She sprang from the bed, and, running to the 'phone, snatched the receiver from its hook.
"Yes, yes?" she answered breathlessly. "What is it?"
A voice came over the wire; a man's voice, rising and falling creepily in a sing-song, mocking sort of way:
"Is that you, Polly—Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—Wickes—Wickes—P-o-l-l-y W-i-c-k-e-s?"
It frightened her. She felt the blood ebb from her cheeks. There was something horribly familiar in the voice—but she could not place it. Her hand reached out to the wall for support.
"Yes"—she tried to hold her voice in control, to answer steadily—"yes; I am Polly Wickes. Who are you? What do you want?"
She heard the sound as of a gust of wind from a door that was suddenly blown open, the beat of the sea, then the slam of a door—and then the voice again:
"Polly—Polly Wickes." The words seemed to be choked now with malicious laughter. "Why don't you dress in black, Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—for your mother, Polly Wickes?"
"What do you mean?" she cried frantically. "Who are you? Who are you? What do you mean?"
There was no answer.