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By strange coincidence a thunderstorm had been brewing when Mahon, doing his gristly work at the bungalow, was dealing with the most gristly job of all -- a head -- a woman's head. He had severed it from the trunk, built a huge fire in the sitting room, placed her head upon it. Then -- I owe a debt here to Edgar Wallace who edited the transcripts of the Mahon trial -- then a storm broke with a violent flash of lightning and a violent crash of thunder. As the head of Emily Kaye lay upon the coals, the dead eyes opened and Mahon fled out onto the deserted shore. When he nerved himself to return, the fire had done its work. The head was never found.