Blinding javelins of lightning encircled the colossal pile, and after each succeeding shower there was blinding darkness all around. Rain washed the wide expanse of windows intermittently and the wind in the chimneys moaned and shrilled like some dying titan. It was a fit night for ghoulish purposes, unthinkable horrors that drive the possessor slowly mad. In the cavernous vault the noise of thunder rolled and broke with the insistence of throbbing tom-toms. Somewhere out over the plain of roofs gleaming with water and the trees that tossed their branches in a spasm of agony as if to relieve some obsessing pain, a bell tolled the hour like a bad omen.

Within the tiers which stretched away into darkness there was sudden scurry, footsteps and the flare of a match. A great figure huddled in a great coat escaped into the shadow. Another match flared, a shaded flashlight swept the long aisles, and in the half-light a face distorted with fear of discovery shot out of the darkness like some hideous appartion in a nightmare. Suddenly there was a dead silence, and then a muttered "ah." Back in the musty corridors there was a swishing sound and slowly a black object appeared. The figure walked back and forth dragging heavy objects, stopping and cringing at every stab of lightning. Eight, nine, ten lifeless emaciated bodies of human beings formed a pyramid on the floor.

The Vagabond crept out from behind a post and approached the pile carefully. He stumbled over a book. It was F. Wutenfeld's "Geschichte der Fatimiden Challfen" (Gottingen 1831). The figure came back dragging another corpse. He looked at the Vagabond, screamed and fainted. Again the Vagabond had detected the hireling of Lehman Hall rounding up the bodies of graduate students lost in Widener's stacks.