sinner or saint—if he treads on three of the holy footprints, he is freed of all illusion, a blessed soul forever in Nirvana!”
“Poor devil!” murmured Consardine.
“Such is the legend.” Satan turned his gaze upon me again. “Now I never tried to collect those interesting footprints. They could have served no purpose of mine. I have no desire to turn sinners into saints, for one thing. But they gave me the most entertaining idea I have had for—shall I say centuries?
“Life, James Kirkham, is one long gamble between the two inexorable gambles of birth and death. All men and all women are gamblers, although most are very poor ones. All men and all women have at least one desire during their lives for which they would willingly stake their souls—and often even their lives. But life is such a crude game, haphazardly directed, if directed at all, and with such confusing, conflicting, contradictory and tawdry rules.
“Very well, I would improve the game for a chosen few, gamble with them for their great desire, and for my own entertainment would use as my model these seven footsteps of Buddha.
“And now, James Kirkham, listen intently, for this directly concerns you. I constructed two thrones upon a dais up to which lead not seven but twenty-one steps. On each third step there shines out a footprint— seven of them in all.
“One of the thrones is lower than the other. Upon that I sit. On the other rests a crown and a scepter.
“Now then. Three of these footsteps are—unfortunate. Four are fortunate in the aggregate. He who would gamble with me must climb to that throne on which are crown and scepter. In climbing he must place a foot on four, not five of these seven prints.
“Should those four upon which he steps prove to be the fortunate ones, that man may have every desire satisfied as long as he lives. I am his servant—and his servant is all that vast organization which I have created and which serves me. His, my billions to do as he pleases with. His, my masterpieces. His, anything that he covets—power, women, rule —anything. What he hates I punish or—remove. His is the crown and scepter upon that throne higher than mine. It is power over earth! He may have—everything!”
I glanced at Consardine. He was nervously bending and unbending a silver knife in his strong fingers, his eyes glittering.
“But if he treads on the others?”
“Ah—that is my end of the gamble. If he treads upon the first of my three—he must do me one service. Whatever I bid him. If he treads on two—he must do my bidding for a year. They are my—minor leases.
“But if he treads on all my three”—I felt the blaze of the blue eyes scorch me, heard a muffled groan from Consardine—“if he treads on all my three—then he is mine, body and soul. To kill at once if it is my mood—and in what slow ways I please. To live—if I please, as long as I please, and then to die—again as I please. Mine! body and soul! Mine.”
The rolling voice trumpeted, grew dreadful. Satanic enough was he now with those weird eyes blazing at me as though behind them were flames from that very pit whose Master’s name he had taken.
“There are a few rules to remember,” the voice abruptly regained its calm. “One need not take the whole four steps. You may stop, if you desire, at one. Or two. Or three. You need not take the next step.
“If you take one step and it is mine, and go no farther, then you do my service, are well paid for it, and after it is done may ascend the steps again.
“So if you go farther and touch the second of my steps. After your year —if you are alive—you again have your chance. And are well paid during that year.”
I considered. Power over all the world! Every desire granted. An Aladdin’s lamp to rub! Not for a moment did I doubt that this—whatever he was —could do what he promised.
“I will explain the mechanism,” he said. “Obviously the relative positions of the seven steps cannot remain the same at each essay. Their combination would be too easy to learn. That combination I leave to chance. Not even I know it. Through that I get the cream of my entertainment.
“I sit upon my throne. I touch a lever that spins a hidden wheel over which roll seven balls, three marked for my steps, four marked for the fortunate ones. As those balls settle into place, they form an electrical contact with the seven footprints. As the balls lie, so lie the prints.
“Where I can see—and others if they are present—but not to be seen by the climber of the steps, is an indicator. As the—aspirant —sets his foot on the prints this indicator shows whether he has picked one of my three or one of his four.
“And there is one final rule. When you climb you may not look back at that indicator. You must take the next step in ignorance of whether that from which you have come was good for you or—evil. If you do weaken and look behind, you must descend and begin your climb anew.”
“But it seems to me that you have the better end of the game,” I observed. “Suppose one steps upon a fortunate step and stops—what does he get?”
“Nothing,” he answered, “but the chance to take the next. You forget, James Kirkham, that what he stands to win is immeasurably greater than what I win if he loses. Winning, he wins me and all I stand for. Losing, I win only one man—or one woman. Besides, for my limited leases I pay high. And give protection.”
I nodded. As a matter of fact I was profoundly stirred. Everything that I had experienced had been carefully calculated to set my imagination on fire. I thrilled at the thought of what I might not be able to do with— well, admit he was Satan—and his power at my beck and call. He watched me, imperturbably; Consardine, understandingly, with a shadow of pity in his eyes.
“Look here,” I said abruptly, “please clear up a few more things. Suppose I refuse to play this game of yours—what happens to me?”
“You will be set back in Battery Park tomorrow,” he answered. “Your double will be withdrawn from your club. You will find he has done no harm to your reputation. You may go your way. But—”
“I thought, sir, there was a but,” I murmured.
“But I will be disappointed,” he went on, quietly. “I do not like to be disappointed. I am afraid your affairs would not prosper. It might even be that I would find you such a constant reproach, such a living reminder of a flaw in my judgment that—”
“I understand,” I interrupted. “The living reminder would strangely cease some day to be a reminder—living.”
He did not speak—but, surely, I read the answer in his eyes.
“And what is to prevent me from taking your challenge,” I asked again, “going partly through with it, enough to get away from here, and then— ah—?”
“Betray me?” again the chuckle came through the motionless lips. “Your efforts would come to nothing. And as for you—better for you, James Kirkham, had you remained unborn. I, Satan, tell you so!”
The blue eyes scorched; about him in his chair seemed to grow a shadow, enveloping him. From him emanated something diabolic, something that gripped my throat and checked the very pulse of my heart.
“I, Satan, tell you so!” he repeated.
There
