Twice it seemed that the man tried to speak and could not. At the third attempt the words came. “Yes, sir. He has been here. I saw him go into the room where the telephone is.” “Ah! Did you speak to him?” “No, sir: I sweated and prayed. And there’s half a dozen men as have been screaming in their sleep to-night. But it’s quiet again now. I think he has gone into the execution shed.” “Yes. Well, I think there will be no more disturbance now. By the way, please give me Mr Dawkins’s home address.” * * * * * This was given him, and Dr Teesdale proceeded to write to the chaplain, asking him to dine with him on the following night. But suddenly he found that he could not write at his accustomed desk, with the telephone standing close to him, and he went upstairs to the drawing-room which he seldom used, except when he entertained his friends. There he recaptured the serenity of his nerves, and could control his hand. The note simply asked Mr Dawkins to dine with him next night, when he wished to tell him a very strange history and ask his help. “Even if you have any other engagement,” he concluded, “I seriously request you to give it up. To-night, I did the same. I should bitterly have regretted it if I had not.” Next night accordingly, the two sat at their dinner in the doctor’s dining-room, and when they were left to their cigarettes and coffee the doctor spoke. “You must not think me mad, my dear Dawkins,” he said, “when you hear what I have got to tell you.” Mr Dawkins laughed. “I will certainly promise not to do that,” he said. “Good. Last night and the night before, a little later in the evening than this, I spoke through the telephone with the spirit of the man we saw executed two days ago. Charles Linkworth.” The chaplain did not laugh. He pushed back his chair, looking annoyed. “Teesdale,” he said, “is it to tell me this--I don’t want to be rude--but this bogey-tale that you have brought me here his evening?” “Yes. You have not heard half of it. He asked me last night to get hold of you. He wants to tell you something. We can guess, I think, what it is.” Dawkins got up. “Please let me hear no more of it,” he said. “The dead do not return. In what state or under what condition they exist has not been revealed to us. But they have done with all material things.” “But I must tell you more,” said the doctor. “Two nights ago I was rung up, but very faintly, and could hear only whispers. I instantly inquired where the call came from and was told it came from the prison. I rang up the prison, and Warder Draycott told me that nobody had rung me up. He, too, was conscious of a presence.” “I think that man drinks,” said Dawkins, sharply. The doctor paused a moment. “My dear fellow, you should not say that sort of thing,” he said. “He is one of the steadiest men we have got. And if he drinks, why not I also?” The chaplain sat down again.