A STRANGE LIGHT APPEARS AT THE DESERTED HOUSE
Graham's intention, logical as it was, impressed Bobby as quite futile. Silas Blackburn had died in this
ancient, melancholy room behind locked doors. This afternoon, with a repetition of the sounds that had
probably accompanied his death, they had been drawn to find that, behind locked doors again, the position of
the body had changed incredibly, as if to expose to them the tiny fatal wound at the base of the brain. Now for
the third time those stealthy movements had aroused Katherine, and they had found, once more behind locked
doors, the determined and malicious detective, murdered precisely as old Blackburn had been.
Of course Graham was logical. By every rational argument the murderer must still be in the room. Yet Bobby
foresaw that, as always, no one would be found, that nothing would be unearthed to explain the succession of
tragic mysteries. While Graham commenced his search, indeed, he continued to stare at the little round hole in
Howells's head, at the fresh, irregular stain on the pillow, and he became absorbed in his own predicament.
Again and again he asked himself if he could be responsible for these murders which had been committed
with an inhuman ingenuity. He knew only that he had wandered, unconscious, in the vicinity of the Cedars
last night; that he had been asleep when his grandfather's body had altered its position; that he had gone to
sleep a little while ago too profoundly, brooding over Howells's challenge to the murderer to invade the room
of death and kill him if he could. Howells had been confident that he could handle a man and so solve the
riddle of how the room had been entered. Certainly Howells's challenge had been accepted, and Bobby knew
that he had fallen into that deep sleep hating the detective, telling himself that the man's death might save him
from arrest, from conviction, from an intolerable walk to a little room with a single chair.
"Recurrent aphasia." The doctor's expression came back to him. In such a state a man could overcome locked
doors, could accomplish apparent miracles and retain no recollection. And Bobby had hated and feared
Howells more than he had his grandfather.
Dully he saw Katherine go out at Graham's direction. As one in a dream he moved toward the door they had
had to break down on entering.
"Stand close to it," Graham said. "We'll cover everything."
"You'll find no one," Bobby answered with a perfect assurance.
He saw Graham take the candle and explore the large closets. He watched him examine the spaces behind the
window curtains. He could smile a little as Graham stooped, peering beneath the bed, as he moved each piece
of furniture large enough to secrete a man.
"You see, Hartley, it's no use."
Graham's lack of success, however, stimulated his anger.
"Then," he said, "there must be some hiding place in the walls. Such devices are common in houses as old as
this."
Bobby indicated the silent form of the detective.
"He believed I killed my grandfather. The only reason he didn't arrest me was his failure to find out how the
room had been entere