Clearly Warder Draycott had something on his mind, which he found it
hard to speak of. “Well, sir, if you put it like that,” he began. “But you would tell me I
was half asleep, or had eaten something that disagreed with me at my
supper.”

The doctor dropped his careless manner. “I should do nothing of the kind,” he said, “any more than you would
tell me that I had dropped asleep last night, when I heard my telephone
bell ring. Mind you, Draycott, it did not ring as usual, I could only
just hear it ringing, though it was close to me. And I could only hear a
whisper when I put my ear to it. But when you spoke I heard you quite
distinctly. Now I believe there was something--somebody--at this end of
the telephone. You were here, and though you saw no one, you, too, felt
there was someone there.”

The man nodded. “I’m not a nervous man, sir,” he said, “and I don’t deal in fancies. But
there was something there. It was hovering about the instrument, and it
wasn’t the wind, because there wasn’t a breath of wind stirring, and the
night was warm. And I shut the window to make certain. But it went about
the room, sir, for an hour or more. It rustled the leaves of the
telephone book, and it ruffled my hair when it came close to me. And it
was bitter cold, sir.”

The doctor looked him straight in the face. “Did it remind you of what had been done yesterday morning?” he asked
suddenly. Again the man hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he said at length. “Convict Charles Linkworth.”

Dr Teesdale nodded reassuringly. “That’s it,” he said. “Now, are you on duty to-night?”

“Yes, sir, I wish I wasn’t.”

“I know how you feel, I have felt exactly the same myself. Now whatever
this is, it seems to want to communicate with me. By the way, did you
have any disturbance in the prison last night?”

“Yes, sir, there was half a dozen men who had the nightmare. Yelling
and screaming they were, and quiet men too, usually. It happens
sometimes the night after an execution. I’ve known it before, though
nothing like what it was last night.”

“I see. Now, if this--this thing you can’t see wants to get at the
telephone again to-night, give it every chance. It will probably come
about the same time. I can’t tell you why, but that usually happens. So
unless you must, don’t be in this room where the telephone is, just for
an hour to give it plenty of time between half past nine and half past
ten. I will be ready for it at the other end. Supposing I am rung up, I
will, when it has finished, ring you up to make sure that I was not
being called in--in the usual way. “And there is nothing to be afraid of, sir?” asked the man. Dr Teesdale remembered his own moment of terror this morning, but he
spoke quite sincerely. “I am sure there is nothing to be afraid of,” he said, reassuringly. Dr Teesdale had a dinner engagement that night, which he broke, and was
sitting alone in his study by half past nine. In the present state of
human ignorance as to the law which governs the movements of spirits
severed from the body, he could not tell the warder why it was that
their visits are so often periodic, timed to punctuality according to
our scheme of hours, but in scenes of tabulated instances of the
appearance of _revenants_, especially if the soul was in sore need of
help, as might be the case here, he found that they came at the same
hour of day or night. As a rule, too, their power of making themselves
seen or heard or felt, grew greater for some little while after death,
subsequently growing weaker as they became less earth-bound, or often
after that ceasing altogether, and he was prepared to-night for a less
indistinct impression. The spirit apparently for the early hours of its
disembodiment is weak, like a moth newly broken out from its
chrysalis--and then suddenly the telephone bell rang, not so faintly as
the night before, but still not with its ordinary imperative tone. Dr Teesdale instantly got up, put the receiver to his ears. And what he
heard was heart-broken sobbing, strong spasms that seemed to tear the
weeper. He waited for a little before speaking, himself cold with some nameless
fear, and yet profoundly moved to help, if he was able. “Yes, yes,” he said at length, hearing his own voice tremble. “I am Dr
Teesdale. What can I do for you? And who are you?” he added, though he
felt that it was a needless question. Slowly the sobbing died down, the whispers took its place, still broken
by crying. “I want to tell, sir--I want to tell--I must tell.”

“Yes, tell me, what is it?” said the doctor. “No, not you--another gentleman, who used to come to see me. Will you
speak to him what I say to you?--I can’t make him hear me or see me.”

“Who are you?” asked Dr Teesdale suddenly. “Charles Linkworth. I thought you knew. I am very miserable. I can’t
leave the prison--and it is cold. Will you send for the other
gentleman?”

“Do you mean the chaplain?” asked Dr Teesdale. “Yes, the chaplain. He read the service when I went across the yard
yesterday. I shan’t be so miserable when I have told.”

The doctor hesitated a moment. This was a strange story that he would
have to tell Mr Dawkins, the prison chaplain, that at the other end of
the telephone was the spirit of the man executed yesterday. And yet he
soberly believed that it was so that this unhappy spirit was in misery,
and wanted to “tell.” There was no need to ask what he wanted to tell. “Yes, I will ask him to come here,” he said at length. “Thank you, sir, a thousand times. You will make him come, won’t you?”

The voice was growing fainter. “It must be to-morrow night,” it said. “I can’t speak longer now. I have
to go to see--oh, my God, my God.”

The sobs broke out afresh, sounding fainter and fainter. But it was in a
frenzy of terrified interest that Dr Teesdale spoke. “To see what?” he cried “Tell me what you are doing, what is happening
to you?”

“I can’t tell you; I mayn’t tell you,” said the voice very faint. “That
is part----” and it died away altogether. Dr Teesdale waited a little, but there was no further sound of any kind,
except the chuckling and croaking of the instrument. He put the receiver
on to its hook again, and then became aware for the first time that his
forehead was streaming with some, cold dew of horror. His ears sang; his
heart beat very quick and faint, and he sat down to recover himself. Once or twice he asked himself if it was possible that some terrible
joke was being played on him, but he knew that could not be so; he felt
perfectly sure that he had been speaking with a soul in torment of
contrition for the terrible and irremediable act it had committed. It
was no delusion of his senses, either; here in this comfortable room of
his in Bedford Square, with London cheerfully roaring round him, he had
spoken with the spirit of Charles Linkworth. But he had no time (nor indeed inclination, for somehow his soul sat
shuddering within him) to indulge in meditation. First of all he rang up
the prison. “Warder Draycott?” he asked.