Instantly the house was alive. Somebody was calling for lanterns. Another voice was shouting to Professor Ravenden to come back, to wait, not to venture out into the night without light. The two reporters, with the Colton brothers, got to the piazza at the same time.
Meantime the shrieks grew louder. They came short and at regular intervals, with an almost mechanical effect.
“That’s like hysteria,” said Dick Colton. “Can anyone make out just where it comes from?”
As if in reply, the professor’s precise accents were heard.
“This way. He is here.”
There was a rush of the men. “I have him,” called Professor Ravenden.
Once more the voice was raised, but subsided into a long, sobbing moan. Then the savant staggered into view, carrying the limp form of the young Swede.
“He has fainted,” he said. “He was rushing by me, quite unheeding my call, when I caught him and he fell, as if shot. I trust he is not injured.”
“Unhurt,” said Dick Colton, “but literally frightened almost to death.”
Henkle came to half an hour later. No explanation could be had of him, other than a shuddering indication of some overhanging terror. Once he made a sweeping gesture of the arms, much as had Whalley on the night of the wreck. The physician gave him a sleeping powder and arranged to see him early in the morning.