The boy fought for control. “Not—not when I’m with you and Lady.”
“Good lad. Find your flash. Got it? Spot it on the wall. Look sharply, now. Does that wall look strange in any way, in any way at all?”
Joe compelled himself to make the inspection. “No, sir.”
Roscoe Sweetman’s boots thudded on the porch. The farmer came in, panting, followed by Frederick Wingate. Dr. Stone had moved away from the wall.
“What’s this?” the artist demanded. “Moans, screams, footsteps? It sounds like a dime novel. Let’s hear them.”
But the house now held to a soundless quiet. Ten or fifteen minutes passed.
“It looks,” Dr. Stone observed, “as though our ghost has called it a day.”
“Sweetman,” Mr. Wingate snapped impatiently, “this is the second time you’ve called me from my work for nothing. Where’s your ghost?”
“He was here,” the farmer insisted. He appeared to be filled with a dull surprise.
“The second time,” Dr. Stone repeated thoughtfully. “I’d call that strange, Fred.”