“Now,” continued the Professor hurriedly, somewhat steadied by Jack’s composure (though I’m certain that was only assumed), “I would suggest, in the interest of scientific research, that before anything is said upon the subject we each in turn write a brief description of the—er—phenomenon. In this way there will be less danger of our impression being colored by that of another mind, and—er—ladies first.”
With this lame finish he handed me a little, red note-book and a pencil.
“Write briefly what you saw,—I take it you did see something,—then turn the page and pass the book to Mr. Wilton.”
This struck me as being decidedly original, and since I was not nearly as frightened as one would suppose (it was such a comfort being reconciled to Clifford!), I took the book and did the best I could.
Then Clifford drew his arm reluctantly from under my cape,—I hope and pray no one knew it was there all this while,—scribbled rapidly, turned the page, and gave the book to Jack, and then his arm oh, well, what could I do? I did try pinching his hand, but his fingers caught mine in an awful grip and wouldn’t let go, and so—what could I do?
Just then Aunt Jane woke with a shiver.
“Mercy,” she said, “what an awful storm!”
In a moment she noticed the steps in the other room.
“Strange,” she said, turning her head to listen. “What is it, do you think?”
“Wind,” said the Professor rather curtly, for him.