The house, on this drab, gray day, was bleak and forbidding in its
emptiness. Cold shadows lurked in the corners. However, there was
daylight, you could see, and Joe did not feel the frozen terror of last
night. Captain Tucker relentlessly searched the house. In the end he came
up from the cellar with a paper in his hand.
"Find anything," Mr. Rodgers asked eagerly.
"The cover from a magazine and a scrap torn from a page. Matt's been out
of here for years; this magazine is a last August issue. How did it get
here?"
"What magazine?" Dr. Stone asked.
"It's called _Wonder World_. How did it get here?"
"Sweetman has a key," the real estate man said. "Wingate did have a key.
Either one of them could have brought it in."
"How long did Wingate have his key?" the doctor asked suddenly.
"A month, probably. Painted in here for a while. Gave me back the key at
last and said it would cost too much to change the upstairs to get a
studio with a northern light."
"Then these things mean nothing," the captain grumbled in disappointment.
He crumpled the cover and threw it into a blackened fireplace.
"That scrap of paper?" Dr. Stone asked.
"Half a dozen incomplete lines. Something torn out at random."
"Might I have it?"
Captain Tucker grunted in impatience. "I tell you it's merely a
scrap----Oh, take it."
They emerged from the house, and almost at once Frederick Wingate came
out of his own dwelling wearing a paint-smeared apron.
"By Harry!" he cried angrily, "this ceases to be a joke. Now the police
are here, and next it will be in the newspapers. They'll howl it up with
scare headlines, and the rabble will come down on us by train, and bus
and private car. The neighborhood will be marked for sordid sensation.
Sweetman's place, Farley's, mine--none of them will be worth a dollar.
Nobody has heard these screams, and footsteps and heartbeats. It's
hysterical imagination."
"I'll come over tonight and try my imagination," Captain Tucker said.
The artist stormed back into his house and slammed the door.
Dr. Stone, holding to Lady's harness-grip, went serenely toward his home.
Mr. Rodgers talked warmly. Wingate had the right idea--hysteria. But Joe,
though silent, could still feel the tremor of his nerves. There had been
screams and heartbeats. And a boy had fallen into a well and drowned!
Captain Tucker and the real estate man climbed into the police car and
were off. Instantly the unconcern fell away from the blind man. He held
out the scrap of paper.
"Read it, Joe?"
The boy read the few, disjointed words on the triangular strip:
If the
effects
sonority
periments.
By means of
succeeded in
"Does it mean anything, Uncle Dave?" he asked, puzzled.
"Perhaps." Dr. Stone's face had become intent. "I think I'll walk into
the village with Lady. You'd better stay here, Joe. I may be gone a long
time."
He was gone three hours. When he returned he was whistling softly.
Darkness came early out of the drab day. Joe placed a log in the
fireplace, and Dr. Stone smoked quietly and toasted his legs in the
warmth of the blaze. At seven o'clock there were footsteps on the porch
and a knock on the door. Frederick Wingate walked in.
"Still thinking of ghosts, Doctor?" he asked humorously. The afternoon's
ill-temper had disappeared.
The face of the blind man was inscrutable. "Still thinking," he admitted.
And then, for a time, the Farley house and the ghoulish beat of its
unseen heart seemed forgotten, and Joe listened to sparkling talk of the
days when Mr. Wingate had been a student in Paris and Vienna. Abruptly,
in the middle of a sentence, the man stopped short.
"What time will Tucker be back tonight, Doctor?"
"Eight-thirty."
The artist pulled back the sleeve of his coat and glanced at the heavy,
elaborately-scrolled, silver wrist watch. "Eight-ten," he said. And then,
seeing Joe's fascinated eyes upon the watch, he continued to hold up the
bared wrist. "A curious trinket, Joe. I picked it up in Austria. Keeps
time to the split second. But it has a curious trick. Do you hear it
ticking?"
"No, sir."
"If your wrist happens to turn in exactly the right position----" The man
moved his wrist, and all at once the boy heard the watch ticking out an
emphatic, muffled stroke. Again the wrist moved, and the timepiece was no
longer audible. The artist laughed. "Not bad, eh, Joe?"
Joe said "Gosh!" and looked at his uncle. Dr. Stone had ceased to smoke.
"It's going to be a bad night, Doctor," Frederick Wingate went on.
"There's snow in the air. I'd advise you to sit snug and let Tucker do
his ghost-hunting alone. It will be wasted time."
"Why are you so sure of that, Fred?"
"Come, come, Doctor. You know how I feel about goblins."
"Of course. I was wondering. Last night you insisted we hadn't heard
sounds. Tonight you become more positive. You predict we're not going to
hear anything. Why this added certainty? Is it because you had removed
the cable running between your house and Farley's?"
Joe Morrow suddenly found himself tight and expectant. The good humor had
been washed from the artist's face.
"It was hard," the doctor said serenely, "to locate exactly where the
sound originated. Lady, though, took me to one wall. After that, the
trick was plain. A blind man's touch is sensitive, Fred. I felt the
vibration in the wall. I asked Joe if the wall looked at all strange. He
said it didn't. Who could break into a wall and then doctor it so it
would let out sound freely and still look untouched? Who but an artist
accustomed to skilfully blending colors?
"But at first I suspected Sweetman. The man's anxiety to take advantage
of a ghost scare and buy cheaply fooled me. We all stumble at times. I
should have seen from the start it couldn't be Sweetman. He was greedy,
but he didn't have the brains. Then, too, there were no creepy
manifestations whenever you appeared. By the way, who told Sweetman the
ghost would invade his house if he pulled down Farley's? You?"
"You're stumbling now, Doctor, aren't you?" the artist asked. Joe saw
that his eyes had become sharp and watchful.
"Not now," the blind man said. "The road is too plain. Today, when Tucker
searched the house, he found the cover of the August _Miracle World_ and
a fragmentary scrap torn from a magazine page. Only ten words were on
that scrap, Fred, but one of them was 'sonority.' It's a word dealing
with sound. On a bare chance I dropped in at the public library. There I
learned that one Frederick Wingate is a subscriber to _Miracle World_,
and each month turns the magazine over to the library after he has read
it. But this Mr. Wingate did not turn over his August copy; the library,
wishing to keep a complete file, sent for the August number. There was a
significant article in that number, Fred. The librarian read it to me. It
had to do with sound effects by radio and telephone."
Joe's lips were parted breathlessly. Frederick Wingate stood as though he
had lost the power of movement.
"I'm not up on those things. They developed after I became blind. Exactly
how you worked the trick I do not know. After reading the August number
you concocted your scheme. You took your time. But in December you got
the key from Rhodes on the pretext you wanted to paint in the house and
try out the light. In that month you did your wiring, broke through
walls, inserted your loud speakers and tuned them to the proper pitch.
The transmitting cable from your house to Farley's was probably laid on
the ground under the snow. No doubt you thought you would not have to
give more than five or six manifestations. Let the ghost talk start.
After that you could take up the cable. The thing would be done. Farley's
property would be ruined; you'd buy it in for a song.
"What did you do from December to March? Practice the act? Anyway, you
ran into the unexpected. Sweetman also saw a chance to buy cheaply. So
you filled him with the fear of inheriting a ghost. Then, when the road
seemed clear, Tucker came in. You hadn't expected the police. Today, when
you protested to Tucker, Rodgers thought you were furiously indignant. I
read your voice better. You were alarmed. So tonight, as soon as darkness
fell, you took up the incriminating cable. You're wealthy. Why does a man
of means stoop to small cupidities? Is it because he thinks it clever and
smart?"
The artist spoke hoarsely. "You'll admit, Doctor, that this is all rather
circumstantial?"
"It was until a little while ago. Then I found the absolute proof.
Sometimes a thing becomes so much a part of a man that he forgets he has
it and it betrays him. Do you mind telling me the time?"
The artist glanced at his wrist-watch. "It is now----" His eyes,
startled, stared fixedly at the doctor. "I see," he said.
Dr. Stone relighted the pipe. "Might I make a suggestion. We don't want
Tucker in on this. I'm more interested in Matt Farley. My suggestion is
that you buy the place even below its worth, eight thousand dollars.
Eight thousand will be a fortune to a man sick and penniless."
Wet blotches fell against the windows. Snow!
"Doctor," Frederick Wingate said, "will you believe me when I say I did
not know Farley was destitute?" He picked his coat from a chair. "I'll
see Rodgers in the morning and put down a deposit. Good night."
The blazing log broke and fell, and sparks showered up the chimney. So
there really had been no ghost! Relief went through Joe Morrow in a
fervent tide.
"Did--did you really have the proof, Uncle David?"
"The absolute proof, Joe. You saw it yourself."
"I saw it?" The boy was bewildered.
Dr. Stone stretched back in the chair and placed his hands behind his
head. "I don't know whether he used a telephone mouthpiece or a
microphone. Whatever he used he was right in front of it. His hands must
have been active--he had to produce the sounds of water, footsteps,
gravel. Every time the watch began its mystifying tick----"
"Oh!" Joe breathed.
"Yes," the blind man said quietly. "You and Sweetman thought it was the
beating of a human heart."