"I get a good deal the same impression myself," said Perry. "I don't wonder that Bland sent two of us to cover the job." As he spoke he mounted a flight of steps to a tumbledown veranda. There was no sign of a door bell on the weather-beaten portal, but an ancient knocker of bronze hanging forlornly before him seemed to suggest a means of attracting attention. He raised it and rapped smartly. * * * * * No answer. Possessing all the attributes of the conventional reporter and a few additional ones, Perry did not allow himself to become disheartened, but merely repeated his summons, this time with more vim. "Well, Horace," grinned Handlon, "it does look as if we were not so very welcome here. However, seems to me if you were to pick up that piece of dead limb and do some real knocking with it.... The dear Professor may be deaf, you know, or maybe he's--" "Skip, my boy, I don't know as we ought to go in right now after all. Do you realize it will soon be dark?" "To tell you the truth, Horace, I'm not stuck on this assignment either. And I feel that after dark I should like it even less, somehow. But, gee, the Old Man...." "Oh, I'm not thinking of quitting on the job. We don't do that on the Journal." Perry smiled paternally at the photographer. Could it be he had purposely raised the other's hopes in order to chaff him some more? "But I was thinking that it might be a good idea to look about the outbuildings a bit while we have a little daylight. Eh?" Handlon looked disappointed, but nodded gamely. He delayed only long enough to deposit his camera and traps behind a grossly overgrown hydrangea by the steps, then, with a resigned air, declared himself ready to follow wherever the other might lead. Perry elected to explore the barn first. This was a depressing old pile, unpainted in years, with what had once been stout doors now swinging and bumping in the light breeze. As the two men drew nearer, this breeze--which seemed to sigh through the place at will--brought foul odors that told them the place was at least not tenantless. In some trepidation they stepped inside and stood blinking in the half darkness. "Pretty Polly!" "Good God! What was that?" Handlon whispered. He knew it was no parrot's voice. This was a far deeper sound than that, a sound louder than anything a parrot's throat could produce. It came from the direction of a ruinous stall over near a cobwebbed window. As Perry started fearfully toward this, there issued from it a curious scraping sound, followed by a fall that shook the floor, and a threshing as of hoofs. Now the great voice could be heard again, this time uttering what sounded strangely like oaths roared out in a foreign tongue. Yet when the newspaper men reached the stall they found it occupied only by a large mule. * * * * *