“Did Sweetman happen to be in a buying mood?” Dr. Stone asked quietly.
“An eager mood. That’s what I can’t understand.”
“How much did he offer?”
“Twenty-five hundred.”
And yesterday, Joe thought, the farmer had mentioned $3,000. He glanced at his uncle. The blind man had struck a match to the unlighted pipe.
“We heard a little of everything, Rodgers—groans, screams, the footsteps of a child, singing.” Blue smoke rose fragrantly from the pipe. “A child singing,” the doctor added, and turned sightless eyes toward the captain. “What brings you into this, Tucker. Planning to arrest a ghost?”
“Ghost?” Captain Tucker snorted. “I don’t believe in ghosts. There’s such a thing as hocus-pocus to steal away the value of a piece of property. Did you know Matt Farley?”
“No.”
“Rodgers and I did. A friend to tie to. Matt was doing well here, but his youngest boy, about four, died. It broke him up. Two years later he closed the house and went away. Now he’s out on the Coast, sick and penniless, and he asked Rodgers to sell the place and get money to him. I’m in on this to see that no swindle is put over on him.”
Dr. Stone asked: “How did the boy die, Tucker?”