Part 34

Mrs. Grantly laid the paper down on the table and looked at Chris, who had already become the centre of all eyes, and who was yawning as from an overpowering drowsiness.

“Quite a sanguinary turn, I should say,” Uncle Robert remarked.

“I have already made two attempts upon your life,” Mrs. Grantly read from the paper, which she was going over a second time.

“On my life?” Chris demanded between yawns. “Why, my life hasn’t been attempted even once. My! I am sleepy!”

“Ah, my boy, you are thinking of flesh-and-blood men,” Uncle Robert laughed. “But this is a spirit. Your life has been attempted by unseen things. Most likely ghostly hands have tried to throttle you in your sleep.”

“Oh, Chris!” Lute cried impulsively. “This afternoon! The hand you said must have seized your rein!”

“But I was joking,” he objected.

“Nevertheless ...” Lute left her thought unspoken.

Mrs. Grantly had become keen on the scent. “What was that about this afternoon? Was your life in danger?”

Chris’s drowsiness had disappeared. “I’m becoming interested myself,” he acknowledged. “We haven’t said anything about it. Ban broke his back this afternoon. He threw himself off the bank, and I ran the risk of being caught underneath.”

“I wonder, I wonder,” Mrs. Grantly communed aloud. “There is something in this.... It is a warning.... Ah! You were hurt yesterday riding Miss Story’s horse! That makes the two attempts!”

She looked triumphantly at them. Planchette had been vindicated.

“Nonsense,” laughed Uncle Robert, but with a slight hint of irritation in his manner. “Such things do not happen these days. This is the twentieth century, my dear madam. The thing, at the very latest, smacks of mediaevalism.”

“I have had such wonderful tests with Planchette,” Mrs. Grantly began, then broke off suddenly to go to the table and place her hand on the board.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”

The board immediately began to write. By this time all heads, with the exception of Mr. Barton’s, were bent over the table and following the pencil.

“It’s Dick,” Aunt Mildred cried, a note of the mildly hysterical in her voice.

Her husband straightened up, his face for the first time grave.

“It’s Dick’s signature,” he said. “I’d know his fist in a thousand.”

“‘Dick Curtis,’” Mrs. Grantly read aloud. “Who is Dick Curtis?”

“By Jove, that’s remarkable!” Mr. Barton broke in. “The handwriting in both instances is the same. Clever, I should say, really clever,” he added admiringly.

“Let me see,” Uncle Robert demanded, taking the paper and examining it. “Yes, it is Dick’s handwriting.”

“But who is Dick?” Mrs. Grantly insisted. “Who is this Dick Curtis?”

“Dick Curtis, why, he was Captain Richard Curtis,” Uncle Robert answered.

“He was Lute’s father,” Aunt Mildred supplemented. “Lute took our name. She never saw him. He died when she was a few weeks old. He was my brother.”

“Remarkable, most remarkable.” Mrs. Grantly was revolving the message in her mind. “There were two attempts on Mr. Dunbar’s life. The subconscious mind cannot explain that, for none of us knew of the accident to-day.”

“I knew,” Chris answered, “and it was I that operated Planchette. The explanation is simple.”

“But the handwriting,” interposed Mr. Barton. “What you wrote and what Mrs. Grantly wrote are identical.”