"What do you mean? Then, what is he?"
"He is a phantom."
I glanced at Hobart and caught his eye. Hobart believed him! The
poor pallid face of Watson, the athlete; there was nothing left to
him but his soul! I shall not forget Watson as he sat there, his
lean, long fingers grasping the brandy glass, his eyes burning and
his life holding back from the pit through sheer will and courage.
Would I come to this? Would I have the strength to measure up to
his standard?
Hobart broke the tension.
"Chick's right. There is something in it, Harry. Not all the
secrets of the universe have been unlocked by any means. Now,
Chick, about details. Have you any data--any notes?"
Watson rose. I could see he was grateful.
"You believe me, don't you, Hobart? It is good. I had hoped to
find someone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have
told you. Hold the ring. You take my place. Whatever happens,
stick out to the end. You have Hobart here to help you. Now just a
minute. The library is here; you can look over my books. I shall
return in a moment."
He stepped out into the hall; we could hear his weary feet
dragging down the hallway--a hollow sound and a bit uncanny.
Somehow my mind rambled back to that account I had read in the
newspaper--Jerome's story--"Like weary bones dragging slippers."
And the old lady. Who was she? Why was everyone in this house
pulled down to exhaustion--the words of the old lady, I could
almost hear them; the dank air murmuring their recollection.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92