“Yes; all right. No; stop!” cried Guest excitedly. Stratton smiled, and his hand remained as if fixed in the air.
“I have it,” continued Guest.
Stratton did not speak, but remained there with his fingers close to the button of the lamp, as if fixed in that position by his friend’s words.
“Look here, old fellow,” cried Guest excitedly. “History does repeat itself.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“How long is it since poor old Brettison had that terrible illness?”
“I don’t know—years; come away.”
“Wait a moment. Well, he was lying helpless, dying, and you suspected something was wrong, broke open the old man’s door, found him insensible, and nursed him back to life.”
Stratton did not stir, but stood bent over the table, listening to his friend’s words.
“Suppose he has come back unknown to you—as he often did—and gone in there. He is old. He may be lying there now. Mal, old chap, this place sends quite a chill through me. How do we know but what just on the other side yonder somebody may be lying dead?” and he pointed toward the closet door.