Seizing the lantern, Mr. Callister swept its light underneath the bed.
The dust that everywhere filled the room was there plentiful enough, but that was all.
There were no signs of its having been recently disturbed—it lay in one unbroken sheet upon the floor.
At that instant a terrific gust of wind swept the rain fiercely against the panes.
And amid its moaning of the oaks without, and the rattling of the rain upon the glass, a low, mocking laugh was heard, seemingly from the floor itself, which sent a chill to the very marrow of his bones.
"This thing must be investigated," muttered the man, striding toward the fire-place. "Either that woman lives, or—but, pshaw! Don't I know she is dead? I saw her killed with my own eyes. I know that at this very moment her body lies waiting identification in the Morgue. There is some infernal trickery in all this; what it means I must know and will."
Setting down the lantern by the side of the hearth-stone, he seized the shoulder of the unconscious man and shook it with all the violence he could exert.
"Rube, Rube!" he cried, "what ails you, man? For Heaven's sake, stop this nonsense and try to be something like yourself!"
Slowly the eyes opened and Reuben Tisdale, raising himself to a sitting posture, looked wildly around.
"Lije, did you see her, or was it only meant for me?"