He waited.
“I can hear nothing whatever,” he said at length. “Ah, there was something there. The faintest whisper.”
“Ah, try to hear, try to hear!” said the doctor.
Again the chaplain listened. Suddenly he laid the instrument down, frowning.
“Something—somebody said, ‘I killed her, I confess it. I want to be forgiven.’ It’s a hoax, my dear Teesdale. Somebody knowing your spiritualistic leanings is playing a very grim joke on you. I can’t believe it.”
Dr Teesdale took up the receiver.
“I am Dr Teesdale,” he said. “Can you give Mr Dawkins some sign that it is you?”
Then he laid it down again.
“He says he thinks he can,” he said. “We must wait.”
The evening was again very warm, and the window into the paved yard at the back of the house was open. For five minutes or so the two men stood in silence, waiting, and nothing happened. Then the chaplain spoke.