Those gate-house towers that nod to me across the lawn—may they harbour the Parson? Those locked cellars that no one has seen for years. Who or what may not be down there? There are persons unaccounted for in the Vale. And where now is the drowning-pit? In olden days this castle must have had one. Discovering it, would I know more about the Parson, or about the perfidious tree, or about the cat’s claw?
Some of these questions I may be able to answer, if—
Yes, just now, at eleven minutes to twelve, I tossed a sixpence to decide. It fell spinning on the table, wobbled provokingly, and said, “Go forth.”
Let the Parson beware! If I catch him—or her—to-night!
Five minutes to twelve.
Great God, through my open window—
Some woman’s voice, very faint. . . . I am not sure whose. It is not Paula Lebetwood’s.
It called “Sean, poor Sean!” many times, and died away.
XXI.
The Midnight Expedition
October 8. 11 A.M.