The Land of Mist Chapter 8 - In Which Three Investigators Come upon a Dark Soul

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The Land of Mist. CHAPTER VIII.
In which three investigators come upon a dark soul.
Lord Roxton had returned from Central African heavy game shooting, and had at once carried out a series of alpine ascents, which had satisfied and surprised everyone, except himself. Top of the Alps is becoming a perfect bare garden, said he. Short of Everest, there don't seem to be any decent privacy left.
His advent into London was acclaimed by a dinner given in his honor at the Travelers by the Heavy Game Society. The occasion was private, and there were no reporters, but Lord Roxton's speech was fixed verbatim in the minds of all his audience, and had been imperishably preserved. He writhed for 20 minutes under the flowery and eulogistic periods of the president, and rose himself in the state of confused indignation which the Briton feels when he's publicly approved. Oh, I say, by Joe, what was his oration? After which, he resumed his seat and perspired profusely. Malone was first aware of Lord Roxton's return through Macadal, the crabbed, old, redheaded news editor whose bald dome projected further and further from his ruddy fringe as the air still found him slaving at the most grinding of tasks. He retained a skeen scent of what was good copy, and it was this sense of his which caused him one winter morning to summon Malone to his presence. He removed the long glass tube which he used as a cigarette holder from his lips, and he blinked through his big brown glasses at his subordinate.
You know that Lord Roxton is back in London? I had not heard. Aye, he's back. Doubtless, you'd heard that he was wounded in the war. He led a small column in East Africa and made a wee war of his own till he got an elephant bullet through his chest.
Oh, he's done fine since then, or he couldn't be climbing these mountains.
He's the devil of a man, and I, staring up something new. What's the latest? asked Malone, eyeing a slip of paper which McCardle was waving between his finger and thumb. Well, that's where he impinges on you. I was thinking, maybe you could hunt in couples, and there would be copy in it. As a leader at the Evening Standard, he handed it over. It ran thus. A quaint advertisement in the columns of a contemporary shows that the famous Lord John Roxton, third son of the Duke of Pomfret, is seeking fresh worlds to conquer. Having exhausted the sporting adventures of his terrestrial globe, he's now turning to those of the dim, dark and dubious regions of psychic research.
He's in the market apparently for any genuine specimen of haunted house, and is open to receive information as to any violent or dangerous manifestation which call for investigation. As Lord John Roxton is a man of resolute character and one of the best revolver shots in England, we would warn any practical joker that he would be well advised to stand aside and leave this matter to those who are said to be as impervious to bullets as their supporters or to common sense.
MacArdle gave his dry chuckle at the concluding wedge. I am thinking they are getting personal there, friend Malone, for if you are no supporter, you are well on the way.
But are you know of the opinion that this chill and you between you might put up a spook and get two racy columns off him?
Well, I can see Lord Roxton, said Malone. He is still, I suppose, in his old rooms in Albany. I would wish to call him in any case, so I can open this up as well.
Thus, it was that in the late afternoon, just as a merc of London broke into dim circles of silver, the pressman found himself once more walking down Wigo Street and accosting the porter at the dark entrance of the old-fashioned chambers. Yes, Lord John Roxton was in, but a gentleman was with him. He would take a cart. Presently he returned with word that in spite of the previous visitor, Lord Roxton would see Malone at once. And instant later he had been ushered into the old, luxurious rooms with their trophies of war and of the chase. The owner of them, with outstretched hand, was standing at the door, long, thin, austere, with the same gaunt, whimsical, Don Quixote face of old. There was no change save that he was more aquiline, and his eyebrows jutted more thickly over his reckless, restless eyes. Hello, young fellow! Great. I was hoping you would draw this old cupboard once more. I was coming down to the office to look you up. Come in, come in. Let me introduce you to the reverend Charles Mason. A very tall, thin, clergyman, who was coiled up in a large basket chair, gradually unwound himself and held out a bony hand to the newcomer. Malone was aware of two very earnest and human gray eyes looking searchingly into his, and of a broad, welcoming smile which disclosed a double row of excellent teeth. It was a worn and weary face, the tired face of the spiritual fighter, but it was very kindly and companionable nonetheless. Malone had heard of the man, a Church of England vicar, who had left his mortal parish and the Church which he had built himself in order to preach freely the doctrines of Christianity, with the new psychic knowledge super added.