“String him up!”
Suddenly a strange voice rose above the clamor. A voice that seemed to come from nowhere and yet was everywhere—the like of which no man there had ever heard before. Rich, full, vibrant, it fell upon puzzled ears and once again there was pause. The keyless chorus of execrations ceased abruptly, as if a mighty hand were clapped upon a hundred mouths.
All eyes were upon the owner of this wondrous, clarion voice. A startling figure she was, standing erect upon the front seat of Lansing’s car. Magically tall and mysterious as she towered above and out of the path of light thrown by the car behind.
“Men of Rumley! Hold! Hold, I command you! Is there one among you who has not heard of the gypsy’s prophecy of thirty years ago? Let him speak who will, and let him speak for all.”
A score of voices answered.
“Aye!” she went on. “You all have heard it. It is as familiar to you, old and young, as the story of the Crucifixion. There are old men among you. Men who were here when that truthful prophecy was uttered thirty years ago. You old men heard of the gypsy’s prophecy within twenty-four hours after it was spoken in the house you have ravished to-night. You heard it word for word, faithfully repeated by men and women who were present and who have never forgotten what she said. I ask one of you—any one of you—to stand forth and tell the rest of this craven mob what the gypsy fortune-teller said on that wild and stormy night.”
Two or three men stepped forward as if fascinated.
“She said the baby son of Oliver Baxter would be hung for murder before he was thirty years old,” bawled one of them.
“He killed his father. He ought to be hung. The gypsy was right,” shouted another.
“And what else did she say?” rang out the voice of Josephine Judge.