“Hello, there, Mr Wainwright,” he said.
The old man came closer without answering, and Kent saw that the man was peering at him curiously. The old man stopped.
“Do I know you, young sir?” he asked politely.
For the barest moment Kent was thrown mentally off balance; and then—
“Good heavens!” he thought excitedly, “even this fits. It fits. There had to be a time when he met me.”
Aloud, he explained patiently that he was the son of Angus Kent, and that he had come back to the district for a visit. When he had finished the old man said:
“I shall be glad to come to the hotel and talk about your father. It is a pleasure to have met you.”
He walked off. The moment he was out of sight, Kent started toward the gate. The first drops of rain fell as he crawled laboriously under the wire. He stood just inside the gate, hesitant. It was important that he get inside the house before the old man, driven by the rain, returned.
The question was, would he have time?
He hurried toward the buildings, glancing over his shoulders every few seconds, expecting to see that long form come into sight.
The house stood quietly under the soft, glinting rain. The weight of the neglected years lay heavily on its wooden walls. A burst of rain whipped into Kent’s face, and then thudded dully on the wood as he ducked into the shelter of the building.
He stood there waiting for the blast to die down. But, as the seconds passed, and there was no abatement, he peered around the corner and saw the veranda.
He reached the safety it offered; and then, more leisurely, investigated the two boarded windows and the boarded door. They were solid, and, though he had expected it, the reality brought a stab of disappointment.
Getting inside was going to be a tough job.
The rain became a thin splatter; and he went hastily down the steps, and saw that there was an open balcony on the second floor. It was hard work climbing, but the effort proved its worth.
A wide, loose board on one of the two balcony windows came off with a jerk, and made it easy to tear off the rest. Beyond was a window, locked.
Kent did not hesitate. He raised one of the boards and, with a single sharp blow, struck. The glass shattered with a curious, empty tinkling sound.
He was inside. The room was empty, dusty, dark, unfurnished. It led out onto a long, empty hallway, and a line of empty, dark rooms.
Downstairs it was the same; empty rooms, unlived in. The basement was dark, a cemented hole. He fumbled around it hurriedly, lighting matches; and then hurriedly went back to the ground floor. There were some cracks in the boards that covered the downstairs windows and, after locating the likeliest ones, he stationed himself at the one that faced the gate – and waited.
It didn’t take long.
The old man came through the gate, toward the house. Kent shifted to a window at the side of the house, then at the back; and each time the old man came into view after a moment.
Kent raced to the crack he had selected in the veranda window, expecting to see the old man come into sight.
Ten minutes passed; and that tall figure had still to come around the back corner of the house. Slowly, Kent went upstairs, and out onto the balcony.
It was simple hammering the boards back into position, not so simple easing down to the ground.
But he had his fact. Somewhere at the rear of the house the ghost vanished. The problem was – how to prevent that disappearance.
How did one trap the kind of – ghost – that the long-dead Mr Wainwright had become?
It was the next day, nearly noon. Kent lay well into the field south of the farmhouse. Earlier, he had watched the old man emerge from the gate, and go past his hiding place along the valley. Now—
Through his field glasses Kent watched the long, straight form coming toward him, toward the farm.
Kent emerged casually from the wood and walked along as if he had not seen the other. He was wondering just what his verbal approach should be when the old man hailed him: “Hello there, Mr Kent. Out for a walk?”
Kent turned and waited for the aged man to come up to him. He said: “I was just going to go in to Mrs Carmody, and ask for a drink of water, before heading on to the hotel. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you.”
“Not at all, sir,” said the old man.
They walked along, Kent consciously more erect, as he tried to match that superb straightness of body. His mind was seething. What would happen at the gate? Somewhere along here the old man’s body would become less substantial, but—
He couldn’t hold the thought. Besides, he’d better start laying his groundwork. He said tautly:
“The farm looks rather deserted from here, does it not, Mr Wainwright?”
Amazingly, the old man gulped; he said almost swiftly: “Have you noticed it, too, Mr Kent? I have long thought it an illusion on my part, and I have felt rather uneasy about my vision. I have found that the peculiar desolated appearance vanishes as soon as I pass through the gate.”
So it was the gate where the change began – He jerked his soaring thought back to earth, listened as the old man said in evident relief:
“I am glad that we both share this illusion, Mr Kent. It has had me worried.”
Kent hesitated, and then very carefully took his field glasses out of their case; and handed them to the old man.
“Try a look through these,” he said casually. “Perhaps they will help to break the illusion.”
The moment he had given the instrument over, compunction came, a hard, bright pity for the incredible situation he was forcing.
Compunction passed; pity yielded to an almost desperate curiosity. From narrowed eyes he stared at that lined face as the man’s thin, bony hands held the glasses up to his face and slowly adjusted the lens.
There was a harsh gasp; and Kent, who had expected it, leaped forward and caught the glasses as they fell toward the ground.
“Why,” the old man was quavering, “it’s impossible. Windows boarded up, and” – a wild suspicion leaped into his eyes – “has Mrs Carmody gone so swiftly?”
“What’s wrong, sir?” Kent said, and felt like a villain. But – he couldn’t let this go now.
The old man was shaking his head. “I must be mad. My eyes . . . my mind . . . not what they used to be—”
“Let’s go over,” Kent suggested. “I’ll get my drink and we’ll see what’s wrong.”
It was important that the old man retain in his wandering mind that he had a companion. The patriarch straightened, said quietly:
“By all means, you shall have your drink, Mr Kent.”
Kent had a sick feeling as he walked beside that tall form across the road to the gate, the empty feeling that he had meddled in human tragedy.
He watched, almost ill with his victory, as the trembling nonagenarian fumbled futilely with the padlocked gate.
He thought, his mind as tight as a drum: For perhaps the first time since this strange, strange phenomena had started, the old man had failed to walk through the gate.
“I don’t understand it!” the old man said. ‘This gate locked – why, this very morning, I—’
Kent had been unwinding the wire that held the large gate. “Let’s go in here,” he said gently.
The dismay of the old man was so pitiful it was dreadful. He stopped and peered at the weeds. Incredulously, he felt the black old wood that was nailed, board on board of it, over one of the windows. His high shoulders began to sag. A haunted expression crept into his face. Paradoxically, he looked suddenly old.
He climbed the faded veranda steps with the weariness of unutterable age. And then—