CHAPTER III.
WHAT THE BUDDHA SAID.
The Buddha was a work that would have attracted special attention in any collection. If it had been in a public museum, there is no doubt there would have been a crowd in front of it most of the time.
It was on a dais of its own, a giant statue of a squatting Buddha, wrought in hammered brass, with an enormous sapphire in the middle of its great forehead. The sapphire alone must have been worth an immense sum, just as a jewel.
The figure reached almost from floor to ceiling, so that the sapphire was very high. If one wished to look at the jewel at close range—and most persons who entered this room did want to do so—he had to climb a small stepladder which stood conveniently at one side. Nick saw the girl looking at this ladder, and he was about to make his presence known so that he could move it for her, when she carried it over herself to the front of the image and placed it firmly for use.
“No timidity about that girl,” thought the detective. “Ched Ramar needn’t get that idea into his head.”
Unlike most statues of Buddha, the eyes of this one were not closed. They were merely skillfully made openings, which, in the gloom of the room, might easily be imagined to have cruel, shifty eyes in their depths.
“I must go up and look at that sapphire,” the girl said aloud. “I never saw such a magnificent jewel in my life before. I have heard that they have precious stones in India that are never equaled anywhere else, and I can believe that now. What a heavenly blue! Yet I wish those eyes weren’t there. Pshaw! They are only holes! I believe I am a coward, after all.”
This thought seemed to put courage into her, for she had her foot on the bottom step of the ladder even as she spoke. She did not go up at once, however. Standing at the bottom of the ladder, with one foot on the step, she looked up at the face of the idol in a reverie that was half fascination and half repulsion.
“I’ve got to go up and look at that sapphire!” she breathed at last. “Besides, I want to look at its face close. I feel as if I must.”
With her hands out to steady herself, so that they touched the knees of the great figure, she went slowly upward, hesitating at each step. She could not have told why she went up so slowly and uncertainly. It seemed as if there were a power greater than her own controlling her movements.
It seemed to Nick as if the blue light of the sapphire changed to a horrible green as the girl drew her face level with the great brass visage of the statue.
“Pshaw!” he murmured. “It was only the shadow of her head. But in such a place as this one might imagine anything.”
Up a little higher she went, and, as one hand hung rigidly at her side, the other rested on the shoulder of the god. It was an incongruous picture they made—the beautiful young American girl seemingly exchanging confidences with this grotesque representation of a deity coming down through countless ages.
Suddenly a hollow voice seemed to fill the room. It came from the sneering, parted lips of the image. There could be no doubt of that. The detective involuntarily tried to get a little nearer, to catch what the words were.
Clarice was gazing intently into the eye sockets of the idol. She saw—what was not visible to Carter where he stood—two staring eyes that were alive!
“You will obey—obey—obey!”
The voice sounded like the distant murmur of rushing waters. It was rather that of some strange, unearthly being than of anything human.
“I will obey,” replied the girl, in a dull monotone.
To Nick it sounded as if she were talking in her sleep, but she never relaxed her hold on the brazen shoulder, and she stood perfectly upright on the stepladder.
“It is well,” went on the mysterious voice. “You know what to do. Follow the instructions that will come to you later.”
“How am I to know?” she gasped.
“Listen! Bring your face close to my lips. What I have to tell is for you alone.”
Nick Carter thought he heard her utter a low cry of terror and protest. But immediately afterward she pressed her beautiful, warm cheek against the brazen mouth of the image, and Nick saw in her eyes that she was not cognizant of anything save the message that had already begun to come to her.
The detective made an impulsive step forward. Should he dash up the steps, drag the girl away, and see for himself what this strange scene meant?
He knew that the whole contrivance was some fiendish trick. But who had arranged it, and why, was beyond him. Ched Ramar was a man of high standing in the scientific world—even though he had not been long known in New York. It was inconceivable that he could have any evil purpose in all this. And yet—what was it all about?
If it was an experiment of some kind, to prove a scientific or psychic theory, then certainly this East Indian must not be allowed to work it out with the aid of this innocent young girl. Still, it was not for him, Nick Carter, to interfere, until he knew. All he could do was to watch, and be ready to give help if it should be needed. He kept still and waited.
For two or three minutes the girl stood there, while a low murmur reached Nick’s ears, telling him that the image—or somebody inside it—was talking to Clarice Bentham.
At last she moved back, and again came the distinct words: “You will obey!”
“I will obey,” she replied.
“It is well. Before you leave this house, a small gold image of myself will be placed in your hands. Each afternoon, at six o’clock, you will look into its eyes. As you do so, you will be subject to my will. It will be my eyes you will see there.”
“Bunk!” muttered Nick Carter.
“If I have any orders for you,” continued the voice, “you will hear my suggestions, for at that very moment I shall be sending mental messages. If I have none for you, you will put the image away—until the next afternoon. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“That is all. You will forget all about this—that you have looked into my eyes and heard my voice. You will not remember how long you have been standing up here, and you will not recall anything when the small image is given to you. Now! Awake!”
Clarice’s right hand passed over her eyes, and she stared at the idol curiously. Then she looked around, and Nick Carter saw that her gaze was normal. She seemed to be quite her usual self. He stepped forward and spoke to her.
“Taking a close view of that statue, Miss Bentham?”
“Yes, Doctor Hodgson! It is a wonderful piece of work, isn’t it? And no one can tell how old it is. That sapphire in its forehead attracted me, and I felt as if I must look at it from the ladder. You have to allow for feminine curiosity, you know,” she laughed.
“Masculine curiosity would impel me to go up there,” returned Nick, with a smile. “Indeed, it was curiosity of that kind that brought me into this room just this moment. I found the elevator, and I was bold enough to make use of it. I am glad I was, for I should not like to have missed this room. Ched Ramar has a wonderful house.”
Nick made this remark about only just having come up because he did not know who might be listening. If a man could get inside that statue and pretend the statue itself was speaking, it was quite possible that he was now hiding somewhere else within hearing.
The girl came down the steps, and Carter had placed his foot on the bottom one, intending to go up, to look into the cavernous depths of the eye sockets himself, when the curtains in front of the elevator parted, and Ched Ramar came into the room. He brought with him Matthew Bentham and Mrs. Morrison.
The latter ran forward as she saw Clarice. Then she stopped abruptly, as her gaze fell upon the immense brass statue.
“Mercy! What an awful-looking thing! It’s an idol, isn’t it? I was wondering where you’d gone, Clarice. So was your father. How did you find your way up here alone?”
“She did not come alone,” broke in Ched Ramar, smiling gravely. “I led her up here. Then I left her for a moment to bring you and Mr. Bentham. I was going to ask Doctor Hodgson, too, but he anticipated me, I see,” he added, with a bow to Nick Carter.
“I have just come up,” responded Nick. “This Buddha is worth seeing, and I’m glad I found my way here.”
“Yes,” was Ched Ramar’s reply. “This is an extremely ancient image of the god. It was captured during a Tartar raid many centuries ago. It is reputed to possess marvelous occult powers. I would not dare to deny that that is untrue. The sapphire in its forehead is, I believe, one of the finest specimens in existence.”
“Aren’t you afraid the sapphire may be stolen?” asked Mrs. Morrison, fascinated by the blazing beauty of the jewel. “I should think a thief would risk a great deal to get it.”
Ched Ramar smiled significantly.
“Any thief who thinks he can get it, is welcome to try,” he said, with great confidence. “This Buddha is able to take care of itself and of everything it possesses. You remember what I said just now—that it is supposed to be endowed with strange powers. But let me show you something else. I am rather proud of this room. It contains the finest specimens in my collection of antiques.”
He went to a table in a distant corner, and came back, carrying a very small gold idol in his long fingers. The image was exquisitely wrought, and so much soul had the artist put into his work that, from certain angles, the diminutive god seemed actually to be alive.
“What a beautiful thing!” ejaculated Clarice, as she bent nearer to the idol. “And what wonderful eyes!”
There were eyes in the sockets, and they seemed to goggle and stare as one looked into the gold face. Everybody examined the image separately, as it was passed from hand to hand, but it was only Nick Carter who noted that the colored iris of each eye was an exact duplicate, in tone and shape, of those belonging to the grave East Indian student who called himself Ched Ramar.
Clarice, more than any of the others, seemed to be taken with the beauty of the golden idol. She stood, holding it in her hands and gazing in silent admiration, as if she were fascinated.
“Miss Bentham seems to like my poor specimen. Will she honor me by accepting it?”
“Why, I—I—don’t think I should,” she protested, making as if she would put it down. “It is too valuable. It would be too much. I really couldn’t take such a priceless——”
“What’s that?” asked Mrs. Morrison, turning from some other images she had been looking at on a table near her. “What did you say, Clarice?”
“Professor Ched Ramar has asked me to accept this exquisite gold idol, aunt. I couldn’t—could I?”
“No, I think not, dear,” returned Mrs. Morrison. “It is such a wonderful and costly thing, that——”
“It pains me that you decline,” murmured Ched Ramar. “If I have offended, I am sorry—deeply sorry. But my excuse must be that it is a custom of my country to offer trifling gifts like this to ladies who seem to admire them. You understand, I hope?”
Mrs. Morrison looked from the tall, dark Indian to her niece, and seemed to make up her mind with a jerk.
“Yes, I think I understand,” she answered. “Of course, if it is the Indian custom, that makes a difference.” Then, turning to Clarice, she went on: “I think you may accept it, Clarice. And, I may add, that it is an opportunity which does not often come to a girl.”
Ched Ramar put the idol in Clarice’s hands, and she held it before her with an expression of rapturous delight in her fair face.
“How can I thank you?” she murmured.
“Oh, it is nothing,” declared Ched Ramar, putting up his hands with a protesting gesture. “Let us go down again. There are some pieces of jade—vases—that I don’t think I have shown you, and that I should feel honored if you and Mrs. Morrison would take with you as mementos of this evening.”
When, half an hour later, the party left the house, the two ladies had the magnificently carved jade vases to which Ched Ramar had referred. But Clarice held clasped to her bosom, as if she feared she might lose it, the gold idol that seemed to have been merely an uncontemplated gift, but which Nick Carter remembered had been promised to her by the strange voice from the lips of the gigantic Buddha.
“I wonder just how far thought transference and hypnotism really can go?” he said, as he entered his library and lighted a cigar, an hour or so afterward.