That night Maida went to her room, leaving Allen to have a long serious talk with her father. She hoped much from the confab, for Jeff Allen was a man of ideas, and of good, sound judgment. He could see straight, and could advise sensibly and well. And Maida hoped, too, that something would happen or some way be devised that the secret told her by Appleby might be of no moment. Perhaps there was no heir, save in the old man’s imagination. Or perhaps it was only someone who would inherit a portion of the property, leaving enough for their own support and comfort. At any rate, she went to bed comforted and cheered by the knowledge that Jeff was there, and that if there was anything to be done he would do it. She had vague misgivings because she had not told him what Appleby had threatened. But, she argued, if she decided to suppress that bit of news, she must not breathe it to anybody—not even Jeff. So, encouraged at the outlook, and exhausted by her day of worriment, she slept soundly till well into the night. Then she was awakened by a strange sound. It gave her, at first, a strange impression of being on an ocean steamer. She couldn’t think why, for her half-awake senses responded only to the vague sense of familiarity with such a sound. But wide awake in a moment, she heard more of it, and realized that it was a bugle to which she listened—the clear, though not loud, notes of a bugle. Amazed, she jumped from her bed, and looked out of a window in the direction of the sound. She saw nothing, and heard the last faint notes die away, as she listened. There was no further sound, and she returned to bed, and after a time fell asleep again. She pondered over the occurrence while dressing next morning, wondering what it meant. Downstairs she found only Jeffrey in the dining-room. “Hear anything funny in the night, Maida?” he asked her. “Yes; a bugle,” she returned. “Did you hear it?” “Of course I did. Who plays the thing around here?” “No one, that I know of. Wasn’t it rather strange?” “Rath-er! I should say so. Made me think of the old English castles, where spooks walk the parapets and play on bugles or bagpipes or some such doings.” “Oh, those silly stories! But this was a real bugle, played by a real man.” “How do you know?” “By the sound.” “Spook bugles sound just the same.” “How do _you_ know?” “How could they be heard if they didn’t? Here’s your father. Good-morning, Mr. Wheeler. Who’s your musical neighbor?” But Daniel Wheeler did not smile. “Go up to your mother, Maida, dear,” he said; “she—she isn’t well. Cheer her up all you can.” “What’s the trouble?” Allen asked, solicitously, as Maida ran from the room. “A strange thing, my boy. Did you hear a bugle call last night?” “Yes, sir; it sounded ‘taps.’ Is there a camp near by?” “No; nothing of the sort. Now—well, to put it frankly, there is an old tradition in Mrs. Wheeler’s family that a phantom bugler, in that very way, announces an approaching death.”