Roscoe Sweetman's boots thudded on the porch. The farmer came in,
panting, followed by Frederick Wingate. Dr. Stone had moved away from the
wall.
"What's this?" the artist demanded. "Moans, screams, footsteps? It sounds
like a dime novel. Let's hear them."
But the house now held to a soundless quiet. Ten or fifteen minutes
passed.
"It looks," Dr. Stone observed, "as though our ghost has called it a
day."
"Sweetman," Mr. Wingate snapped impatiently, "this is the second time
you've called me from my work for nothing. Where's your ghost?"
"He was here," the farmer insisted. He appeared to be filled with a dull
surprise.
"The second time," Dr. Stone repeated thoughtfully. "I'd call that
strange, Fred."
"You, too, Doctor." The artist's impatience had given place to amusement.
"I thought better of you than that."
"Did you?" the blind man asked mildly. Joe stood rigid. His uncle's voice
had carried an undertone that had not been there before.
But nothing more was said. They came from the house, and Roscoe
Sweetman's fumbling hand clattered the key against the lock. In the road
Frederick Wingate paused.
"Doctor," he asked curiously, "do you actually believe in ghosts?"
"I believe what I hear," the blind man said without emotion.
Joe, struck with terror, hugged close to the safety of the dog. That
night his sleep was broken by dreams--dreams of a great, monstrous heart
throbbing so that all could hear it and of strange screams that faded
into a swift, strange silence. In the morning an east wind blew down from
the mountains and the sky was gray and overcast. Twice Joe walked toward
the Farley farm, and twice he turned back. He saw Mr. Sweetman, hulked
over the wheel of a small car, drive toward the village and, an hour
later, drive back. And all through the morning Dr. Stone sat with his
beloved pipe unlighted in his hands, and by that token the boy knew that
his uncle was buried in disturbed thought.
Early in the afternoon Police Captain Tucker and Mr. Rodgers, the real
estate man, came to the house in the captain's car. Joe hovered in the
doorway.
"Doctor," Mr. Rodgers demanded, "what's this talk about a ghost at
Farley's? Sweetman came in to see me this morning--"
"Sweetman?" The blind man was intent.
"Rubbed it under my nose that there was no market for a haunted house.
Said you had heard the ghost. How about it?"
"Did Sweetman happen to be in a buying mood?" Dr. Stone asked quietly.
"An eager mood. That's what I can't understand."
"How much did he offer?"
"Twenty-five hundred."
And yesterday, Joe thought, the farmer had mentioned $3,000. He glanced
at his uncle. The blind man had struck a match to the unlighted pipe.
"We heard a little of everything, Rodgers--groans, screams, the footsteps
of a child, singing." Blue smoke rose fragrantly from the pipe. "A child
singing," the doctor added, and turned sightless eyes toward the captain.
"What brings you into this, Tucker. Planning to arrest a ghost?"
"Ghost?" Captain Tucker snorted. "I don't believe in ghosts. There's such
a thing as hocus-pocus to steal away the value of a piece of property.
Did you know Matt Farley?"
"No."
"Rodgers and I did. A friend to tie to. Matt was doing well here, but his
youngest boy, about four, died. It broke him up. Two years later he
closed the house and went away. Now he's out on the Coast, sick and
penniless, and he asked Rodgers to sell the place and get money to him.
I'm in on this to see that no swindle is put over on him."