“Patience, Monsieur, patience,” cried Peret. “The glimmer of light that you see is a will-o’-the wisp. Dalfonzo is a man; the Thing is—the Thing. The murders were instigated by Dalfonzo, but were committed by the invisible terror.”
Deweese, as had many a man before him, began to wonder if he had to deal with an imbecile or a man by no means as feeble-minded as he seemed. In his puzzlement he stared at Peret for a moment, with mouth agape, then he leaned forward in his chair until less than two feet separated his corpselike face from Peret’s.
“And what the devil is the Whispering Thing?” he asked sharply.
“All in good time,” came the amiable reply. “Let us first consider the little slip that upset Dalfonzo’s apple cart.”
“Well, let us consider the little slip then,” said Deweese, relaxing in his chair. “Where did our diplomatic freelance slip?”
“Why, when he tried to murder me in the same way that he did that poor Berjet,” quietly responded Peret.
The artist half rose from his chair and stared at the detective with astonishment written on his face.
“Do you mean to say that you have been attacked by the Whispering Thing?” he demanded.
“Just that, Monsieur. I was attacked by the whispering phantom in my rooms last night after I left the scene of the attack on you. You can realize, therefore, that I can appreciate all that you have gone through. It is true that my experience was, in some respects, not as terrible as your own, because I escaped the Thing before it could do me bodily harm. But I never expect entirely to recover from the fright it gave me. Mon dieu, what a monster this Dalfonzo is!”
“It was at his instigation that the Thing attacked you?” questioned Deweese.