Personally, I cannot say that I liked the idea of spying.  It is not usually clean and wholesome.  But I realized that occasionally it was necessary.

“We are in for it now,” remarked Kennedy half humorously, half seriously, “to see the Devil in the twentieth century.”

“And I,” I added, “I am, I suppose, to be the reporter to Satan.”

We said nothing more about it, but I thought much about it, and the more I thought, the more incomprehensible the thing seemed.  I had heard of Devil Worship, but had always associated it with far-off Indian and other heathen lands—­in fact never among Caucasians in modern times, except possibly in Paris.  Was there such a cult here in my own city?  I felt skeptical.

That night, however, promptly at the appointed time, a cab called for us, and in it was Veda Blair, nervous but determined.

“Seward has gone ahead,” she explained.  “I told him that a friend had introduced you, that you had studied the occult abroad.  I trust you to carry it out.”

Kennedy reassured her.

The curtains were drawn and we could see nothing outside, though we must have been driven several miles, far out into the suburbs.

At last the cab stopped.  As we left it we could see nothing of the building, for the cab had entered a closed courtyard.

“Who enters the Red Lodge?” challenged a sepulchral voice at the porte-cochere.  “Give the password!”

“The Serpent’s Tooth,” Veda answered.

“Who are these?” asked the voice.

“Neophytes,” she replied, and a whispered parley followed.

“Then enter!” announced the voice at length.

It was a large room into which we were first ushered, to be inducted into the rites of Satan.

There seemed to be both men and women, perhaps half a dozen votaries.  Seward Blair was already present.  As I met him, I did not like the look in his eye; it was too stary.  Dr. Vaughn was there, too, talking in a low tone to Madame Rapport.  He shot a quick look at us.  His were not eyes but gimlets that tried to bore into your very soul.  Chatting with Seward Blair was a Mrs. Langhorne, a very beautiful woman.  To-night she seemed to be unnaturally excited.

All seemed to be on most intimate terms, and, as we waited a few minutes, I could not help recalling a sentence from Huysmans:  “The worship of the Devil is no more insane than the worship of God.  The worshipers of Satan are mystics—­mystics of an unclean sort, it is true, but mystics none the less.”

I did not agree with it, and did not repeat it, of course, but a moment later I overheard Dr. Vaughn saying to Kennedy:  “Hoffman brought the Devil into modern life.  Poe forgoes the aid of demons and works patiently and precisely by the scientific method.  But the result is the same.”

“Yes,” agreed Kennedy for the sake of appearances, “in a sense, I suppose, we are all devil worshipers in modern society—­always have been.  It is fear that rules and we fear the bad—­not the good.”