LITMIR.BIZ

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      The doctor hesitated a moment. This was a strange story that he would have to tell Mr. Dawkins, the prison chaplain, that at the other end of the telephone was the spirit of the man executed yesterday. And yet he soberly believed that it was so, that this unhappy spirit was in misery and wanted to “tell.” There was no need to ask what he wanted to tell.

      “Yes, I will ask him to come here,” he said at length.

      “Thank you, sir, a thousand times. You will make him come, won’t you?”

      The voice was growing fainter.

      “It must be tomorrow night,” it said. “I can’t speak longer now. I have to go to see—oh, my God, my God.”

      The sobs broke out afresh, sounding fainter and fainter. But it was in a frenzy of terrified interest that Dr. Teesdale spoke.

      “To see what?” he cried. “Tell me what you are doing, what is happening to you?”

      “I can’t tell you; I mayn’t tell you,” said the voice very faint. “That is part—” and it died away altogether.

      Dr. Teesdale waited a little, but there was no further sound of any kind, except the chuckling and croaking of the instrument. He put the receiver on to its hook again, and then became aware for the first time that his forehead was streaming with some cold dew of horror. His ears sang; his heart beat very quick and faint, and he sat down to recover himself. Once or twice he asked himself if it was possible that some terrible joke was being played on him, but he knew that could not be so; he felt perfectly sure that he had been speaking with a soul in torment of contrition for the terrible and irremediable act it had committed. It was no delusion of his senses, either; here in this comfortable room of his in Bedford Square, with London cheerfully roaring ’round him, he had spoken with the spirit of Charles Linkworth.

      But he had no time (nor indeed inclination, for somehow his soul sat shuddering within him) to indulge in meditation. First of all he rang up the prison.

      “Warder Draycott?” he asked.

      There was a perceptible tremor in the man’s voice as he answered.

      “Yes, sir. Is it Dr. Teesdale?”

      “Yes. Has anything happened here with you?”

      Twice it seemed that the man tried to speak and could not. At the third attempt the words came “Yes, sir. He has been here. I saw him go into the room where the telephone is.”

      “Ah! Did you speak to him?”

      “No, sir: I sweated and prayed. And there’s half a dozen men as have been screaming in their sleep tonight. But it’s quiet again now. I think he has gone into the execution shed.”

      “Yes. Well, I think there will be no more disturbance now. By the way, please give me Mr. Dawkins’s home address.”

      This was given him, and Dr. Teesdale proceeded to write to the chaplain, asking him to dine with him on the following night. But suddenly he found that he could not write at his accustomed desk, with the telephone standing close to him, and he went upstairs to the drawing-room which he seldom used, except when he entertained his friends. There he recaptured the serenity of his nerves, and could control his hand. The note simply asked Mr. Dawkins to dine with him next night, when he wished to tell him a very strange history and ask his help. “Even if you have any other engagement,” he concluded, “I seriously request you to give it up. Tonight, I did the same.

      “I should bitterly have regretted it if I had not.”

      Next night accordingly, the two sat at their dinner in the doctor’s dining-room, and when they were left to their cigarettes and coffee the doctor spoke.

      “You must not think me mad, my dear Dawkins,” he said, “when you hear what I have got to tell you.”

      Mr. Dawkins laughed.

      “I will certainly promise not to do that,” he said.

      “Good. Last night and the night before, a little later in the evening than this, I spoke through the telephone with the spirit of the man we saw executed two days ago. Charles Linkworth.”

      The chaplain did not laugh. He pushed back his chair, looking annoyed.

      “Teesdale,” he said, “is it to tell me this—I don’t want to be rude—but this bogey-tale that you have brought me here this evening?”

      “Yes. You have not heard half of it. He asked me last night to get hold of you. He wants to tell you something. We can guess, I think, what it is.”

      Dawkins got up.

      “Please let me hear no more of it,” he said. “The dead do not return. In what state or under what condition they exist has not been revealed to us. But they have done with all material things.”

      “But I must tell you more,” said the doctor. “Two nights ago I was rung up, but very faintly, and could only hear whispers. I instantly inquired where the call came from and was told it came from the prison. I rang up the prison, and Warder Draycott told me that nobody had rung me up. He, too, was conscious of a presence.”

      “I think that man drinks,” said Dawkins, sharply.

      The doctor paused a moment.

      “My dear fellow, you should not say that sort of thing,” he said. “He is one of the steadiest men we have got. And if he drinks, why not I also?”

      The chaplain sat down again.

      “You must forgive me,” he said, “but I can’t go into this. These are dangerous matters to meddle with. Besides, how do you know it is not a hoax?”

      “Played by whom?” asked the doctor. “Hark!”

      The telephone bell suddenly rang. It was clearly audible to the doctor.

      “Don’t you hear it?” he said.

      “Hear what?”

      “The telephone bell ringing.”

      “I hear no bell,” said the chaplain, rather angrily. “There is no bell ringing.”

      The doctor did not answer, but went through into his study, and turned on the lights. Then he took the receiver and mouthpiece off its hook.

      “Yes?” he said, in a voice that trembled. “Who is it? Yes: Mr. Dawkins is here. I will try and get him to speak to you.” He went back into the other room.

      “Dawkins,” he said, “there is a soul in agony. I pray you to listen. For God’s sake come and listen.”

      The chaplain hesitated a moment.

      “As you will,” he said.

      He took up the receiver and put it to his ear.

      “I am Mr. Dawkins,” he said.

      He waited.

      “I can hear nothing whatever,” he said at length. “Ah, there was something there. The faintest whisper.”

      “Ah, try to hear, try to hear!” said the doctor.

      Again the chaplain listened. Suddenly he laid the instrument down, frowning.

      “Something—somebody said, ‘I killed her, I confess it. I want to be forgiven.’ It’s a hoax, my dear Teesdale. Somebody knowing your spiritualistic leanings is playing a very grim joke on you. I can’t believe it.”

      Dr. Teesdale took up the receiver.

      “I am Dr. Teesdale,” he said. “Can you give Mr. Dawkins some sign that it is you?”

      Then he laid it down again.

      “He says he thinks he can,” he said. “We must wait.”

      The evening was again very warm, and the window into the paved yard at the back of the house was open. For

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