There was a perceptible tremor in the man’s voice as he answered. “Yes, sir. Is it Dr Teesdale?”

“Yes. Has anything happened here with you?”

Twice it seemed that the man tried to speak and could not. At the third
attempt the words came. “Yes, sir. He has been here. I saw him go into the room where the
telephone is.”

“Ah! Did you speak to him?”

“No, sir: I sweated and prayed. And there’s half a dozen men as have
been screaming in their sleep to-night. But it’s quiet again now. I
think he has gone into the execution shed.”

“Yes. Well, I think there will be no more disturbance now. By the way,
please give me Mr Dawkins’s home address.”

       *       *       *       *       *

This was given him, and Dr Teesdale proceeded to write to the chaplain,
asking him to dine with him on the following night. But suddenly he
found that he could not write at his accustomed desk, with the telephone
standing close to him, and he went upstairs to the drawing-room which he
seldom used, except when he entertained his friends. There he recaptured
the serenity of his nerves, and could control his hand. The note simply
asked Mr Dawkins to dine with him next night, when he wished to tell him
a very strange history and ask his help. “Even if you have any other
engagement,” he concluded, “I seriously request you to give it up. To-night, I did the same. I should bitterly have regretted it if I had
not.”

Next night accordingly, the two sat at their dinner in the doctor’s
dining-room, and when they were left to their cigarettes and coffee the
doctor spoke. “You must not think me mad, my dear Dawkins,” he said, “when you hear
what I have got to tell you.”

Mr Dawkins laughed. “I will certainly promise not to do that,” he said. “Good. Last night and the night before, a little later in the evening
than this, I spoke through the telephone with the spirit of the man we
saw executed two days ago. Charles Linkworth.”

The chaplain did not laugh. He pushed back his chair, looking annoyed. “Teesdale,” he said, “is it to tell me this--I don’t want to be
rude--but this bogey-tale that you have brought me here his evening?”

“Yes. You have not heard half of it. He asked me last night to get hold
of you. He wants to tell you something. We can guess, I think, what it
is.”

Dawkins got up. “Please let me hear no more of it,” he said. “The dead do not return. In
what state or under what condition they exist has not been revealed to
us. But they have done with all material things.”

“But I must tell you more,” said the doctor. “Two nights ago I was rung
up, but very faintly, and could hear only whispers. I instantly inquired
where the call came from and was told it came from the prison. I rang
up the prison, and Warder Draycott told me that nobody had rung me up. He, too, was conscious of a presence.”

“I think that man drinks,” said Dawkins, sharply. The doctor paused a moment. “My dear fellow, you should not say that sort of thing,” he said. “He is
one of the steadiest men we have got. And if he drinks, why not I also?”

The chaplain sat down again. “You must forgive me,” he said, “but I can’t go into this. These are
dangerous matters to meddle with. Besides, how do you know it is not a
hoax?”

“Played by whom?” asked the doctor. “Hark!”

The telephone bell suddenly rang. It was clearly audible to the doctor. “Don’t you hear it?” he said. “Hear what?”

“The telephone bell ringing.”

“I hear no bell,” said the chaplain, rather angrily. “There is no bell
ringing.”

The doctor did not answer, but went through into his study, and turned
on the lights. Then he took the receiver and mouthpiece off its hook. “Yes?” he said, in a voice that trembled. “Who is it? Yes: Mr Dawkins is
here. I will try and get him to speak to you.”

He went back into the other room. “Dawkins,” he said, “there is a soul in agony. I pray you to listen. For God’s sake come and listen.”

The chaplain hesitated a moment. “As you will,” he said. He took up the receiver and put it to his ear. “I am Mr Dawkins,” he said. He waited. “I can hear nothing whatever,” he said at length. “Ah, there was
something there. The faintest whisper.”

“Ah, try to hear, try to hear!” said the doctor. Again the chaplain listened. Suddenly he laid the instrument down,
frowning. “Something--somebody said, ‘I killed her, I confess it. I want to be
forgiven.’ It’s a hoax, my dear Teesdale. Somebody knowing your
spiritualistic leanings is playing a very grim joke on you. I _can’t_
believe it.”

Dr Teesdale took up the receiver. “I am Dr Teesdale,” he said. “Can you give Mr Dawkins some sign that it
is you?”

Then he laid it down again. “He says he thinks he can,” he said. “We must wait.”

The evening was again very warm, and the window into the paved yard at
the back of the house was open. For five minutes or so the two men stood
in silence, waiting, and nothing happened. Then the chaplain spoke. “I think that is sufficiently conclusive,” he said. Even as he spoke a very cold draught of air suddenly blew into the room,
making the papers on the desk rustle. Dr Teesdale went to the window and
closed it. “Did you feel that?” he asked. “Yes, a breath of air. Chilly.”

Once again in the closed room it stirred again. “And did you feel that?” asked the doctor. The chaplain nodded. He felt his heart hammering in his throat suddenly. “Defend us from all peril and danger of this coming night,” he
exclaimed. “Something is coming!” said the doctor. As he spoke it came. In the centre of the room not three yards away from
them stood the figure of a man with his head bent over on to his
shoulder, so that the face was not visible. Then he took his head in
both his hands and raised it like a weight, and looked them in the face. The eyes and tongue protruded, a livid mark was round the neck. Then
there came a sharp rattle on the boards of the floor, and the figure was
no longer there. But on the floor there lay a new rope. For a long while neither spoke. The sweat poured off the doctor’s face,
and the chaplain’s white lips whispered prayers. Then by a huge effort
the doctor pulled himself together. He pointed at the rope. “It has been missing since the execution,” he said. Then again the telephone bell rang. This time the chaplain needed no
prompting. He went to it at once and the ringing ceased. For a while he
listened in silence. “Charles Linkworth,” he said at length, “in the sight of God, in whose
presence you stand, are you truly sorry for your sin?”

Some answer inaudible to the doctor came, and the chaplain closed his
eyes. And Dr Teesdale knelt as he heard the words of the Absolution. At the close there was silence again. “I can hear nothing more,” said the chaplain, replacing the receiver. Presently the doctor’s man-servant came in with the tray of spirits and
syphon. Dr Teesdale pointed without looking to where the apparition had
been. “Take the rope that is there and burn it, Parker,” he said. There was a moment’s silence. “There is no rope, sir,” said Parker.