There was something positively uncanny about Kennedy's assurance.
I doubted--yet I feared.

It was well past the middle of the night when we pulled up in a
night-hawk taxicab before the Dodge house, mounted the steps and
rang the bell.

Jennings answered sleepily, but not so much so that he did not
recognize me. He was about to bang the door shut when Kennedy
interposed his foot.

"Where is Mr. Dodge?" asked Kennedy. "Is he all right?"

"Of course he is--in bed," replied the butler.

Just then we heard a faint cry, like nothing exactly human. Or was
it our heightened imaginations, under the spell of the darkness?

"Listen!" cautioned Kennedy.

We did, standing there now in the hall. Kennedy was the only one
of us who was cool. Jennings' face blanched, then he turned
tremblingly and went down to the library door whence the sounds
had seemed to come.

He called but there was no answer. He turned the knob and opened
the door. The Dodge library was a large room. In the center stood
a big flat-topped desk of heavy mahogany. It was brilliantly
lighted.