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astonishing
facts in connection with the transfusion of blood, and in
addition was known to be doing valuable work on morbid growths.
Then suddenly his career was closed. He had to leave England.
A journalist obtained access to his laboratory in the capacity
of laboratory-assistant, with the deliberate intention of making
sensational exposures; and by the help of a shocking accident
(if it was an accident), his gruesome pamphlet became notorious.
On the day of its publication a wretched dog, flayed and
otherwise mutilated, escaped from Moreau's house. It was in
the silly season, and a prominent editor, a cousin of the temporary
laboratory-assistant, appealed to the conscience of the nation.
It was not the first time that conscience has turned against the methods
of research. The doctor was simply howled out of the country.
It may be that he deserved to be; but I still think that the tepid
support of his fellow-investigators and his desertion by the great
body of scientific workers was a shameful thing. Yet some of
his experiments, by the journalist's account, were wantonly cruel.
He might perhaps have purchased his social peace by abandoning
his investigations; but he apparently preferred the latter, as most men
would who have once fallen under the overmastering spell of research.
He was unmarried, and had indeed nothing but his own interest
to consider.
    I felt convinced that this must be the same man. Everything pointed
to it. It dawned upon me to what end the puma and the other
animals—which had now been brought with other luggage into the
enclosure behind the house—were destined; and a curious faint odour,
the halitus of something familiar, an odour that had been in
the background of my consciousness hitherto, suddenly came forward
into the forefront of my thoughts. It was the antiseptic odour
of the dissecting-room. I heard the puma growling through the wall,
and one of the dogs yelped as though it had been struck.
    Yet surely, and especially to another scientific man, there was
nothing so horrible in vivisection as to account for this secrecy;
and by some odd leap in my thoughts the pointed ears and luminous
eyes of Montgomery's attendant came back again before me with
the sharpest definition. I stared before me out at the green sea,
frothing under a freshening breeze, and let these and other strange
memories of the last few days chase one another through my mind.
    What could it all mean? A locked enclosure on a lonely island,
a notorious vivisector, and these crippled and distorted men?

VIII - The Crying of the Puma
*
    MONTGOMERY interrupted my tangle of mystification and suspicion
about one o'clock, and his grotesque attendant followed him
with a tray bearing bread, some herbs and other eatables,
a flask of whiskey, a jug of water, and three glasses and knives.
I glanced askance at this strange creature, and found him watching
me with his queer, restless eyes. Montgomery said he would lunch
with me, but that Moreau was too preoccupied with some work
to come.
    "Moreau!" said I. "I know that name."
    "The devil you do!" said he. "What an ass I was to mention it to you!
I might have thought. Anyhow, it will give you an inkling
of our—mysteries. Whiskey?"
    "No, thanks; I'm an abstainer."
    "I wish I'd been. But it's no use locking the door
after the steed is stolen. It was that infernal
stuff which led to my coming here,—that, and a foggy night.
I thought myself in luck at the time, when Moreau offered to get me off.
It's queer—"
    "Montgomery," said I, suddenly, as the outer door closed, "why has
your man pointed ears?"
    "Damn!" he said, over his first mouthful of food. He stared at me
for a moment, and then repeated, "Pointed ears?"
    "Little points to them," said I, as calmly as possible, with a catch
in my breath; "and a fine black fur at the edges?"
    He helped himself to whiskey and water with great deliberation.
"I was under the impression—that his hair covered his ears."
    "I saw them as he stooped by me to