“Hello, Billy,” he said. “How are you, my boy?”
For a moment I was speechless. “Uncle Jim!” I managed to stammer. “Is it really you, or am I dreaming again?”
Ruth squeezed my arm reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid. It is really your uncle.”
I knelt by the chair and felt Uncle Jim’s arm about my shoulders. “Yes, it is really I, Billy. A bit weak and shaken, perhaps, but I’ll soon be as sound as a new dollar.”
“But how—when—how did you get out of that horrible grave?”
“First, I will ask Miss Ruth if she will be so kind as to preside over the tea wagon. Then I believe my friend Randall can recount the events of the evening much more clearly and satisfactorily than I.”
“Being, perhaps, more familiar with the evening’s deep-laid plot than some of those present, I accept the nomination,” replied the professor, smiling, “although, in doing so, I do not want to detract one iota from the honor due my fellow plotters for their most efficient assistance, without which my plan would have been a complete failure.”
Tea was served, cigars were lighted, and the professor began:
“In the first place, I am sure you will all be interested in knowing the cause of the epidemic on account of which some of our neighbors have reverted to the superstition of the dark ages. It is explained by an article in The Peoria Times, which I brought with me this afternoon, but did not have time to read until a moment ago, which states that the countryside is being swept by a new and strange malady known as ‘sleeping sickness,’ and that physicians have not, as yet, found any efficient means of combating the disease.
“Now for this evening’s little drama. You will, no doubt, recall, Mr. Ansley, that before we joined the funeral procession, I requested a moment’s conversation with my daughter. The events which followed were the result of that conversation.