“He couldn’t,” Coe decided, and then turned his attention to the idea that Webb had been lured away,—say, by means of an imperative message.
But that made the exit from the locked room no easier of solution, and Coley Coe gave it up, and turned in for the night.
As he stretched himself between the sheets of Kimball Webb’s bed, he realized there was no night light, as is usual in modern houses.
He thought of going down stairs for a candle, but concluded that the switch of the centre chandelier was within two jumps of his bedside and depended on that.
He thought of leaving the light on, but assumed that that would bar the intruder,—human or supernatural,—who, he felt sure, would come.
Worn out by his hard thinking and his long and indefatigable searching, the healthy young chap was soon asleep.
How long he slept, he had no idea, but he awoke suddenly, with a feeling of something happening.
He rubbed his sleepy eyes, and saw plainly, though not clearly, a strange light at the foot of the bed. It seemed to be a wraith or phantom, of translucent, shimmering light.
Wide awake in an instant, Coe sprang out of bed and switched on the light.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing unusual in the room.