"_It's he,_" Warde whispered, his voice tense. "I know where it is; come on," said Roy. CHAPTER XXII THE BANSHEE "What does it mean, anyway?" Warde asked, as he followed Roy, breathless and in suspense. "What are we going to do? Has he got some--some--accomplice--" "Follow me," was all that Roy said. "The troop--if we're in danger--" "Never mind the troop; follow me." Silently Roy sped along into an overgrown cross street, cutting through the doorless wreck of the Y. M. C. A. shack, over the litter within, and out on the opposite side. A tall, spectral shadow soon confronted them, whence emanated that ghostly voice, loud and beseeching, as they approached. Their nearness to it dispelled any thought of its being the inanimate sounds of wind-stirred wreckage or of some unknown living creature. It moaned and cried like no voice they had ever heard before. Yet it was strangely human. The crying of that fleeing, bewildered apparition was silent now, and there seemed a note of gloomy solace in the low, plaintive strain. "Come ahead," said Roy resolutely, "follow me. Not scared, are you?" He ascended the narrow, metal ladder of the windmill, Warde following. Upon the top was a tiny platform, and here he turned on his flashlight. Crouched in a heap was their friend Blythe. He was in a state of frantic agitation, his whole form trembling like a leaf. His head was bowed; he clutched something in his two hands. From it dangled a cord. Several burned matches lay near him and wisps and little masses of woven straw littered the miniature aerial platform. Roy turned his light above to that part of the superstructure which revolved with the wind, enabling the winged wheel to keep in favorable position for revolving. The moaning voice was very near now, within arm's reach almost, and at that close range was divested of its ghostly suggestiveness. "Look," Roy whispered, directing his light upward. There upon the movable framework was something that looked like a cigar-box. It was so placed as always to catch the breeze from the revolving fan. "I know what it is," said Roy; "hold this light while I take it down." He seemed to know that there was no peace for that distracted, crouching figure, as long as the weird voice from that compact little mechanism was audible. He stood upon the framework and, reaching up, dislodged the harmless box. A last dying wail accompanied his act. Then the big winged fan revolved silently above them in the dark night. "Blythey," cried Roy gently; "look up. It's just Warde and me. What's the matter? Tell us, can't you? What's the trouble?" "I've got her--I can see her--she called me--" was all Blythe could say. "Did you hear her call--loud? I knew--I came--no--_no!_" he fairly screamed, as Warde tried to lift his head and discover what he held. "I came back--back to life--I was dead--you would have buried me--can't you see I'm alive--you--scouts--"