"And soberly?" interposed Frank, with a twinkling eye, and a tone that might be taken either for jest or earnest.
"And soberly," asserted Bell, resentfully. "As sober as you are now, Mr. Frank Raynor. I was stepping along quietly, I say, when the church clock began to strike. I stood to count it, not believing it could be twelve—not thinking I had stayed all that time at the druggist's. It was twelve, however, and I was still standing after the last stroke had died away, wondering how the time could have passed, when those other sounds broke out high in the air above me. Seven of them: I counted them as I had counted the clock. The saddest sound of a wail I've ever heard—save once before. It seemed to freeze me up."
"Did you hear more?" asked Dr. Raynor.
"No. And the last two sounds of the seven were so faint, I should not have heard them if I had not been listening. The cries had broken out right above where I was standing: they seemed to die away gradually in the distance."
"I say that you may have been mistaken, Bell," persisted Dr. Raynor. "The sounds you heard may not have been the Seven Whistlers at all."
Bell shook his head, His manner and voice this morning were more subdued than usual. "I can't be mistaken in them. No man can be who has once heard them, Dr. Raynor."
"Is it this that has turned your face so grey?" questioned Frank, alluding to the pallor noticed by his uncle; but which the elder and experienced man had refrained from remarking upon.
"I didn't know it was grey," rejoined Bell, his resentful tones cropping up again.
"It's as grey as this powder," persisted Frank, holding forth a delectable compound he was preparing for some unfortunate patient.
"And so, on the strength of this night adventure of yours, Bell, all you men are making holiday to-day!" resumed the doctor.