Nothing had been moved, nothing disturbed.
Coe ran about the room frantically. Not for a minute did he believe he had been dreaming or imagined the vision. He had just as surely seen that white, glimmering apparition as he now saw his own hand. He knew it,—and he knew too, it was some human agency that had compassed it. No supernatural for him! That ghost was the work of some mischievous or wicked human, and who it was Coley Coe determined to discover.
He determined to have another try at it some other night, for, he felt sure, there would be no further performance at this time.
He switched off the light, and went back to bed, feeling that he had at least accomplished something in having had any experience at all.
Again he slept,—and, again he awakened.
This time, he saw nothing. The room was pitch dark, but,—and his thatch of hair rose from his forehead,—he could certainly feel his bed clothes being pulled off!
He lay still a moment, unable to believe his senses, but there was no mistake, they were certainly slipping down,—down, away from his neck, his shoulders,—and then, as he gathered himself for a spring, they were pulled entirely off of him, and thrown back, helter-skelter over his face and head.
A low, and it seemed to him, demoniac chuckle reached his ears, and struggling to free himself from the entangling sheets and blankets, he finally got to the light switch and threw it on.
Again there was nothing to be seen,—nothing to be heard, of any human presence.
Coley sat down in the big chair, lighted a cigarette and began to size the matter up.