The Dead Man turned toward the front door, the old quizzical smile on his lips.
"Come in, Andrew," he said. "I'm going to give you one more chance at the theory you were wise enough to form and are not wise enough to practise."
Dr. McPherson entered.
"I thought I'd just drop in for a minute before bedtime," said he, "to see how Willem——"
"Oh, Doctor!" cried Mrs. Batholommey. "This is providential. I was just coming to get you. Here's Willem. We found he'd gotten out of bed and wandered down here. He is worse. Much worse. He's quite delirious."
"H'm!" commented Dr. McPherson, touching the child's face and then laying a finger on the fast, light pulse. "He doesn't look it. He has a slight fever again, but——"
"Oh, he said old Mr. Grimm was here!" bleated Mrs. Batholommey. "Here in this room with him."
"What?" gasped Kathrien.
But the doctor seemed to regard the statement as the most natural thing imaginable.
"In this room?" he repeated in a matter of fact tone. "Well, very possibly he is. There's nothing so remarkable about that, is there?"