“My dear lady, if you know what I know, and what Dr. Holcomb has discovered, you would ask YOURSELF a question or so. Possibly you yourself are a spirit!”
“What!” she gasped. “I—a spirit!”
“Exactly. But there is no time for questions. Afterwards—not now. Five hours, and we must—”
Someone came to the door. It was Jerome. At the sight of Watson he stopped, clutching the stub of his cigar between his teeth. His grey eyes took in the other's form from head to shoe leather.
“Back?” he inquired. “What did you find out, Watson? They must have fed you well over yonder!”
And Jerome pointed toward the ceiling with his thumb. It wasn't in his dour nature to give way to enthusiasm; this was merely his manner of welcome. Watson smiled.
“The eats were all right, Jerome, but not all the company. You're just the man I want. We have little time; none to spare for talk. Are you in touch with Bertha Holcomb?”
The detective nodded.
Watson took the chair that Fenton had so strangely vacated and reached for paper and pencil. Once or twice he stopped to draw a line, but mostly he was calculating. He referred constantly to a paper he took from his pocket. When he was through he spread his palm over what he had written.
“Jerome!”