Forrester had at first been in a quandary as to the character in which
he should approach the negress. If she were open to suspicion it would
be unwise for him to pose as a detective, or openly confess to being a
victim of the "Friends of the Poor." As he weighed the matter, a
recollection of Humphrey offered him a suggestion. Why not, for the
moment, assume the character of Humphrey and approach her as a reporter?
The fact that neither Humphrey nor the detectives had at any time
referred to her, and that no one outside of Joshua had mentioned her,
led him to believe that her retreat in the woods had remained unnoticed.
A visit by him in the guise of a reporter would probably be the first of
the kind that she had received. Although he knew Humphrey had not made
use of a notebook while interviewing him, Forrester believed that a
notebook would impress an ignorant colored woman. In her mind it would
more fully bear out his claim to being a reporter. In accordance with
this idea Forrester had provided himself with a new and imposing
notebook which he was prepared to pull out as soon as he started his
interview with the negress.
Leaving the road, Forrester followed the path around the oak and back
into the woods. The thick foliage shut out every ray of sunlight and
Forrester could well imagine how the gloom and silence of these woods
would give full play to superstitious minds. If the negress were seeking
to hide herself, the woods in themselves formed an eerie protection. The
path turned sharply to the right just beyond the tree and Forrester had
gone only a few yards when he was startled to find himself unexpectedly
in front of her cottage. He had supposed the place to be more deeply
buried in the woods, and this precipitant arrival at her door impressed
Forrester at once with the negress' accusatory proximity to the oak
tree. A savage snarl greeted Forrester as he stepped into the small
clearing in front of the house and he saw a half-breed dog facing him
with teeth bared and hair bristling. Forrester spoke soothingly to the
animal but the sound of his voice seemed only to enrage it the more and
it barked loudly. He hastily glanced about for a club with which to
defend himself in case the beast should attempt to attack him. Just at
this moment, however, the cottage door opened and the negress stood in
the doorway. She was tall and thin, with wiry, jet-black hair that
contrasted strangely with the sickly yellow of her skin. Her eyelids
drooped and at first Forrester thought she was squinting at him, but as
he discovered later, this was a natural affection of the eyelids. It
gave her a peculiarly sinister look and Forrester felt an aversion for
her the moment she appeared in the doorway. She stood with her hands on
her hips and silently looked him over.
"How do you do," said Forrester.
"Good afternoon," she returned, sullenly, her voice deep and harsh.
"Would you mind calling off that dog?" requested Forrester. "I want to
have a chat with you."
"About what?" she asked.
"Oh, about yourself, and the oak tree, and what has been going on there
lately."
"I don't know anything about it!" she snapped.
"I'm sorry," said Forrester. "I thought perhaps you would know something
about it."
"What made you think that?" she demanded.
Forrester immediately fell into Humphrey's manner so far as he could
recollect it. "I'm a reporter for the _Times_," he explained. "I have
been assigned to write up a special feature article for next Sunday's
edition about this tree that the 'Friends of the Poor' have been using,
and the neighborhood. While scouting around I just now happened to
discover your cottage. Naturally, it occurred to me that anyone living
so near to the oak tree might know something about it."
There is a certain glamour and attraction connected with reporters,
newspapers and special interviews which appears to appeal to persons in
all stations of life. Forrester observed that his remarks had had a very
softening effect upon the negress. She regarded him thoughtfully for a
moment, then turned and administered a kick to the dog.
"Get out!" she cried, and as the beast slunk off into the woods she
turned to Forrester. "Come in," she invited.
Forrester had observed that though the woman's voice was monotonous and
expressionless in character, she used excellent English, without a trace
of negro dialect. In her pronunciation, however, the slight accent
peculiar to West Indian negroes was noticeable. Before the door had been
opened Forrester had also noted that the cottage was a small one-story
affair and as he now passed through the door he marked a partition, with
a doorway, running across the center, and concluded that the interior of
the cottage was divided into two rooms. As the negress closed the door
behind him Forrester quickly scanned the room into which he had been
ushered. This was about twelve by fifteen feet, and quite obviously
served as both kitchen and sitting room. A small iron cookstove stood in
one corner, a table occupied the center of the room, and a rocking chair
and two straight-backed chairs of ancient design completed the
furnishings. On a small stand in the window next to the entrance door
stood an old glass aquarium, covered with wire netting. It contained no
water, however, and Forrester discovered several small snakes slowly
coiling themselves around on the gravel in the bottom. It instantly
recalled to his mind that the Voodoo worshippers of the West Indies used
snakes in their ceremonies.
The woman crossed the room and seated herself in the rocking chair, but
did not invite Forrester to sit down. He selected one of the
straight-backed chairs, pulled it up to the table, and as he sat down
drew out his notebook and spread it open on the table in an ostentatious
manner that could not fail to impress the woman.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Lucy."
"Lucy what?"
"That's all--just Lucy."
"You've lived around here for some time, I suppose?" asked Forrester.
"About two years," she replied.
"Have you a husband?" he queried, glancing about the room as if he
expected to see a man in some corner.
"I did have," she said, "but he ran away soon after we moved in here."
"Too bad--too bad," sympathized Forrester, as he made some notes in his
book. Then he added, "Now, what can you tell me about the goings-on at
this tree?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Well, frankly," said Forrester, "I haven't a very clear idea of what I
do want to know. You see, that's just what I came to you about. I
thought perhaps you could tell me something regarding what was going on
here. Have you ever seen any of the men who make use of that tree?"
"No," she declared, "and no one ever will."
"What do you mean by that?" queried Forrester.
"No men ever come near that tree--just ghosts. It's haunted!"
Forrester stared for a moment. It was curious how all these people
agreed on that one point. He could understand how an ignorant colored
man could have his superstitions aroused, and he could see how a plain
man like Green might be tricked; but it was hard to believe that this
apparently educated colored woman, living for two years within the
shadow of the tree, could be fooled. This, he concluded, was suspicious
circumstance number one, and as he glanced toward the snakes in the
aquarium he strongly suspected that if she were willing, the negress
could give him some inside facts regarding the manifestations at the
tree.
"What do you keep those snakes for?" he asked, suddenly.
"They're part of my religion," she returned.
"Don't you go to church?" inquired Forrester.
"Not the church these niggers around here go to," she sneered. "I
worship in my own way."
Forrester did not venture to question her further on this point, for he
had read enough regarding the Voodoo worship to know that they were
extremely reticent in describing their ceremonies. The possession of the
snakes suggested to Forrester that this woman might even be a priestess
of the sect, because he remembered having read that only the priests and
priestesses were accustomed to using snakes in their ceremonies. Another
thought came to Forrester at this moment, which gave him a decided
start. Voodoo worshippers had been known to demand _human sacrifices_!
Was he, after all, actually discovering clues which the detectives had
overlooked?
"Well," he went on, again addressing the negress, "if there are ghosts
instead of men hanging around that tree, perhaps you can tell me
something about what they do. I'm sure this is going to make a most
interesting story for my paper."
"I have never seen anything," explained Lucy, "but sometimes when I come
home late at night I hear things."
"Such as--" suggested Forrester.
"Oh, groans and sighs--rattling chains--and sometimes the sound of a
bell."
This was positive confirmation of Green's story, and Forrester pondered
before asking his next question. He remembered Joshua's assertion that
he had plainly heard words, so he asked:
"Do you ever hear voices saying anything?"
"Nothing distinctly. Just sighs and groans and sounds like that, as if
somebody were in trouble."
"You think, then," said Forrester, "that it is just some uneasy soul
that haunts that tree?"
"Yes," she replied.
"But," protested Forrester, "what could a ghost want with good United
States money?"
"I don't know," replied Lucy. "In my worship I sometimes commune with
the spirits, but they have never told me how they could use money."
"Have you ever tried to commune with this ghost?" asked Forrester.
"No," replied Lucy. "I don't think it belongs to my people."
"Suppose I were to offer you a good sum of money to try to communicate
with it?" suggested Forrester.
"I don't need money," she replied.
"Don't you have to work for a living?"
"No."
"How do you manage to live then?"
"I don't need money to live. I can get on."
Forrester glanced around the room once more. The cookstove appeared to
be without a fire and there were no signs of food. He wondered.
Turning again to Lucy, Forrester said, "Strange about the ghost that
haunts that tree, Lucy. Did you ever hear of anyone being murdered
around here?"
"No," she replied. Then added, after a slight pause, as she rose and
walked toward the door, "Guess you have found out all I can tell you,
Mister. You'd better go now--before my dog comes back."
The uncanny atmosphere of the place, the nearby snakes in their glass
prison, and the weird conversation regarding ghosts and singular forms
of worship, had given Forrester a very uncomfortable feeling. He knew
now why Green had temporarily lost his nerve, for he was quite willing
to take the woman's undisguised hint about his own immediate departure.
Slipping his notebook into his pocket and putting on his cap, Forrester
thanked her for the interview and hurriedly passed through the door,
which was slammed on his heels.