Fingers of Death

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A SPECTRAL gloom seemed to pervade the room where Josiah Bartram lay. Perhaps it was the silence that caused the strange condition; perhaps it was the appearance of Bartram himself. Grace Bartram sensed the tenseness the moment that she entered her uncle’s bedroom.

Josiah Bartram was a man just past middle age; but his appearance tonight marked him as an old man.

His form was motionless beneath the coverlets of the bed. His face, with eyes staring straight upward, showed a yellow hue against the whiteness of the pillows. His hands, too, were yellow, as they slowly twitched upon the surface of the bedspread.

Josiah Bartram was not alone in the room, but the old man seemed entirely unconscious of the presence of the others.

One of these persons was a white-garbed nurse. The other was Mahinda, the old man’s trusted Hindu servant. The nurse was seated at a table, writing a report. The Hindu was standing stolidly beyond the foot of the bed.

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