“How could this happen?” mused the guilty man, trembling from head to foot.
Just at that moment he heard loud laughter outside in the garden—laughter not like that of men, but of demons.
He rushed to the window, and saw below the hideous forms of a dozen skeleton men, dancing and shouting in wild delight.
“Some of the Skeleton Crew!” he gasped, placing his hands before his face to shut out the horrid sight.
On the instant they vanished in the darkness, with loud shouts of mockery, like things of air!
Almost struck dumb with astonishment, he stood there, as if transfixed to the spot.
A gust of wind blew out his lamp.
In the dreadful darkness he heard the heavy footfalls of a man descending the stairs with slow and solemn step, while a voice, exactly like Farmer Bertram’s, was heard repeating in sepulchral tones in the hall below—
“My footsteps shall follow you, Phillip Redgill, for ever!”
“Phillip Redgill,” gasped the murderer, “that is my name! Oh, God! it is the farmer’s voice, and yet he is here, lifeless and legless! Hark, what steps are those I hear? who could have limbed him thus?”