"What can we do?" he asked.

  "I am thinking," said Dodd quietly, his eyes still on the horizon.

  "But," persisted the surgeon, "do you still believe—?"

  "I am sure that the bell is a summons to some one. If you do not understand its message, it is because it is not for you. Perhaps it is not even for me, for I do not seem to grasp the meaning of it. But it is calling to some one here, or it would not ring. And that one will understand if he is here."

  "Still," pursued the surgeon, encouraged, "even granting the existence of a spirit that exists after death, is it conceivable that that spirit can assert itself in this way? As a man of science, it seems too fanciful to me."

  "What," replied Dodd, "can be more fanciful than science itself? It is dumb before the mysteries which it pretends to understand. Can you, as a scientist, explain to me why, when a button is pressed in Room 42, a bell should ring in this room?"

  "Electricity—" began the surgeon.

  "And what is electricity? Even science does not pretend to know. Is it not inconceivable that it should be able to flow through a solid copper wire? And yet it does. Man's soul, his spirit, is more mysterious than electricity. Why can it not flow through the ether and create a disturbance in its environment? Released from the body which it inhabited, why can it not hover near by and make its will known to those it wishes to reach? Scofield Carrington's body died, but his spirit, refusing to die unsatisfied, is still alive, restless, insistent, urging the fulfillment of its desire that it may be set at peace. And it will not give up until it is satisfied. There," he added, as the bell rang, "it is still calling. It will continue until he for whom it is meant obeys the call."

  "But who is it for?" asked the surgeon weakly.

  Madison Dodd turned slowly, but his eyes did not meet the surgeon's. They made a circuit of the room and came to pause on the figure of young Carrington, who had stirred for the first time and was now sitting up, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The surgeon followed his companion's gaze. It suddenly came to him that perhaps young Carrington, who had not uttered a word, understood; for he could see that, beneath the surface of his immobility, there was a great struggle going on, that a difficult resolve was forming.

  He turned to Dodd, expecting some revelation from him, but the man's face was a mask. His fingers were twined in the cord hanging from the window-shade and his eyes were fixed on the youth. The surgeon observed the youth once more.

  Slowly Edward Carrington's hands lowered from his face. Slowly he rose and turned. His eyes were clear. His features were firm. And he came forward with decision in his whole bearing.

  "Mr. Dodd," he said in a slow, level voice, pausing before his father's friend, "that bell was for me."

  IV

  Dr. Stockbridge's eyes grew wide with amazement at this simple avowal. But Madison Dodd's expression did not change.

  "Well?" he prompted calmly, his fingers still toying with the window-shade cord.

  "I have been fighting it out with myself," said young Carrington, "all morning, ever since father—" He paused, and his lips were unsteady. "You know how unhappy he was over me, my failure to live up to his name. And he died feeling that he had failed to redeem me. But all morning I have felt his nearness. And when I came in here and they told me — when I heard the bell and saw the call from his room — I knew. The call was for me. I understood what he wanted me to do. I obey."

  He came forward a step and his hand went to his breast pocket. When it came forth, it held a long envelope.

  "This is it," he said, handing the envelope to Dodd. "It is father's will. It leaves me without a penny, as he said it would. I have deserved nothing better."

  The shade flew up with a bang as Madison Dodd released the cord and extended his hand for the envelope, heavily sealed, and addressed to him. Slowly he put his gold-rimmed pince-nez to his nose and then he thrust his finger under the flap of the envelope to tear it open. But he paused and looked up as he heard a low murmur in the outer office. Dr. Stockbridge looked up too.

  Nurses and internes were whispering excitedly to each other, their eyes on the clock. The surgeon followed their glance, and then he understood the meaning of their agitation. The minute hand was pointing to the half-hour. The bell should have rung, as it had rung every ten minutes all morning with unfailing precision. It had not rung. The hushed excitement of the uniformed men and women grew in intensity as a minute passed and still the bell was not heard. Two minutes passed. Three minutes…

  Dr. Stockbridge turned to Madison Dodd. Carrington's friend stood near the window, a sheaf of legal papers, evidently the will, in one hand, a typewritten sheet in the other. He was reading this, and he looked up as the surgeon came toward him. He waved his arm in the direction of the outer office.

  "Send them away, doctor," he said quietly. "Carrington's summons has been answered."

  One by one the nurses and internes filed out of the office in obedience to Dr. Stockbridge's gesture of dismissal. When they were gone, the surgeon returned to the side of Madison Dodd.

  "You'll understand when I read this," said Dodd.

  He adjusted his glasses and brought the typewritten sheet closer.

  "This is my last test for Ed," he read. "If he gives this envelope to you, as I instructed him, then my original will stands as it is, leaving all to him. When I gave my boy this envelope, I told him it contained a new will, disowning him and leaving him without a penny. If he has enough manhood to give this to you, then I shall know that he has repented and that he has the courage to take his punishment manfully. In that case, he will prove himself a true Carrington and will deserve the fortune that comes to him. This is exactly as we planned it, old friend. My prayer is that he will make good. My spirit shall not rest until he does. And I trust that my everlasting peace will not be disturbed by my boy's craven failure to deliver this message to you.

  Scofield Carrington."

  Madison Dodd looked up. his fingers folding the sheet he had just read.

  "Scofield Carrington's spirit is at peace now," he said, in a solemn voice.

  V

  The men's hands met at the door. It was a silent clasp. Dr. Stockbridge's lips pursed and his eyes lowered.

  "Mr. Dodd," he said, "this is the first experience of the kind I've ever had. As a man of science—"

  "My dear doctor," broke in his companion, "science is still in its infancy. Some day it may be able to explain many things that are still beyond understanding."

  He nodded and turned on his heel. There was a smile on his face, but Dr. Stockbridge did not see this.

  "Basement," said Dodd to the elevator man, as the car shot downward.

  Emerging from the cage, Dodd hurried down the dimly lighted corridor. He paused before a door over which there was a neatly printed sign "Electrician."

  A man in overalls rose as Dodd entered, touching his cap.

  "Did I get that shade signal right?" he asked with a smile.

  "Perfectly," said Dodd, drawing a banknote from his wallet and crushing it into the man's hand. "And now you may rearrange those wires. You did splendidly. Thank you."

  The man touched his cap, and Madison Dodd, nodding, passed out of the room.

  The Abandoned House

  by Beulah Poynter

  I

  The blinding rain which had been steadily falling for the last hour cut and stung our faces, and the wind wheezing through the trees about us rocked our little car until it made progress almost impossible. An illuminating streak of lightning, followed by a deafening crash of thunder, caused me to cower down in the seat and cover my ears with my hands.

  "Well, here's our finish!" exclaimed my brother, who had valiantly striven to pilot the machine in the storm. "There's a tree lying directly across the road."

  He brought the car to a standstill, and turned his spotlight on the dark object blocking our path. It was a huge tree, evidently stricken down by the lightning, and it covered the entire road.

  "What on earth are we going to do?" I sobbed hysterically. "We can't stay out in a storm like this, and we are miles and miles away from anyone!"

  We had been steadily climbing an upward grade, and the cavern-like ravines on either side and the depths of blackness behind me struck a chill in my heart. "I wish we'd never come out on this crazy motor trip," I wailed. "New York is good enough for me. Alan, what can we do?"

  "I'll see," he answered. "Keep your hand on the brake, this is a pretty stiff hill, and the road is slippery; if the car starts skidding it's good night."

  He spoke jocularly enough, but I knew he was worried. Climbing out of the machine, he went around to the big, supine tree and examined it.

  "It's no use, Nell," he called to me, pitching his voice above the roar of the wind, "I can't budge it."

  In the brief light caused by a second flash of lightning, I saw the stark, bare outlines of a two-story house, possibly a hundred feet ahead of us on my right.

  "Alan, there's a house! A house up there further on the hill," I cried wildly.

  "You're right, there is. It's either an empty one, or its occupants hit the hay early. I'll pull the car out onto the side of the road, and we'll make a run for it."

  He got back into his seat, and with a few careful maneuvers of the wheel succeeded in bringing the machine around to a spot where it might stand in safety. Then he searched in the darkness until he found a rock, which he placed under the wheel in case something should start it rolling down-grade.

  "Turn up your collar! The rain feels like ice-water when you're out in it. That house is probably farther off than it looks."

  Taking my hand, he helped me out. My feet went into deep mud, and I almost lost my balance. With a little shriek I clutched him to save myself. Then we started to run.

  It was up-hill all the way, a much steeper and longer climb than I had anticipated, and, as Alan had said, the rain was like ice-water beating against the back of my neck and shoulders. I was shaking and shivering like a drowned cat by the time we reached the stoop on the front of the building.

  The house was barren of fence and surrounding trees, and stood on a sort of knoll at the side of the hills. No light was visible anywhere. Alan used his pocket flash and that guided us to the front door, which was swinging dismally back and forth on one hinge, making a doleful, creaking noise, distinguishable above the wind. We did not stop to knock, feeling pretty certain the house had no occupant or the door would be locked on a night like this.

  "For such shelter let us give thanks!" Alan chuckled grimly, pushing me in first. He closed the door after us to shut out the rain, but it immediately swung open again.

  We found ourselves in a long, wide hall which evidently divided the house through the centre. At the extreme end was an old-fashioned staircase with banisters. The floors creaked and gave with the weight of our bodies as we walked, and I fancied a rat scurried across my foot.

  There was an odor of mustiness and damp about the place, as though it had not been occupied for years.

  There were no furnishings of any kind, no blinds to the windows, and most of the panes of glass were missing; but even in the dim light that Alan's "spot" afforded we could see it had an old-time elegance. Probably at one time monstrous log fires had burnt in the massive brick fireplaces at the end of the two rooms opening off the separating hallway. The woodwork appeared to be of black walnut, the floors unquestionably had been highly polished, though now they were worn and earth-stained. The ceilings were falling, and the wallpaper hung in great strips from the plastering — a more uninviting place could not be imagined. I clung to Alan's arm, half afraid to venture farther.

  "I'm awfully cold," I whimpered, through chattering teeth. "D'ye suppose there's a stove in the kitchen? Maybe we can find some paper and start a fire if there is."

  Alan did not answer, but led the way to the back of the house. Before some swinging doors he hesitated a second, then flung them open and entered; I followed. It was an old-fashioned brick-floored kitchen. In one corner stood a battered, rust-covered coal-range. The chimney was disconnected, and part of it lay on the floor before the open oven. Piles of old rags and broken bits of twigs and newspaper filled a box near it.

  Alan thrust the spot light into my hand and pounced upon the debris. In a little while he had a fire burning in the old stove, and the kitchen was filled with sooty smoke and blessed warmth.

  I stripped off my soggy motor coat, and flung it across the box to dry out; Alan removed his coat and did likewise.

  "Now, if I just had a cup of coffee and a sandwich I wouldn't be at all unhappy," I said.

  "Forget it!" he laughed. "Nothing doing. It's a lucky thing for us this old barn is well built. If it wasn't I could see visions of that wind lifting it off its pins and tossing it down into the cavern."

  I shuddered. "Let's not think about it. The car may not even be there in the morning."

  To kill time and to get our minds off the storm outside I suggested that we rummage around a bit, and see what the place was like upstairs.

  As we stepped into the long open hallway, a gust of wind whipped through the swinging door and carried with it a perfect torrent of rain, that made little puddles at our feet.

  Fearfully I followed Alan up the long, broad flight of stairs, feeling that uncanny something that is so often present in an old, unused house. I half expected some spectre of the past to reach out and lay clammy, unearthly hands upon me, or a shadowy something to greet us on the landing where we paused and looked about.

  There were six doors leading off the corridor, all exactly alike. With the exception of one they were slightly ajar — the sixth appeared to be locked.

  Curiosity prompted me to go toward it first. The knob turned in my hand, but the door stayed closed.

  "Bluebeard's den!" laughed Alan. "Take care that you aren't another Ann."

  "It's locked."

  "Obviously."

  "I wonder why."

  "Possibly for the same reason that all the others aren't. The owner, when he left the place, didn't take the trouble to unlock it."

  I twisted and turned the knob, trying to force an entrance, but the lock held in spite of its age and rustiness. Alan laughed at my efforts, then he pushed open the door to his right, which was slightly ajar. His exclamation of surprise called my attention from the bolted door.

  "What is it?" I gasped.

  "By George, Nell, look here!"

  II

  I followed him into the room. My surprise equalled his own at what I saw. In direct contrast to the barrenness of the rooms below, this one was beautifully furnished with rich draperies covering the crumbling walls, and rugs upon the floor. The furniture was evidently new, and though a trifle gaudy, not without taste.

  A table in the centre of the room covered with a damask cloth, china and silver, was spread as though for a meal. There was a half-emptied bottle of wine, and two glasses. One glass still contained the liquor. Even a loaf of bread and some cold cuts and salad remained. An open lunch kit rested in a chair near the table.

  I looked at Alan in amazement. He gave me a glance of equal astonishment.

  "I don't quite understand it," he murmured. "Do you suppose it is possible that some one lives here?"

  I shook my head. "With the whole lower floor going to rack and ruin, and overrun with rats? No, it isn't possible."

  "Nell, this bread is soft." He lifted the loaf and thrust his finger into the crust; then he glanced half apprehensively over his shoulder at some velvet draperies which covered the double doors.

  I don't know why, but I shivered. Judging from their juxtaposition those doors led into the room which was bolted from the hallway.

  Alan lowered his voice as he spoke.

  "Someone is either in this house or has been here but a short time ago," he said. "This food is fresh. For some reason it has not been eaten."

  I gave a little cry, half of protest, half of fear, as he parted the draperies, and drew back the heavy-paneled doors behind them.

  Then I cried out in horror. Lying across a canopied bed was' a man in evening clothes. It needed no second glance even in the small light Alan's spot afforded to show us he was dead. That eit her s uicide or murder had caused his death, for on the white bosom of his shirt was a hideous red spot, and the blue satin and lace of the bedspread was stained with blood.

  "My God!" Alan whispered hoarsely.

  As if to accentuate the gruesomeness of the picture and its surroundings, a streak of lightning flashed directly upon that supine figure on the bed. The burst of thunder which followed seemed to rend the sky in two. The wind careening madly around the house, rocked and banged the shutters of the one window.

  "Let's — let's try to go on!" I sobbed. "This is awful, I can't stand it here like this!"

  "It looks like murder—" he muttered.

  Seemingly compelled against his will he advanced toward the bed. I watched him in fascination as he let his light play upon the features of the man lying there. Then more fearful of the shadows behind me, and the blackness of the room we had left than of the dead, I crept close to him.

  Almost of one accord, we exclaimed, "Judge MacPherson!"

  A tall lean man with reddish grey hair, a trifle long, a sandy beard and no mustache, keen, cruel eyes with crisscross wrinkles about them. MacPherson, in life, was a man not easily forgotten if once known, and not to be mistaken for anyone else, even in death. The man stretched out before us was unquestionably Judge MacPherson. Then, too, I recognized an unusual sapphire and diamond ring on his finger which I had admired at a dinner party not a month before.

  "It is murder," Alan said. "He hasn't been robbed, either. I wonder if there is a telephone here."

  "Why?"

  "To call up the police, of course."

 

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