The story? Oh, yes! [At first he speaks into the tube, but as he continues, he seems to forget his original purpose, becoming engrossed in his subject.] Well, I had it from the man I bought Bird’s Nest of, a year ago, before I put in the improvements. Queer! I don’t believe I’ve thought of it since that day! And I asked him why he didn’t put it in order himself, and he—he said that years ago his father was planning to bring his bride here when——
Martin.
[As Sanford breaks off.] Yes, sir?
Sanford.
[Beginning to laugh softly, as at a delicate joke he does not himself understand.] Why, he could! He simply couldn’t! You see—Bird’s Nest was built for lovers——! [As Martin says nothing.] Lovers, Martin! Why don’t you laugh? Don’t you see the joke?
Martin.
[Gravely.] No, sir. Is the story a joke, sir?
Sanford.
The story? Dear, no! A ghost-story, Martin—think of that! Brrr-rrr! [With a mock shiver, lowering his voice in coarse joviality.] Spooks—haunted! Nobody but me’s had the nerve to think of living here for fifty years and more! Afraid the visitors mightn’t approve. Visitors—ha-ha! Bear in mind, Martin—Bird’s Nest was built for lovers. [As Sanford begins to laugh again, Martin regards him with a curious look. He is still laughing when the grandfather clock in the parlor begins to strike midnight. Sanford, himself again, starts violently, takes a step toward Martin, then, as if rooted to the spot, stands listening. The face of Martin, too, has changed. Pallor, first, then, as the clock strikes on, light, reflected as from some deep centre within, covers his face. He casts one anxious glance at his master; then, as if surrendering himself to his profound absorption, he softly crosses to the porch and peers out. Sanford, as the strokes go on.] Whatever made you wind up that damned old clock, Martin?
Martin.