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The Hour of Death by Grover Brinkman. The telephone on doctor Thorndyke's littered desk

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shrieked a single, jerked out ring, as if the party on the other

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end of the line was nervous for
a connection to be made. Laying aside

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his hook, he casually reached for
the receiver. Hello, he said,

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Yes, this is Thorndyke speaking.
Who did you say, Blake? Oh,

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yes, I recognize your voice.
Now old man didn't at first.

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It seems so strained and unnatural.
Yes, if you say it's urgent,

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I'll be over right away. Thorndyke
hung up the receiver, donned his hat

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and coat, and went out the
front way of his bachelor apartment, telling

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his servant that he need not stay
up. A minute later, he was

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speeding down the deserted street in his
own roadster. Now I wonder what the

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dickens is the matter, Thorndyke reflected
as he sped along, recalling the strained,

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terrified voice of his old colleague over
the wire. He was soon to

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find out. As he parked his
car in Blake's driveway, he had a

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vague premonition that something was wrong.
Seriously wrong. A servant met him at

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the door of Blake's residence, an
old, slightly bent man, who led

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him without prelude, to Blake's den, where his friend lived alone. But

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what a different Blake. In the
strained, horror filled face, Thorndyke could

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hardly recognize the man who, from
youth and college days he always called his

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closest friend. Blake was a strong
man, both mentally and physically. His

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only weakness a belief in superstition,
and as Thorndyke looked at the mere phantom

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of the former football star, the
frown deepened in his brow. Thank God,

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I'm glad you came, said Blake. Unnaturally, it was so late

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when I called up that I was
afraid you might have retired. No,

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I most always stay up until after
midnight reading. But you look as if

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you've seen a ghost. What in
the world is wrong for answer? Blake

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pointed to the library table in the
center of the room, on which was

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scattered a pile of letters. He
seemed stupefied. His eyes were glassy and

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wondering. Read one of those,
he said, queerly, and don't take

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it as a joke. For the
last six weeks one of those letters has

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been coming at one o'clock in the
morning every time. Thorndyke, his face

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incredulous, picked up the foremost letter
and unfolded the single sheet it contained.

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As he read, the blood slowly
left his face, and laughing queerly,

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he read for the second time the
brief note, mister James Blake, two

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more nights from tonight, at exactly
one o'clock, your life will be snuffed

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out like the breaking of a thread. There was no signature, nothing at

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all, nothing but the sinister message, without a clew of any kind.

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Blake gave a hollow laugh. What
do you make of it? He asked,

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slowly, hopelessly. Thorndyke shook his
head, then presently his face broke

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into the image of a smile.
No doubt some of your friends trying to

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put a scare into you, he
said, though his voice lacked conviction.

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I've thought of that. At first, I almost believed it, but I

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don't any more. Why man look
more than forty of them every night,

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for forty nights at exactly one o'clock. Thorndike was looking through the letters,

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trying to conjure some vague reason for
their being there, can't you get a

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clue from the postmarks, he asked, Presently, no use in trying,

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Blake returned. Each is mailed within
the city, though not always at the

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same station, and each has a
special delivery stamp attached. We can't find

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any clues that way. Suddenly,
as Thorndyke started to speak, the tall

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clock in the hallway chimed out the
hour one o'clock. With the sound,

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Blake seemed to pale even more,
until his face was the color of dead

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ashes. He slumped down in his
chair, trembling in every limb, his

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eyes in a fixed stare on the
doorway. Thorndyke realized with a pang of

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regret that the sinister letters were proving
too much for his old friend. Blake

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was a wreck physically and mentally,
and to all indications on the verge of

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losing his mind. Buck up,
old man, he said, solicitously.

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But my god, Jim almost shrieked
Blake, his outward calm suddenly deserting him.

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Place yourself in my position. For
more than forty nights, I have

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stayed up and waited, waited for
this. I can't sleep all day and

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all night. This thing haunts me
like a bad dream. My mind is

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about ready to snap. Thank god, it's almost over. Either we will

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find out who's doing this tomorrow night, or I he broke off abruptly.

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At that moment, the aged servant
noiselessly opened the door, and without further

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ceremony, handed Blake a letter,
special delivery letter for you, sir,

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he said obediently, his face an
impassive mask, and turned for the door.

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Blake turned the letter over in his
hands like a man in a daze.

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Without opening it. He handed it
to Thorndyke. You read it,

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he requested, and buried his face
in his hands. Thorndyke took it without

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a word of protest and tore it
open. This time, the message was

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even more brief, twenty four more
hours and then the breaking of the thread.

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As he put the letter on the
table, the expression of Thorndyke's face

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suddenly changed. His countenance hardened,
his lips drew into a thin line that

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barely showed the whiteness of his teeth, and his eyes seemed to be visioning

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something far away. Blake, he
said, determinedly, We're going to find

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out who is doing this, and
don't think about tomorrow night. Have you

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any idea what the motive of sending
these crazy letters could be? No,

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I haven't, said Blake hopelessly.
I'm pretty well provided for financially, but

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not rich. It's not a scheme
to blackmail me for money. I'm sure

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of that, and I don't know
of any enemies here in New York.

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How about your servant, suddenly,
asked Thorndyke. Blake laughed. Nothing suspicious

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about him. I've had him for
ten years. He thinks the letters are

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from my factory superintendent out of town, a daily report of the work.

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All right, said Thorndyke. I
suppose in that case you can trust him.

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I think I'll be going now.
There's nothing to be gained by your

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sitting up and racking your rains about
it. You go to bed and sleep

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and forget all about this. I'll
come tomorrow night before one o'clock and we'll

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see what happens. Leaving a sleeping
potion, he left, advising the old

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servant to see that Blake had every
care. All that day, Thorndyke thought

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about the coming night. Toward evening, he had a visitor in the form

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of Inspector Carson, who, though
ten years his senior, was one of

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his closest friends and always an intimate
friend of Blake. Acting on impulse,

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he told Carson all about the threats
Blake had received his condition and asked him

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to go along that night. Carson
accepted, and he promised to call for

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him at midnight. At eleven o'clock
that night, Thorndyke had a call.

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One of his convalescing suburban patients had
grown suddenly worse. They asked him to

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come immediately. After telephoning Carson,
telling him he might be a few minutes

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late, Thorndyke left without delay,
although he worked with all possible haste over

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his patient, and left the sick
room as soon as he dared. It

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was fifteen minutes to one when he
drew up in front of Carson's apartment.

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We'll have to hurry, he said
nervously, as Carson took the seat beside

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him. I'm sure the letters and
threats are fake, but nevertheless, I'd

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like to be there a minute before
one o'clock. Blake's the next thing to

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being insane now, and you can't
tell what some little scare might do.

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It was only a few minutes later
that they slowed up for Blake's residence.

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As they turned into the dark driveway
that wound serpent like to the house situated

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far back from the street, Carson
suddenly gave a warning cry as a fleeing

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figure jumped directly into the path of
the car. Thorndyke jammed on the brakes,

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but it was too late to avoid
striking the man. With a sickening

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sensation in the pit of his stomach, he climbed out of the machine.

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Carson was already bending over the prostrate
form, and it was with a profound

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shock that he recognized the bent form
as that of Blake's servant. It was

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obvious that the man's condition was critical, though he still remained conscious, and

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as he bent over him, Thorndyke
saw the pale lips move as if he

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wanted to speak. A sip of
brandy from his first aid kit seemed to

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revive him for a moment, and
he began to talk. Listen. He

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began brokenly, just above a whisper. I'm about gone, so it'll be

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just as well if I tell you
something. He stopped a moment, as

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if gathering strength to go on.
Then I was the one who he wrote

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those letters to Blake. I wanted
to make him suffer. Years ago,

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Blake was the cause of my daughter's
disgrace. I promised her I would make

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him pay, and I did.
He's been in hell for the last six

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weeks. I never intended to kill
him, wanted to make him suffer.

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Better, go up to the house. The voice ceased, the aged servant

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lapsed into unconsciousness. Shuddering slightly.
Thorndyke gently lay back the tousled head,

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and with Carson at his side,
started for the house. As he pushed

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open the front door, the clock
in the hallway struck the hour one o'clock.

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The deep chime seemed to send an
icy shiver through his body, and

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he saw that Carson was pale.
Also with the chime, also was a

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sound that he could not fathom,
something like a low, deep moan.

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The next moment, he pushed open
the library door, Carson at his back.

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Thorndyke gave a gasp at what he
saw, and he felt the blood

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suddenly chill in his veins. Blake
was crumpled in a heap on the floor,

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where he had fallen face forward out
of his chair springing forward, Thorndyke

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quickly felt the stricken man's pulse,
then placed his ear over his heart.

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The next moment, he looked up
with a tragic face to encounter the troubled

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gaze of Carson. We were a
minute too late, said Thorndyke slowly,

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brokenly. He's dead, died of
fright. The End of the Hour of

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Death by Grover Brinkman