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By the light that came from behind her — a dim trickle from the gloomy hall — Phyllis could see the entrance to the crypt. The door, a massive barrier of steel, was closed no longer. It stood half opened; beyond it blackness yawned.

As the girl remained staring, that blackness was replaced by a dull, yet mellow glow. Something had illuminated the cavernous depths of the crypt!

GASPING, Phyllis turned and hastened back to the hall. She knew where Milton and his unknown companion had gone — into the crypt.

If the inner door could be opened, so could the outer. The girl remembered the box that Milton had gained from his father’s lawyer; the box that he had opened with the key that Vandrow had left with Lester.

Phyllis realized that the key to the crypt could have been in that box. A duplicate key, other than the one that had been destroyed. Her fear was realized. The crypt actually formed a passageway in and out of the mansion.

The girl reached the second floor. Impetuously, she turned into her own room. She stared toward the end of the extension which housed the crypt, trembling as she gazed from the window. She saw no one; but she realized that either Milton or his companion — perhaps both — could already have continued through and out into the night.

It was still possible that they were yet in the crypt; preparing to proceed upon their way. But the girl did not wait to see. Phyllis was terrified. She wanted aid. She dared not appeal to Lester. Already, the servant’s actions had aroused her complete suspicion. There was only one person upon whom she could rely: Harry Vincent.

Phyllis pattered into the hall. She hurried along and tapped softly at Harry’s door. There was no response. Phyllis tapped again. Then, fearing to increase the loudness of the raps, she opened the door and entered.

The room was bathed in moonlight. The bed was in plain view. It was made up. Harry Vincent had not gone to bed tonight.

Wildly, the girl looked about. She saw that the room was empty. With a sob, Phyllis sank in a chair beside the window. She was horribly afraid.

Fearful minutes ticked by. Phyllis dared not leave the room. Menace seemed to exist throughout the old mansion. The girl could only wait for Harry’s return. She looked from the window. It opened on the side away from the crypt; it was toward the contour of the hill.

The whitened moonlight restored the girl’s courage; but only for the moment. As she glanced appealingly toward the sky, the girl’s eyes spied a bulky shape projecting above the trees along the slope. It was the top of the old bell-tower.

The slitted belfry; the topheavy cupola above it. The sight brought shivers to Phyllis Lingle. She remembered Lester’s croak of ghouls within that tower. Then came the dull realization that midnight would soon arrive.

Staring in horrified fascination, listening with a tenseness that she could not loosen, the girl waited. Silent and motionless, she watched the top of the bell-tower.

The overwhelming dread that gripped her was inspired by one thought. Phyllis Lingle was awaiting a new knell from the bells of doom!

CHAPTER XIX

MURDERERS FOILED

ABNER ZANGWALD was querulous. Standing in the center of his living room, the bushy-browed man was rasping harsh opinions. The listeners were prosecutor, sheriff and coroner; Louis Vandrow was present, in addition.

“Why should this conference be extended?” demanded Zangwald. “It seems as though I have been interrupted every time I sought the floor. You, Jornal” — he faced the prosecutor — “have jumped from one absurdity to another. You have talked too long.

“You two” — he looked at the coroner and the sheriff — “have also delayed our proceedings. And you, Vandrow, have found several opportunities to break in before I could speak. It looks as though we are standing by again, standing by while doom may be falling.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jornal.

“I refer to last night,” snapped Zangwald. “I invited Sheriff Locke here last night; also Coroner Thomas and Louis Vandrow. The sheriff and the coroner arrived late. Why?

“I shall tell you. Because Locke was busy up at that tower, taking out those infernal clappers that belonged in the bells. Useless folly on his part. Nevertheless, Locke finally arrived, bringing Thomas with him.

“Then Vandrow delayed us. He made a trip to see young Milton Claverly. Something that he should have avoided. He called us from there. He said that he would be over here promptly. But he delayed us by his slowness. Inexcusable!”

“Wait a minute,” put in the sheriff, hotly. “Don’t put all delay on Vandrow. What about yourself? You went up to your study after Vandrow called. You didn’t show up for half an hour. Maybe more.”

“I came down as soon as Vandrow arrived.”

“Not right away,” broke in the coroner. “It was five minutes, at least, before you appeared.”

“That was the fault of my house servant—”

“Come, come,” interrupted the prosecutor. “Who is quibbling now? We have given you an opportunity to speak, Mr. Zangwald. Let us hear what you have to say.”

“Very well.” Zangwald glowered. “Listen. Someone in this town is responsible for the deaths of Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp. Someone who had reason to be an enemy of theirs. The three men are dead. But perhaps” — Zangwald stared, archly — “perhaps new crime is contemplated.”

“Why?” asked the sheriff.

“We can not tell,” replied Zangwald. “There may be reasons. These deaths look like a scheme of vengeance. Dealing with an avenger, we may expect anything. That is why I demand action. I believe that there is one man whom we should question.”

“Who is that?”

“Young Claverly.”

The prosecutor nodded. He tapped the arm of his chair in speculative fashion. He made no comment; but Louis Vandrow did.

“On just what subject,” he asked, “do you intend to quiz Milton?”

“Regarding his actions on the past three nights,” retorted Zangwald. “Where was he? What was he doing when three men were murdered? Where was he when the bells pealed?”

“In his home,” replied Vandrow. “I have already questioned him on those points.”

“How lately?”

“Only this evening.”

“You are sure he was in his house those nights?”

“I feel positive of it. I believe that he can prove that he was there. What is more, I am sure that he can be located there at present.”

“Good,” rumbled Zangwald. “You have anticipated my suggestion, Vandrow. Gentlemen” — he swept his fierce eye about the group — “let me propose a prompt visit to the home of Milton Claverly. A visit” — he paused to look toward the grandfather’s clock, which was at the three-quarter hour — “a visit that will take place in just fifteen minutes. A visit at the hour of midnight.”

THERE was silence. Then the big clock gave the three-quarter’s chime. Men were pondering upon Zangwald’s words. With a bristling frown, the selectman offered an explanation for his statement.

“Twelve o’clock,” stated Zangwald, “would be an appropriate hour to discourse on the subject of murder. It was the hour when bells tolled doom. It would be the psychological time to begin our quiz. Particularly” — this with a deep chuckle — “if the bells should peal again.”

“They can’t!” blurted the sheriff.

“No?” questioned Zangwald. “You said that last night; yet the bells rang.”

“Because someone else put clappers in them. They can’t do that tonight.”