“Look alive, Leon!” Curtis cried, nudging Kelson’s elbow.  “Look alive or it will be too late.  The Unknown is mighty particular to a few seconds.  Let me operate on you.  I’ve always fancied I was born to use the knife—­that I’ve really missed my vocation.  You needn’t be afraid—­there’s no artery in the palm of your hand—­you won’t bleed to death.”

Thus goaded, Hamar pricked away nervously at his hand, and, after sundry efforts, at last succeeded in drawing blood; three drops of which he very carefully let fall in the tub.

“I wish it was light so that we could see it,” Curtis whispered in Kelson’s ear.  “I believe Jews have different coloured blood to other people.”

Though Kelson was apprehensive, Hamar did not appear to have heard; his whole attention was riveted on the mirror, on the face of which was a reflection of the moon.

“I knew nothing would happen,” Curtis cried, “you had better wipe your knife or you’ll be arrested for severing some one’s jugular.  Hulloa! what’s up with the cat?”

Hamar was about to tell him to be quiet when Kelson caught his arm.  “Look, Leon!  Look!  What’s the brute doing?  Is it mad?” Kelson gasped.

Hamar turned his head—­and there crouching on the floor, in the moonlight, was the cat, its hair bristling on end and its green eyes ablaze with an expression which held all three men speechless.  When they were at last able to avert their eyes a fresh surprise awaited them; the reflection of the moon in the mirror was red—­not an ordinary red—­not merely a colour—­but red with a lurid luminosity that vibrated with life—­with a life that all three men at once recognized as emanating from nothing physical—­from nothing good.

It vanished suddenly, quite as suddenly as it had come; and the reflection of the moon was once again only a reflection—­a white, placid sphere.

For some seconds no one spoke.  Hamar was the first to break the silence.  “Well!” he exclaimed, drawing a long breath; “what do you think of that!”

“Are you sure you weren’t faking?” Curtis said.

“I swear I wasn’t,” Hamar replied; “besides could any one produce a thing like THAT?  The cat didn’t think it was a fake—­it knew what it was right enough.  Besides, why are your teeth chattering?”

“Why are yours?” Curtis retorted; “why are Matt’s?”

“Shall we try the second?” Hamar asked.

“No!” Kelson and Curtis said in chorus.  “No!  We’ve had enough for one night.  We’ll be off!”

“I think I’ll come with you,” Hamar said, “after what has happened I don’t quite relish sleeping here alone—­or rather with that cat.  Hi—­Satan, where are you?”

Satan was not visible.  It had probably hidden under the bed, but as no one cared to look, its whereabouts remained undiscovered.

With the coming of the sun, the terrors of the night wore off, and the trio separated.  Hamar would on no account accept his friends’ invitation to breakfast on the sausages and ham they had run such risks in procuring; he made hasty tracks for a snug restaurant in Bolter’s Street, where he had a sumptuous repast for a dollar; and then slunk home.