much so that he violated his own ironclad rule and broached the subject of tonight’s story before the meal was quite fi nished. “But I thought the red Beaune was better suited to a tale of blood.”
We were all , I think, as stunned by his breach of his own custom as by the hint of the subject.
“Blood and the American president?” I blurted, remembering the note he’d scrawled on my own card.
“Yes, ” said Carnacki, “exactly so. May I pass you a bit of the trifle?”
And the conversation, on this hint, turned to other topics.
After dinner, as Carnacki was snuggling himself down in his great chair and lighting his pipe, he took up the red thread.
“As Dodgson was remarking just now, I have indeed decided to tell you rather an old tale. It must be told eve ntually, if only as a warning. Fate alone knows how many more of those horrid creatures may yet be buried in the soil of our little world—or, perhaps, yet to come from some far star.
“In fact, I think I may truly say that this was one of the most outlandish cases (in the most literal sense) that ever came my way.
“As to my own opinion about the horrors about which I’m going to tell you, I’m not sure whether the greater horrors came from the unimaginable vastness of interstellar space or the equally unfathomable (and perhaps even darker) depths of the human psyche.
“This case was, in fact, one of my earliest, and act ually predates my formal career as such. I only tell it now, at last, because my friend Mr. Roosevelt left office as the American president just this morning, and I feel that no harm can come from sharing it to the few of you now.
“It was in the last week of November 1886 that I was startled to encounter several Red Indians from the United States, attired in war bonnets and buckskins, waiting for me on my doorstep at Cheyne Walk.
“‘ Forgive this intrusion, Mr. Carnacki,’ said the most regal of them, in most excellent English, ‘but I recognise you at once by the description of our mutual friend Mr. Roosevelt, and he has sent us to request that you wait upon him and his bride-to-be at their hotel.’
“‘ Teddy getting married?’ I cried. ‘What? Here in London?’
“‘ Indeed,’ replied the Indian, who, it developed, was a Lakota medicine chief by the name of Fire Dog. ‘At a little church called St. Giles—’
“Now, I may tell you at once,” said Carnacki, “that I let the chieftain go no further. There are a few churches in London of that name, and were a few more twenty-five years ago, but my instinct told me at once that he referred to the one I feared, and I invited him and his fellows into No. 427 at once, that I might question him further and consult my files.
“I may tell you that Mr. Theodore Roosevelt in 1886 was already a person of some renown, lately candidate for mayor of the great American city of New York, and before that a g entleman rancher (and sometime deputy sheriff) in the far west of his country, where he had struck up friendships with the Red Indians sufficiently warm to invite them to his London wedding.
“Teddy and I had kept up a lengthy and most enjo yable correspondence ever since a book he had published in 1882 had aroused my interest, and we had found that we shared many interests—especially concerning the more occult practices of the Red Men.
“I was somewhat surprised to learn that he was to be married here in London, and asked Fire Dog if Teddy’s fiancée, Miss Carrow, was an Englishwoman.
“‘Indeed not!’ laughed the medicine c hief. ‘She’s as American as am I. But her mother and sister moved over to the Continent over yonder because they reckoned they could live there more cheaply than in our country.’
“At this the Indian shook his head sadly, no doubt thinking of the tents and starry skies under whi ch his own people richly dwelt.
“‘ Miss Edith was helping them with the move before she and Mr. Teddy had completely come to terms, you
We were all , I think, as stunned by his breach of his own custom as by the hint of the subject.
“Blood and the American president?” I blurted, remembering the note he’d scrawled on my own card.
“Yes, ” said Carnacki, “exactly so. May I pass you a bit of the trifle?”
And the conversation, on this hint, turned to other topics.
After dinner, as Carnacki was snuggling himself down in his great chair and lighting his pipe, he took up the red thread.
“As Dodgson was remarking just now, I have indeed decided to tell you rather an old tale. It must be told eve ntually, if only as a warning. Fate alone knows how many more of those horrid creatures may yet be buried in the soil of our little world—or, perhaps, yet to come from some far star.
“In fact, I think I may truly say that this was one of the most outlandish cases (in the most literal sense) that ever came my way.
“As to my own opinion about the horrors about which I’m going to tell you, I’m not sure whether the greater horrors came from the unimaginable vastness of interstellar space or the equally unfathomable (and perhaps even darker) depths of the human psyche.
“This case was, in fact, one of my earliest, and act ually predates my formal career as such. I only tell it now, at last, because my friend Mr. Roosevelt left office as the American president just this morning, and I feel that no harm can come from sharing it to the few of you now.
“It was in the last week of November 1886 that I was startled to encounter several Red Indians from the United States, attired in war bonnets and buckskins, waiting for me on my doorstep at Cheyne Walk.
“‘ Forgive this intrusion, Mr. Carnacki,’ said the most regal of them, in most excellent English, ‘but I recognise you at once by the description of our mutual friend Mr. Roosevelt, and he has sent us to request that you wait upon him and his bride-to-be at their hotel.’
“‘ Teddy getting married?’ I cried. ‘What? Here in London?’
“‘ Indeed,’ replied the Indian, who, it developed, was a Lakota medicine chief by the name of Fire Dog. ‘At a little church called St. Giles—’
“Now, I may tell you at once,” said Carnacki, “that I let the chieftain go no further. There are a few churches in London of that name, and were a few more twenty-five years ago, but my instinct told me at once that he referred to the one I feared, and I invited him and his fellows into No. 427 at once, that I might question him further and consult my files.
“I may tell you that Mr. Theodore Roosevelt in 1886 was already a person of some renown, lately candidate for mayor of the great American city of New York, and before that a g entleman rancher (and sometime deputy sheriff) in the far west of his country, where he had struck up friendships with the Red Indians sufficiently warm to invite them to his London wedding.
“Teddy and I had kept up a lengthy and most enjo yable correspondence ever since a book he had published in 1882 had aroused my interest, and we had found that we shared many interests—especially concerning the more occult practices of the Red Men.
“I was somewhat surprised to learn that he was to be married here in London, and asked Fire Dog if Teddy’s fiancée, Miss Carrow, was an Englishwoman.
“‘Indeed not!’ laughed the medicine c hief. ‘She’s as American as am I. But her mother and sister moved over to the Continent over yonder because they reckoned they could live there more cheaply than in our country.’
“At this the Indian shook his head sadly, no doubt thinking of the tents and starry skies under whi ch his own people richly dwelt.
“‘ Miss Edith was helping them with the move before she and Mr. Teddy had completely come to terms, you
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