Mr. Gooch went to the window. He was still shivering and he had a queer, unpleasant notion that his hair was wilting—a most astonishing sensation. He hesitated a moment, then boldly drew the curtains apart. The light from the arc light at the corner, fairly well-spent after traversing a couple of hundred feet, was of sufficient strength to flood the lawn with a dim radiance. A shadowy object half way down to the gate resolved itself into the figure of a man as Mr. Gooch gazed upon it with bewildered, incredulous eyes. “Hello, Horace,” came wafting up to Mr. Gooch—apparently from this shadowy object. “That you? Say, open up and let me in.” Mr. Gooch grasped the window frame for support. “Good God!” he gulped, but in a voice so strange and hollow that he did not recognize it as his own. In a sudden panic he threw up the window and screeched—in an entirely different voice but equally as unrecognizable: “Go away! Leave me alone!” “Say, don’t you know who it is? It’s me.” The figure drew nearer the house. At the same time Mr. Gooch stuck his head out of the window and bawled: “Help! For God’s sake, somebody come and chase it away! Help!” “What’s the matter with you, you darned old fool!” barked the indistinct visitor. “You’ll wake the dead, yelling like that.” “Wake the dead!” repeated Mr. Gooch in a low, sepulchral voice. “I’m Ollie Baxter. For goodness’ sake, Horace, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your only brother-in-law. I—” “Go away! You’re dead. I don’t want any dead people coming around here to—” A shrill, lively cackle came up from the murk. Mr. Gooch clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” he groaned. “Ain’t you going to let me in? I’m not going to ask you again, you darned old skinflint. I hate you anyhow, and always did—but I thought maybe after me being away for more than a year you’d be hospitable enough to—” “Stop talking!” commanded Mr. Gooch. “You always did talk too much. Now, listen to me. Are you really alive?” “Course I am. What ails you?” “I don’t believe it. They found your body this afternoon.” “You don’t say so!” gasped the object under the window. “Horribly decayed,” added Mr. Gooch sternly. “Well, I’ll be danged!” “So you simply _can’t_ be alive. Go away!” “This is mighty queer. Are they positive it’s me?” “Hey?” “I mean are they sure it’s my body?” “There’s no evidence to the contrary. Seems to be absolutely no doubt about it.” “Well, well! Where did they find me?” “You know as well as I do.” “I don’t know anything of the kind. It’s news to me, Horace.” “See here, Oliver, what’s the sense of lying to me? You know you’re dead and—” “Well, suppose I am,” broke in the other irascibly; “that’s no reason why you should stick your head out of a window and tell the whole town of Hopkinsville about it. You come down here and let me in. I’ll derned soon show you I’m not dead. What’s more, I never have been dead. So they couldn’t have found my body.”