Fogarty alone and hurried down the deserted corridor to my room. As I undressed and slipped into bed, the sound of her words still echoed in my ears. They had become for me a symbol of the day—a day which had begun with murder and closed with the most commonsensical of the staff believing herself to have heard the voice of a dead man. As I tossed restlessly, I tried to force my jangled nerves to accept Reason. I told myself that what both Mrs. Fogarty and I thought we had heard was patently impossible. The spirits of the dead might converse with David Fenwick, but they were not likely to speak over the house telephone to so practical and unpsychic a person as the night nurse. There was only one explanation. For some crazy reason, someone had chosen this particularly beastly way of frightening her and of frightening me. After all, everyone knew I had not gone to my room with the others. Anyone in Wing Two might have heard my footsteps in the corridor and my name called by Mrs.
