“There is no sound unusual to hear,” he answered. “I quite convinced myself of that. But it is the tradition that speaks, Mr. Haufmann! In those silent watches, even so insensible an old fool as I can imagine almost anything, aided by such gruesome memories. Excepting the monk, who probably fell foul of a prowler thief, the tragedies are easily to be explained. The old antiquarian died of syncope, and the poor girl, in all probability, fell from the balcony in her sleep. She had a tremendously neurotic temperament.” “It’s bad, now Greta knows,” mused Haufmann. “Her nerves are all unstrung. It’s just the thing I wanted to avoid!” “Can’t you induce her at any rate to change her room?” I suggested. “No! She’s as obstinate as a pony! Her poor mother was the same. It’s the Irish blood!” Such was the situation when we left. No development took place for a couple of days or so, then that befell which we had feared and half expected. Haufmann walked into my office with: “It’s started! Greta says she hears it every night!” Prepared though I had been for the news, his harshly spoken words sent a cold shudder through me. “Haufmann!” I said, sternly. “There must be no more of this. Get the girls away at once. On top of her previous nerve trouble this morbid imagining may affect her mind.” “You haven’t heard me out,” he went on, more slowly than was his wont. “You talk of morbid imagining. What about this: _I’ve_ heard it!” I stared at him blankly. “That’s one on you!” he said, with a certain grim triumph. “After Greta said there was something came in the night that wasn’t trees rustling, I sat up and smoked. First night I read and nothing happened. Next night I sat in the dark. There was no breeze and I heard nothing for my pains. Third night I stayed in the dark again, and about twelve o’clock a breeze came along. All mixed up with the rustling and sighing of the leaves I heard a voice calling as plain as I ever heard anything in my life! And it called _me!_” “Haufmann!” “It blame-well called _me!_ I’d take my oath before a jury on it!” “This is almost incredible!” I said. “I wish Moris Klaw were here.” “Where is he?” “He is in Paris. He will be away over the week-end.” “I met a man curiously enough,” continued Haufmann, “just outside the Charing Cross Tube, on my way here, who’s coming down to have a look into the business--a hot man on mysteries.” He mentioned the name of a celebrated American detective agency. “I’m afraid it’s right outside his radius, but he volunteered and I was glad to have him. I’d like Klaw down though.” “What about the girls?” “I was going to tell you. They’re at Brighton for a while. Greta didn’t want to quit, but poor Lal was dead scared! Anyway, I got them off.”