But Blackburn cowered in his chair. "I won't go to that room again. They don't want me there. I'll have work started in the cemetery to-morrow." "Mr. Blackburn," Robinson said, "the man we buried in the cemetery to-day, the man these members of your family identify as yourself, died of just such a wound as the doctor says has healed in your head." Blackburn cowered farther in his chair. "You're making fun of me," he whimpered. "You're trying to scare an old man." "No," Robinson said. "How was that wound made?" The crouched figure wagged its head from side to side. "I don't know. Nothing's touched me there. I remember I had a headache when I woke up. Why doesn't Groom tell me why I slept so long?" "I only know," Groom rumbled, "that the wound I examined upstairs must have caused instant death." Paredes whispered to him. The doctor nodded reluctantly. "What do you mean?" Blackburn cried. "You trying to tell me I can't stay with you?" He pointed to Paredes. "That's what he said--that I might have to go back, but I never heard of such a thing. I'm all right. My neck doesn't hurt. I'm alive. I tell you I'm alive. I'll teach you--" Rawlins returned from the telephone. "His story's straight," he said in his crisp manner. "I've been talking to Waters himself. Says Mr. Blackburn turned up about three-thirty, looking queer and acting queer. Wouldn't shake hands, just as he says. He went to the spare room and slept practically all the time until this afternoon. No food. Waters couldn't rouse him. Mr. Blackburn wouldn't answer at all or else seemed half asleep. He'd made up his mind to call in a doctor this afternoon. Then Mr. Blackburn seemed all right again, and started home." Robinson gazed at the fire. "What's to be done now, sir?" Rawlins asked. "Find the answer if we can," Robinson said. Paredes spoke as softly as he had done the other night while reciting his sensitive reaction to the Cedars's gloomy atmosphere. Only now his voice wasn't groping. "Call me a dreamer if you want, Mr. District Attorney, but I have given you the only answer. This man's soul has dwelt in two places." Robinson grinned. "I'm going slow on calling anybody names, but I haven't forgotten that there's been another crime in this house. Howells was killed in that room, too. I would like to believe he could return as Mr. Blackburn has." Blackburn looked up. "What's that? Who's Howells?" And as Robinson told him of the second crime he sank back in his chair again, whimpering from time to time. His fear was harder to watch. "Might I suggest," Graham said, "that Howells isn't out of the case yet? It would be worth looking into." "By all means," Robinson agreed. Rawlins coughed apologetically. "I asked them about that at the office. Howells was taken to his home in Boston to-day. The funeral's to be to-morrow."