BROOD OF THE WITCH-QUEEN ***

Produced by David Clarke, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

BROOD OF THE

WITCH-QUEEN

BY

SAX ROHMER

LONDON

C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LIMITED

HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.

1918

* * * * *

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. ANTONY FERRARA

II. THE PHANTOM HANDS

III. THE RING OF THOTH

IV. AT FERRARA'S CHAMBERS

V. THE RUSTLING SHADOWS

VI. THE BEETLES

VII. SIR ELWIN GROVES' PATIENT

VIII. THE SECRET OF DHOON

IX. THE POLISH JEWESS

X. THE LAUGHTER

XI. CAIRO

XII. THE MASK OF SET

XIII. THE SCORPION WIND

XIV. DR. CAIRN ARRIVES

XV. THE WITCH-QUEEN

XVI. LAIR OF THE SPIDERS

XVII. THE STORY OF ALI MOHAMMED

XVIII. THE BATS

XIX. ANTHROPOMANCY

XX. THE INCENSE

XXI. THE MAGICIAN

XXII. MYRA

XXIII. THE FACE IN THE ORCHID-HOUSE

XXIV. FLOWERING OF THE LOTUS

XXV. CAIRN MEETS FERRARA

XXVI. THE IVORY HAND

XXVII. THE THUG'S CORD

XXVIII. THE HIGH PRIEST HORTOTEF

XXIX. THE WIZARD'S DEN

XXX. THE ELEMENTAL

XXXI. THE BOOK OF THOTH

* * * * *

PREFATORY NOTICE

The strange deeds of Antony Ferrara, as herein related, are intended to illustrate certain phases of Sorcery as it was formerly practised (according to numerous records) not only in Ancient Egypt but also in Europe, during the Middle Ages. In no case do the powers attributed to him exceed those which are claimed for a fully equipped Adept.

S. R.

* * * * *

BROOD OF THE WITCH-QUEEN

CHAPTER I

ANTONY FERRARA

Robert Cairn looked out across the quadrangle. The moon had just arisen, and it softened the beauty of the old college buildings, mellowed the harshness of time, casting shadow pools beneath the cloisteresque arches to the west and setting out the ivy in stronger relief upon the ancient walls. The barred shadow on the lichened stones beyond the elm was cast by the hidden gate; and straight ahead, where, between a quaint chimney-stack and a bartizan, a triangular patch of blue showed like spangled velvet, lay the Thames. It was from there the cooling breeze came.

But Cairn's gaze was set upon a window almost directly ahead, and west below the chimneys. Within the room to which it belonged a lambent light played.

Cairn turned to his companion, a ruddy and athletic looking man, somewhat bovine in type, who at the moment was busily tracing out sections on a human skull and checking his calculations from Ross's _Diseases of the Nervous System_.

"Sime," he said, "what does Ferrara always have a fire in his rooms for at this time of the year?"

Sime glanced up irritably at the speaker. Cairn was a tall, thin Scotsman, clean-shaven, square jawed, and with the crisp light hair and grey eyes which often bespeak unusual virility.

"Aren't you going to do any work?" he inquired pathetically. "I thought you'd come to give me a hand with my _basal ganglia_. I shall go down on that; and there you've been stuck staring out of the window!"

"Wilson, in the end house, has got a most unusual brain," said Cairn, with apparent irrelevance.

"Has he!" snapped Sime.

"Yes, in a bottle. His governor is at Bart's; he sent it up yesterday. You ought to see it."

"Nobody will ever want to put _your_ brain in a bottle," predicted the scowling Sime, and resumed his studies.

Cairn relighted his pipe, staring across the quadrangle again. Then--

"You've never been in Ferrara's rooms, have you?" he inquired.

Followed a muffled curse, crash, and the skull went rolling across the floor.

"Look here, Cairn," cried Sime, "I've only got a week or so now, and my nervous system is frantically rocky; I shall go all to pieces on my nervous system. If you want to talk, go ahead. When you're finished, I can begin work."

"Right-oh," said Cairn calmly, and tossed his pouch across. "I want to talk to you about Ferrara."

"Go ahead then. What is the matter with Ferrara?"

"Well," replied Cairn, "he's queer."

"That's no news," said Sime, filling his pipe; "we all know he's a queer chap. But he's popular with women. He'd make a fortune as a nerve specialist."

"He doesn't have to; he inherits a fortune when Sir Michael dies."

"There's a pretty cousin, too, isn't there?" inquired Sime slyly.

"There is," replied Cairn. "Of course," he continued, "my governor and Sir Michael are bosom friends, and although I've never seen much of young Ferrara, at the same time I've got nothing against him. But--" he hesitated.

"Spit it out," urged Sime, watching him oddly.

"Well, it's silly, I suppose, but what does he want with a fire on a blazing night