IV

IV

Dreeme was jerked out of a sound sleep by a strong hand grasping his shoulder. He started up with an uncontrollable cry of amazement.

“Get into your clothes,” said a voice. “It’s time.”

He recognized Walden Slater’s voice. Without any questions he leaped out of bed and hurried into his trousers and shirt. A heavy rain pounded on the roof as he completed his brief toilet, and shook his head violently to recover his partially benumbed senses. Walden Slater moved before him as they hurried for the staircase and ran down it to the entrance hall. Before dashing out through the door into the rain Dreeme flung his still soggy raincoat about him. A moment later they stood in the road where the heavens seemed to open and let down an unimaginable flood upon them. Walden Slater snatched up a stormproof lantern from the ground by the gate, and as he stooped his heavy coat gaped open and Dreeme caught a glimpse of the butt of the Smith and Wesson revolver thrust into his belt.

“What is it, Walden?” gasped the young doctor. “For God’s sake, find your tongue.”

“I can find my tongue when I want it,” replied the farmer. “You come with me.”

They splashed through the puddles up the gradual rise of the Leeminster Road, bowing their heads to the fierce blows of the frantic gusts of rain that sought to thrust them back. Dreeme was running in his bare feet.

“Walden!” he gasped. “Walden!”

“Deborah’s gone. Disappeared completely,” cried Walden Slater with unwonted vigor. “So’s Burroughs. Does that tell you anything? Dreeme, I’ve thought this whole thing out. You come with me.”

He ran all the faster, and Dreeme followed him while a mounting rage seethed within him.

“I know what I know,” the farmer called back over his shoulder.

Dreeme seemed to be borne along by the furies within him. He accelerated his pace and soon was abreast of the farmer. For a time they ran doggedly, the breath whistling in their lungs. Under their feet drummed the boards of the bridge that spanned the Saccarac River. A moment later they were on even ground. Deborah gone! How or why she had gone Dreeme did not know, but Walden Slater knew, and that was enough. It would be time enough later to ask questions. Yet Dreeme, leaning his head closer to the farmer, did ask something.

“Where are we going?” His voice rose in a shout. “To the Westcott farm?”

“Dagon, damn it, Dagon!” shouted back the farmer. “We’re going to the place called Dagon!”

They ran all the faster through the relentless rain.