Next night accordingly, the two sat at their dinner in the doctor’s dining-room, and when they were left to their cigarettes and coffee the doctor spoke.
“You must not think me mad, my dear Dawkins,” he said, “when you hear what I have got to tell you.”
Mr Dawkins laughed.
“I will certainly promise not to do that,” he said.
“Good. Last night and the night before, a little later in the evening than this, I spoke through the telephone with the spirit of the man we saw executed two days ago. Charles Linkworth.”
The chaplain did not laugh. He pushed back his chair, looking annoyed.
“Teesdale,” he said, “is it to tell me this—I don’t want to be rude—but this bogey-tale that you have brought me here his evening?”
“Yes. You have not heard half of it. He asked me last night to get hold of you. He wants to tell you something. We can guess, I think, what it is.”
Dawkins got up.
“Please let me hear no more of it,” he said. “The dead do not return. In what state or under what condition they exist has not been revealed to us. But they have done with all material things.”