three months earlier had seduced his simplicity. He didn't even love her, but she had made him think so for an hour, and his pledged word held him. Patricia's open favor only made him hate her because of its very seduction. It was really his own weakness that he hated. Patricia ran tense and angry through the house. The servants noticed it. The mistress has been crossed, they thought. She will go to the chapel and get ease, praising her. True to the chapel she went, locked the door, dived behind the altar, struck a secret panel, came suddenly into a priest's hiding-hole, a room large enough to hold a score of men if need be. At the end of the room was a great scarlet cross, and on it, her face to the wood, her wrists and ankles swollen over the whip-laces that bound her, on a naked girl, big-boned voluptuous, red hair streamed over her back. What margarite, so blue, loved Patricia. I am cold, said the girl upon the cross in an indifferent voice. Nonsense, dear, answered Patricia, let Patricia diverse in herself of her riding habit. There is no hint of frost. We had a splendid run and a grand kill. You shall be warm yet, for all that. This time the girl writhed and moaned a little. Patricia took from an old wardrobe a clothes-fitting suit of fox fur, and slipped it on her slim white body. Did I make you wait, dear? she said with a curious leer. I am the king of the sport, be sure. She took the faithless talisman from her head. It was a little square of vellum, written upon in black. She took a hairpin from her head, pierced the talisman, and drove the pin into the girl's thigh. They must have blood, said she. Now, see how I will turn the blow to red. Come, don't win, you haven't had it for a month. Then her ivory arms slid like a serpent from the first, and with the cutting whip she struck young Margaret between the shoulders. A shriek ran out. Its only echo was Patricia's laugh, childlike, icy, devilish. She struck again and again. Great wheels of purple stood on the girl's back. Rough, tinged with blood, came from her mouth, for she had bitten her lips and tongue in agony. Patricia grew warm and rosy, exquisitely beautiful. Her bare breasts heaved, her lips parted, her whole body and soul seemed leapt in ecstasy. I wish you were Jeffrey, girly, she panted. Then the skin burst. Raw flesh oozed blood that dribbled down Margaret's back. Still, the fair mad struck and struck in the silence, until the tiny rivulets met and waxed great and touched the talisman.   She took the talisman and hid it in her bosom. Lest of all, she loosened the cords and Margaret sang in a hip to the floor. Patricia threw furs over her and rolled her up in them, brought wine and poured down her throat. She smiled kindly, like a sister. Sleep now, a wild sweetheart, she whispered and kissed her forehead. It was a very demure and self-possessed little maiden that made dinner lively for the poor Jeffrey, who was thinking over his mistake. Patricia's old aunt, who kept house for her, smiled on the flirtation. It was not by accident that she left them alone, sitting over the great fire. Poor Margaret has her rheumatism again, she explained innocently. I must go and see how she is. Loyal Margaret. So it happened that Jeffrey lost his head. The ivy is strong enough, she had whispered, ere her first kiss had hardly died. Before the moon is up, be sure, and glide it off just as the aunt returned. Ier excused himself. Half a mile from the house, he left his horse to his men to lead home, and ten minutes later was groping for Patricia in the dark. White as a lily in body and soul, she took him in her arms. Awaking as from death, he suddenly cried out, Oh God, what is it?  Yours, she curled. Why? Your hair, he cried, and the scent, the scent. From without came sharp and risen the yelp of a hound as the moon rose. Patricia put her hands to her body, he was telling the truth. The visitor, she screamed once with fright and was silent. He switched the light on, and she screamed again. There was a savage last upon his face. This afternoon he cried, you called me a dog.   I bid in to some strange instinct, she dived from the bed for the window, but he wasn't her. His teeth met in her throat. In the morning they found the dead bodies of both Hound and Fox, but how did they explain the wonderful elopement of Lord Ire and Miss Fleming? For neither of them was ever seen again. I think Margaret understands. In the convent which she rose today, their hands beside a blood-stained cutting whip, the silver model of a fox with the inscription, Patricia Margarita Volpis Vulpem Deaded. End of the Vixen.