“Yo’ see, sah,” the guide went on, “Marse Truax wa’n’t in no fit
condition, sah, to try de strongest voodoo medicine dat he called fo’. So,
w’ile de voodoo was sayin’ his strongest chahms, Marse Truax done fall
down, frothin’ at de mouth. He am some bettah, now, sah, but he kain’t be
move’ from de voodoo’s house ’cept by a frien’.”

“I’ll get a chance to see one of these old voodoo frauds, anyway,” Jack
told himself. “This new experience will be worth the time it keeps me out
of my bed. What a pity Hal missed a queer old treat like this!”

When the cab at last stopped, Benson looked out to find that the place was
well down a lonely country road, well lined with trees on either side. The
house, utterly dark from the outside, was a ramshackle, roomy old affair.

“Shall Ah wait fo’ yo’?” asked the old colored driver.

“Yes, wait for me,” directed Jack, briefly.

“Yeah; wait fo’ de gemmun. He’s all right,” volunteered the mulatto.

“Mebbe yo’ kin see some voodoo wo’k, too, ef yo’s int’rested,” hinted the
guide, in a whisper, as he fitted a key to a lock, and swung a door open.
In a hallway stood a lighted lantern, which the guide picked up.

“Now, go quiet-lak, on tip-toe. Sh!” cautioned the guide, himself moving
stealthily into the nearest room. Jack Benson began to feel secretly
awestruck and “creepy,” though he was too full of grit to betray the fact.

At the further end of the room the guide, holding the lantern behind his
body as though by accident, threw open another door.