Again, and in the same hoarse, menacing, hollow way, the sound was repeated:
“Hear me! I am the Voice of Doom.”
Potts was shaking with fright. Uncanny and weird, the sound woke in the rather poorly educated man all the primitive fears and superstitions of his ancestors.
Grover, listening with his head on one side, his eyes on the Doctor, spoke:
“He isn’t a ventriloquist, Roger. The changes in muscular and other throat parts developed by constant ventriloquial practice, do not show. We took a film, remember, of just such throat development in connection with our research for the clue to our case when the deaf man ‘heard things.’”
Roger, recalling that in that case a tiny click had also come, when he had listened on a headset, jumped to the conclusion that he had before found correct.
“Somebody is using Mr. Ellison’s little radio test-sender,” he declared, confidently.
Grover nodded. “Possibly. Go and see.”
“His private locker needs a key that is in the safe.”
“Never mind, then. I think you have the explanation, Roger.”