“Queer thing the way that door shut and locked itself,” he said, when we emerged on the smooth paving of Sheridan Road. “The key must have been half turned in the lock when the wind blew it shut. The jar locked it and shook out the key.”
Although I did not feel that his explanation of the phenomenon was a true one, I decided not to debate the matter with him, as it was evident that Miss Van Loan did not want it known among her acquaintances that there were strange goings-on in her home.
“It was odd,” I agreed.
“Too bad that the lights had to go out just when they did, too,” he went on. “A most unfortunate coincidence.”
“It was,” I said, with mental reservations.
An hour later at the hospital, my wound was dressed and a considerable quantity of serum injected into my bloodstream. Then I called a cab which got me back to my friends shortly after midnight.
I found Dr. Dorp dozing in one of the porch chairs with a blanket around him, and Miss Van Loan, completely exhausted, asleep in the swing.
“Better try to get some rest in one of these chairs,” said the doctor. “There is nothing further we can do until morning.”
I was not loath to follow his suggestion, and soon drifted into a fitful, dream-haunted slumber from which I did not thoroughly awaken until the slanting rays of the morning sun struck me full in the face.
For a moment I sat there, blinking in the bright light, trying to remember where I was. Then the sound of a low cough from the doorway caused me to turn. I beheld the cadaverous face and angular form of Riggs.