Miss Cornelia elucidated. “Mr. Anderson has already formed a theory of the crime,” she said with a trace of sarcasm in her tones.
The detective turned on her quickly. “I haven’t said that.” He started.
It had come again—tinkling—persistent.—the phone call from nowhere—the ringing of the bell of the house telephone!
“The house telephone—again!” breathed Dale. Miss Cornelia made a movement to answer the tinkling, inexplicable bell. But Anderson was before her.
“I’ll answer that!” he barked. He sprang to the phone.
“Hello—hello—”
All eyes were bent on him nervously—the Doctor’s face, in particular, seemed a very study in fear and amazement. He clutched the back of a chair to support himself, his hand was the trembling hand of a sick, old man.
“Hello—hello—” Anderson swore impatiently. He hung up the phone.
“There’s nobody there!”
Again, a chill breath from another world than ours seemed to brush across the faces of the little group in the living-room. Dale, sensitive, impressionable, felt a cold, uncanny prickling at the roots of her hair.