“Yes, yes,” he said at length, hearing his own voice tremble. “I am Dr Teesdale. What can I do for you? And who are you?” he added, though he felt that it was a needless question. Slowly the sobbing died down, the whispers took its place, still broken by crying. “I want to tell, sir--I want to tell--I must tell.” “Yes, tell me, what is it?” said the doctor. “No, not you--another gentleman, who used to come to see me. Will you speak to him what I say to you?--I can’t make him hear me or see me.” “Who are you?” asked Dr Teesdale suddenly. “Charles Linkworth. I thought you knew. I am very miserable. I can’t leave the prison--and it is cold. Will you send for the other gentleman?” “Do you mean the chaplain?” asked Dr Teesdale. “Yes, the chaplain. He read the service when I went across the yard yesterday. I shan’t be so miserable when I have told.” The doctor hesitated a moment. This was a strange story that he would have to tell Mr Dawkins, the prison chaplain, that at the other end of the telephone was the spirit of the man executed yesterday. And yet he soberly believed that it was so that this unhappy spirit was in misery, and wanted to “tell.” There was no need to ask what he wanted to tell. “Yes, I will ask him to come here,” he said at length. “Thank you, sir, a thousand times. You will make him come, won’t you?” The voice was growing fainter. “It must be to-morrow night,” it said. “I can’t speak longer now. I have to go to see--oh, my God, my God.” The sobs broke out afresh, sounding fainter and fainter. But it was in a frenzy of terrified interest that Dr Teesdale spoke. “To see what?” he cried “Tell me what you are doing, what is happening to you?” “I can’t tell you; I mayn’t tell you,” said the voice very faint. “That is part----” and it died away altogether. Dr Teesdale waited a little, but there was no further sound of any kind, except the chuckling and croaking of the instrument. He put the receiver on to its hook again, and then became aware for the first time that his forehead was streaming with some, cold dew of horror. His ears sang; his heart beat very quick and faint, and he sat down to recover himself. Once or twice he asked himself if it was possible that some terrible joke was being played on him, but he knew that could not be so; he felt perfectly sure that he had been speaking with a soul in torment of contrition for the terrible and irremediable act it had committed. It was no delusion of his senses, either; here in this comfortable room of his in Bedford Square, with London cheerfully roaring round him, he had spoken with the spirit of Charles Linkworth. But he had no time (nor indeed inclination, for somehow his soul sat shuddering within him) to indulge in meditation. First of all he rang up the prison. “Warder Draycott?” he asked. There was a perceptible tremor in the man’s voice as he answered. “Yes, sir. Is it Dr Teesdale?” “Yes. Has anything happened here with you?”