They emerged from the house, and almost at once Frederick Wingate came out of his own dwelling wearing a paint-smeared apron.
“By Harry!” he cried angrily, “this ceases to be a joke. Now the police are here, and next it will be in the newspapers. They’ll howl it up with scare headlines, and the rabble will come down on us by train, and bus and private car. The neighborhood will be marked for sordid sensation. Sweetman’s place, Farley’s, mine—none of them will be worth a dollar. Nobody has heard these screams, and footsteps and heartbeats. It’s hysterical imagination.”
“I’ll come over tonight and try my imagination,” Captain Tucker said.
The artist stormed back into his house and slammed the door.
Dr. Stone, holding to Lady’s harness-grip, went serenely toward his home. Mr. Rodgers talked warmly. Wingate had the right idea—hysteria. But Joe, though silent, could still feel the tremor of his nerves. There had been screams and heartbeats. And a boy had fallen into a well and drowned!
Captain Tucker and the real estate man climbed into the police car and were off. Instantly the unconcern fell away from the blind man. He held out the scrap of paper.
“Read it, Joe?”
The boy read the few, disjointed words on the triangular strip:
If the effects sonority periments. By means of succeeded in
“Does it mean anything, Uncle Dave?” he asked, puzzled.