“Burn it!” he said, and offered me his cigarette. I drew back. He gestured⁠—peremptorily. I pressed the glowing end of the cigarette into the ribbon of white flesh. He did not flinch nor was there odour of burning nor, as I drew the little cylinder away, any mark upon the whiteness.

“Feel it!” he commanded again. I placed my fingers upon the band. It was cold⁠—like frozen marble.

He drew his shirt around him.

“Two things you have seen,” he said. “ It ⁠—and its mark. Seeing, you must believe my story. Goodwin, I tell you again that my wife is dead⁠—or worse⁠—I do not know; the prey of⁠—what you saw; so, too, is Stanton; so Thora. How⁠—”

Tears rolled down the seared face.

“Why did God let it conquer us? Why did He let it take my Edith?” he cried in utter bitterness. “Are there things stronger than God, do you think, Walter?”