just a kid. He’ll be all right when he matures.”
To the husky Moen, The Avenger put another question.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?”
Moen frowned perplexedly.
“For example,” said Benson smoothly, eyes pale and brooding in his white, still face, “do you think old Taros could somehow get back to earth, perhaps in another’s body whose spirit he has temporarily dispossessed?”
“You’re joking,” said Moen.
“No, it’s a serious question.”
Moen paced up and down for a while.
“To anyone else,” he said at last, “I’d say the idea was insane. But to you— Well, I’m fairly well up on Egyptian history and religion, myself. And I know, as you do, that much is made of their beliefs that just such a thing can occur. Yet I’m hardly ready to say I believe in reincarnation.”
The Avenger started back to his temporary headquarters. His eyes, as always, were as unreadable as ice in his death-mask countenance. Whether he had learned a lot, or nothing, from talks about Harold Caine with the three Braintree directors could never be known from his expression.
In the Sixteenth Street home, Josh and Nellie Gray and Rosabel sat listening for the radio call from their tiny belt sets, so cunningly designed by the dull-looking giant, Smitty. The chief was out; and when Benson walked abroad, things were apt to happen.
The thing that happened next, however, came from Fergus MacMurdie instead of The Avenger.
Mac was out prowling the compact grounds of the place. He was hoping that perhaps one, or all three, of the bizarre priest-figures Benson had told about might come back here, and that he could get his hands on them.
Thousands of years dead, or modern and alive, past or present, the three that had attacked the chief that morning were killers. And the bitter-eyed Scot lived only for the grim pleasure of getting his hands on killers.
If only those three skurlies dressed as priests of thousands of years ago would show up again—
A figure suddenly came staggering from the south, along the sidewalk. Mac darted toward it.
However, the figure was not dressed in ancient garb, nor was it murderous. It was the figure of a man in ordinary business clothes, who seemed very ill. So Mac’s intended attack changed to a solicitous grip on the other’s shoulder.
“Whoosh,” said the Scot. “What’s wrong with ye, mon? Are ye drunk, or sick?”
There was no smell of alcohol, so that question answered itself.
“What’s wrong with ye?” Mac repeated, peering into the other’s face.
He was a man of forty-five or so, well-dressed, well-built. His face was blank, and his eyes glazed. Mac stared harder at the blank countenance.
It was a curious face when you studied it. The forehead and rather broad nose made a straight line from widow’s peak to nostrils. The cheekbones were a little higher than usual. It was a foreign-looking face. Mac got it after a minute. It looked Egyptian. Yet not like the faces of modern Egypt.
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” mumbled the man.
“What?” said Mac.
“Doctor, lawyer— The Avenger.”
“Now wait a minute, mon,” rasped Mac. “The first is rigmarole. But the rest— You’re looking for The Avenger?”
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.”
Mac drew him toward the door.
“The Avenger . . . must find The Avenger.”
Mac led the man into the hall. He didn’t seem to have any idea where he was going; he followed the Scotchman blindly.
“What have we here?” asked Nellie, lovely eyes warm with sympathy. “Mac! What a queer face he has. Like—like—”
“Like the face ye might see carved on the frieze of an ancient Egyptian tomb,” nodded Mac. “I’ve noticed, Nellie.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” said Mac. “But he started out wantin’ to see Muster Benson. Must have lost his memory on the way here.”
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” crooned the man with the blank, exotic countenance and the dulled
To the husky Moen, The Avenger put another question.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?”
Moen frowned perplexedly.
“For example,” said Benson smoothly, eyes pale and brooding in his white, still face, “do you think old Taros could somehow get back to earth, perhaps in another’s body whose spirit he has temporarily dispossessed?”
“You’re joking,” said Moen.
“No, it’s a serious question.”
Moen paced up and down for a while.
“To anyone else,” he said at last, “I’d say the idea was insane. But to you— Well, I’m fairly well up on Egyptian history and religion, myself. And I know, as you do, that much is made of their beliefs that just such a thing can occur. Yet I’m hardly ready to say I believe in reincarnation.”
The Avenger started back to his temporary headquarters. His eyes, as always, were as unreadable as ice in his death-mask countenance. Whether he had learned a lot, or nothing, from talks about Harold Caine with the three Braintree directors could never be known from his expression.
In the Sixteenth Street home, Josh and Nellie Gray and Rosabel sat listening for the radio call from their tiny belt sets, so cunningly designed by the dull-looking giant, Smitty. The chief was out; and when Benson walked abroad, things were apt to happen.
The thing that happened next, however, came from Fergus MacMurdie instead of The Avenger.
Mac was out prowling the compact grounds of the place. He was hoping that perhaps one, or all three, of the bizarre priest-figures Benson had told about might come back here, and that he could get his hands on them.
Thousands of years dead, or modern and alive, past or present, the three that had attacked the chief that morning were killers. And the bitter-eyed Scot lived only for the grim pleasure of getting his hands on killers.
If only those three skurlies dressed as priests of thousands of years ago would show up again—
A figure suddenly came staggering from the south, along the sidewalk. Mac darted toward it.
However, the figure was not dressed in ancient garb, nor was it murderous. It was the figure of a man in ordinary business clothes, who seemed very ill. So Mac’s intended attack changed to a solicitous grip on the other’s shoulder.
“Whoosh,” said the Scot. “What’s wrong with ye, mon? Are ye drunk, or sick?”
There was no smell of alcohol, so that question answered itself.
“What’s wrong with ye?” Mac repeated, peering into the other’s face.
He was a man of forty-five or so, well-dressed, well-built. His face was blank, and his eyes glazed. Mac stared harder at the blank countenance.
It was a curious face when you studied it. The forehead and rather broad nose made a straight line from widow’s peak to nostrils. The cheekbones were a little higher than usual. It was a foreign-looking face. Mac got it after a minute. It looked Egyptian. Yet not like the faces of modern Egypt.
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” mumbled the man.
“What?” said Mac.
“Doctor, lawyer— The Avenger.”
“Now wait a minute, mon,” rasped Mac. “The first is rigmarole. But the rest— You’re looking for The Avenger?”
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.”
Mac drew him toward the door.
“The Avenger . . . must find The Avenger.”
Mac led the man into the hall. He didn’t seem to have any idea where he was going; he followed the Scotchman blindly.
“What have we here?” asked Nellie, lovely eyes warm with sympathy. “Mac! What a queer face he has. Like—like—”
“Like the face ye might see carved on the frieze of an ancient Egyptian tomb,” nodded Mac. “I’ve noticed, Nellie.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” said Mac. “But he started out wantin’ to see Muster Benson. Must have lost his memory on the way here.”
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” crooned the man with the blank, exotic countenance and the dulled
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