the priest to allow him continual access to that tower, on the pretext of being
an artist. And indeed he had a pretty amateur talent for painting in water-
colours: some people thought it stronger than his verses. For ten days he
watched the Butterfly-net with extreme care, and he wrote down the routine
of the inhabitants hour by hour. Nothing escaped him of their doings in the
garden; and (as it happened) the preponderating portion of their work lay out-
of-doors. He could make nor head nor tail of the fact that the most important
people were apparently doing no magick of any kind, but, careless lovers,
enjoying the firstfruits of their flight to the South.
But Douglas put two and two together very cleverly, even from the first
report; he noted, also, the intelligence and ability of Gates, and made a
memorandum to use him up quickly and destroy him.
Without divining the exact intention of Cyril Grey, he rightly concluded
that this "honeymoon" was not so simple as it seemed; in fact, he recognized
it as the core of the apple. He telegraphed Gates to redouble his watch upon
the lovers, and to report instantly if any marked change occurred in their
habits.
Meanwhile, Edwin Arthwait was busy with the "Black Pullet." There is a
method of describing a pentagram upon a doorstep which is infallible. The
first person who crosses it receives a shock which may drive him insane, or
even kill him. A magician would naturally be suspicious if he found anything
of this kind on his front doorstep, so Arthwait cleverly determined to paint
the pentagram in Gum Arabic, which would hardly be visible. Accordingly
he went [161] to the Butterfly-net at dead of night, armed with this means of
grace, and set to work by the light of a candle-lamp. He was careful to make
the pentagram so large that it was impossible to cross the bridge without
stepping over it. Absorbed in his inspiring task, he did not notice, until the
last stroke was in place, that he was himself hemmed in between his
pentagram and the door of the villa. He crouched in terror for the best part of
an hour; then a hint of daylight made him fearful of discovery. He was forced
to make a move of some sort; and he found that by careful sidling he could
escape to the parapet of the bridge. But he was no climber; he overbalanced
and fell into the chasm, being lucky to escape with a severe shaking. On his
limping way back to Naples he was overtaken by an icy shower of rain; and
as he got into bed, too late to avoid a nasty chill, which kept him in bed for a
week, he had the irritating reflexion that his pentagram must have been
washed away.