He was Courtleigh Fleming's butler."
Knock--knock--knock--knock the dull, methodical rapping on the
ceiling of the living-room began again.
"Courtleigh Fleming's butler, eh?" muttered Brooks. He put down
his candle and stole noiselessly into the alcove. "It may be the
Jap!" he whispered.
Knock--knock--knock--knock! This time the mysterious rapping
seemed to come from the upper hall.
"If it is the Jap, I'll get him!" Brooks's voice was tense with
resolution. He hesitated--made for the hall door--tiptoed out
into the darkness around the main staircase, leaving Dale alone
in the living-room beset by shadowy terrors.
Utter silence succeeded his noiseless departure. Even the storm
lulled for a moment. Dale stood thinking, wondering, searching
desperately for some way to help her lover.
At last a resolution formed in her mind. She went to the city
telephone.
"Hello," she said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder now
and then to make sure she was not overheard. "1-2-4--please--yes,
that's right. Hello--is that the country club? Is Mr. Richard
Fleming there? Yes, I'll hold the wire."
She looked about nervously. Had something moved in that corner of
blackness where her candle did not pierce? No! How silly of her!
Buzz-buzz on the telephone. She picked up the receiver again.
"Hello--is this Mr. Fleming? This is Miss Ogden--Dale Ogden. I
know it must seem odd my calling you this late, but--I wonder if
you could come over here for a few minutes.
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