"What sort of a ghost was it?"
"Oh, it was a man ghost, about nine feet high, and he was blazing from head to foot as if he was burning up," said the constable. "He had a long knife in his hand and waved it at 'em. They didn't stop to argue. They ran, and as they ran they heard the ghost a-laughing at them."
"I should think he would have been amused," was Hatch's somewhat sarcastic comment. "Has anybody who lives in the village seen the ghost?"
"No; we're willing to take their word for it, I suppose," was the grinning reply, "because there never was a ghost there before. I go up and look over the place every afternoon, but everything seems to be all right, and I haven't gone there at night. It's quite a way off my beat," he hastened to explain.
"A man ghost with a long knife," mused Hatch "Blazing, seems to be burning up, eh? That sounds exciting. Now, a ghost who knows his business never appears except where there has been a murder. Was there ever a murder in that house?"
"When I was a little chap I heard there was a murder or something there, but I suppose if I don't remember it nobody else here does," was the old man's reply. "It happened one Winter when the Westons weren't there. There was something, too, about jewelry and diamonds, but I don't remember just what it was."
"Indeed?" asked the reporter.
"Yes, something about somebody trying to steal a lot of jewelry-a hundred thousand dollars' worth. I know nobody ever paid much attention to it. I just heard about it when I was a boy, and that was at least fifty years ago."
"I see," said the reporter.
That night at nine o'clock, under cover of perfect blackness, Hatch climbed the cliff toward the Weston house. At one o'clock he came racing down the hill, with frequent glances over his shoulder. His face was pallid with a fear which he had never known before and his lips were ashen. Once in his room in the village hotel Hutchinson Hatch, the nerveless young man, lighted a lamp with trembling hands and sat with wide, staring eyes until the dawn broke through the east.
He had seen the flaming phantom.
II.
It was ten o'clock that morning when Hutchinson Hatch called on Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen-The Thinking Machine. The reporter's face was still white, showing that he had slept little, if at all. The Thinking Machine squinted at him a moment through his thick glasses, then dropped into a chair.
"Well?" he queried.
"I'm almost ashamed to come to you, Professor," Hatch confessed, after a minute, and there was a little embarrassed hesitation in his speech. "It's another mystery."
"Sit down and tell me about it."
Hatch took a seat opposite the scientist.
"I've been frightened," he said at last, with a sheepish grin; "horribly, awfully frightened. I came to you to know what frightened me."
"Dear me! Dear me!" exclaimed The Thinking Machine. "What is it?"
Then Hatch told him from the beginning the story of the haunted house as he knew it; how he had examined the house by daylight, just what he had found, the story of the old murder and the jewels, the fact that Ernest Weston was to be married. The scientist listened attentively.
"It was nine o'clock that night when I went to the house the second time," said Hatch. "I went prepared for something, but not for what I saw."
"Well, go on," said the other, irritably.
"I went in while it was perfectly dark. I took a position on the stairs because I had been told the-the THING-had been seen from the stairs, and I thought that where it had been seen once it would be seen again. I had presumed it was some trick of a shadow, or moonlight, or something of the kind. So I sat waiting calmly. I am not a nervous man-that is, I never have been until now.
"I took no light of any kind with me. It seemed an interminable time that I waited, staring into the reception-room in the general direction of the library. At last, as I gazed into the darkness, I heard a noise. It startled me a bit, but it didn't frighten me, for I put it down to a rat running across the floor.
"But after awhile I heard the most awful cry a human being ever listened to. It was neither a moan nor a shriek-merely a-a cry. Then, as I steadied my nerves a little, a figure-a blazing, burning white figure-grew out of nothingness before my very eyes, in the reception-room. It actually grew and assembled as I looked at it."
He paused, and The Thinking Machine changed his position slightly.
"The figure was that of a man, apparently, I should say, eight feet high. Don't think I'm a fool-I'm not exaggerating. It was all in white and seemed to radiate a light, a ghostly, unearthly light, which, as I looked, grew brighter. I saw no face to the THING, but it had a head. Then I saw an arm raised and in the hand was a dagger, blazing as was the figure.
"By this time I was a coward, a cringing, frightened coward-frightened not at what I saw, but at the weirdness of it. And then, still as I looked, the-the THING-raised the other hand, and there, in the air before my eyes, wrote with his own finger-on the very face of the air, mind you-one word: 'Beware!' "
"Was it a man's or woman's writing?" asked The Thinking Machine.
The matter-of-fact tone recalled Hatch, who was again being carried away by fear, and he laughed vacantly.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know."
"Go on."
"I have never considered myself a coward, and certainly I am not a child to be frightened at a thing which my reason tells me is not possible, and, despite my fright, I compelled myself to action. If the THING were a man I was not afraid of it, dagger and all; if it were not, it could do me no injury.
"I leaped down the three steps to the bottom of the stairs, and while the THING stood there with upraised dagger, with one hand pointing at me, I rushed for it. I think I must have shouted, because I have a dim idea that I heard my own voice. But whether or not I did I--"
Again he paused. It was a distinct effort to pull himself together. He felt like a child; the cold, squint eyes of The Thinking Machine were turned on him disapprovingly.
"Then-the THING disappeared just as it seemed I had my hands on it. I was expecting a dagger thrust. Before my eyes, while I was staring at it, I suddenly saw only half of it. Again I heard the cry, and the other half disappeared-my hands grasped empty air.
"Where the THING had been there was nothing. The impetus of my rush was such that I went right on past the spot where the THING had been, and found myself groping in the dark in a room which I didn't place for an instant. Now I know it was the library.
"By this time I was mad with terror. I smashed one of the windows and went through it. Then from there, until I reached my room, I didn't stop running. I couldn't. I wouldn't have gone back to the reception-room for all the millions in the world."
The Thinking Machine twiddled his fingers idly; Hatch sat gazing at him with anxious, eager inquiry in his eyes.
"So when you ran and the-the THING moved away or disappeared you found yourself in the library?" The Thinking Machine asked at last.
"Yes."
"Therefore you must have run from the reception-room through the door into the library?"
"Yes."
"You left that door closed that day?"
"Yes."
Again there was a pause.
"Smell anything?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"No."
"You figure that the THING, as you call it, must have been just about in the door?"
"Yes."