"This is Livingston Royce, speaking," I replied.
"Oh, Mr. Royce! For God's sake, come to me at once! This is—"
The voice broke off abruptly, in a low gurgling sound that conveyed a sense of its being strangled in the speaker's throat. Then, curiously enough, I heard the voice again, miles off, it seemed—a smothered, muffled cry of "Help! Help!" Then it trailed out into indistinctness, and there was complete silence on the telephone. The voice was familiar, but for the moment I could not place it.
Cradling the receiver, I sat staring up at the reporter. He spoke first—it seemed as if a long time had elapsed before he did speak.
"Who was it?" he asked. "Somebody that we want?"
"Yes; I think so," I replied, almost breathlessly. "Yes; I'm sure it is."
The voice on the telephone had set my memory working; stimulating my forgetful mind. I had a sort of vision. In fancy, I could see the outline of an old house, silhouetted against the night sky. But there was not a speck of light to be seen in any of the windows.
And then, suddenly, as my mind groped in the darkness, a light dawned on me.
XXVI