Gildersleeve sprang from his bunk. With hands that trembled he lit the lamp and shook Lynch into wakefulness.
“Lynch,” he demanded, “that cry you heard up in the hills when you were coming down—just what was it like?”
The detective sat up blinking. “I’m not likely ever to forget it, Mr. Gildersleeve,” he replied. “It was a howl that was half laughter, half wail—like the cry of a loon.”
Gildersleeve started back a-tremble. “And—and did you see anything, Lynch?”
“S’help me the only living thing I saw I didn’t want to tell you of before—you wouldn’t believe it. As heaven is my judge, the thing that gave that terrible cry was in the shape of a man.”
“That’s all I wanted to know, Lynch.”
Gildersleeve stumbled back to his bunk leaving the light burning. Between teeth that chattered he mumbled to himself:—
“The cry of a loon—from a man. At last—at last, I understand.”