“Did you see that fellow who jumped for the trees?” questioned Rokesbury, as he shifted the car into second.
“Yes,” returned Clyde. “He thought we were going to hit him.”
“Recognize him?”
“No. Who was he?”
“Philo Halthorpe.”
“What was he doing here?”
“He’s a great walker,” stated Rokesbury. “Has no car; won’t get into one except on special occasions. Claims that brisk hikes in the night air account for his strong constitution.”
“Sounds like bunk to me,” declared Clyde. “Most hikers go out in the daytime. I can’t see any benefit from swamp air, either.”
“I imagine that Halthorpe prefers the high ground,” said Rokesbury. “He may have been going toward the hills over yonder. He would have to skirt the swamp to get there.”
“Are those cabins?” questioned Clyde, indicating black squares on the hillside.
“Cottages — or shacks,” replied Rokesbury. “Where the hill-folk live.”
“Dalwars,” recalled Clyde. “I heard Halthorpe mention them.”
“Squatters,” defined Rokesbury. “Harmless people who keep to themselves. An odd bunch of fanatics. Ran into some of them a few years ago, when we were repairing the old aqueduct. Well, Burke. Here’s the old haunted house.”
The coupe had reached the side of the manor in the marsh. The house did look ghostly, close at hand.
The clearing fog all about; the sweeping flashes of the airway beacon; the stillness of the damp atmosphere — all produced a creepy effect.
AS Clyde and Rokesbury clambered from the car, a light turned on above the side door. This was on the side of the house toward the hill. The light shone from an alcove and it made a brilliant gleam. As the two men approached, the door opened and Dorothy Brent stepped into view.
“I thought I recognized your car, Mr. Rokesbury,” said the girl, with a pleasant smile. “You are the first visitor we have had — except, of course, Mr. Halthorpe.”
“Was he here to-night?” asked Rokesbury.
“No,” responded Dorothy. “Last night. He walked out here to tell us about the unfortunate death of poor Mr. Lundig.”
“That reminds me,” said Rokesbury, “that I should have introduced my friend. Miss Brent, I would like to have you meet Mr. Clyde Burke, of the New York Classic. He is in town investigating the death of Hector Lundig.”
The girl smiled; but her face looked troubled. Clyde, peering toward the opened doorway, saw a cadaverous face staring from the hall within. He knew that this must be Twindell, the old servant. The man’s pallid countenance showed a frown. Clyde wondered if it was because Twindell had overheard the introduction.
“I hope,” said Dorothy, in a low tone, “that you will not try to interview my uncle, Mr. Burke. He detests notoriety. He seemed very much upset when he heard of Hector Lundig’s death. He predicted that reporters might be here.”
“He did?” questioned Rokesbury.
“Yes.” Dorothy hesitated; then decided to go on. “He said that he was sorry that the dogs had been sold; that the other servants — beside Twindell — had been discharged when Thaddeus Culeth died. He thought that he might have to use force to drive newspaper men away.”
“We won’t tell him of Mr. Burke’s profession,” laughed Rokesbury. “By the way, where is your uncle?”
“Out in the marsh,” replied Dorothy.
“In all this fog?” inquired Rokesbury.
“He prefers the mist,” explained the girl. “He began to investigate the swamp the first night we came here. He picked paths in the daylight; he has been following them at night—”
Dorothy paused. A powerful electric lantern was coming through the mist. It was followed by a human figure. Swinging his light, Wildemar Brent came stamping along the solid ground. He extinguished the lantern as he came within range of the glow above the door. Blinking, he craned his long neck forward to survey the visitors.
“Who are these men?” he demanded in a querulous voice.
“You remember Mr. Rokesbury, uncle,” replied Dorothy. “This is a friend of his. Mr. Burke.”
“Yes, I remember Rokesbury,” said Brent, harshly. “What brings you here to-night, sir?”
“I was out on the causeway,” replied Rokesbury, calmly. “I wondered how you folks were enjoying your new home. I thought that I would stop by.”
“A long drive around from the causeway,” commented Brent. “I do not care for intrusion. I chose this house because it was isolated.”
“And because of the swamp,” added Dorothy.
Brent glared at his niece as though he thought the added statement unnecessary. Dorothy, however, showed no fear of her uncle’s wrath. She seemed to think that a further explanation was desirable.
“Uncle Wildemar is very much concerned with subjects that interest him,” stated the girl. “He does not realize that people may think it queer because he follows such pursuits as tramping through swampy ground. Don’t you think, uncle” — Dorothy smiled wistfully as she turned toward Brent — “that you should tell Mr. Rokesbury of your scientific studies?”
“Totally unnecessary,” quibbled Brent. “But since you appear prepared to divulge the subject yourself, it is as well that I should speak. I have long desired to own this house, Mr. Rokesbury; for I have envied its location. After Thaddeus Culeth died, I lost no time in buying the mansion. This bogland” — Brent indicated the surrounding terrain with a broad sweep of his arm — “is ideal for one who is in search of the ignis fatuus.”
“The ignis fatuus?” questioned Rokesbury.
“Commonly known as the will-o’-the-wisp,” replied Brent. “The ignis fatuus is a luminous appearance — a pale, bluish-colored flame — that varies in size and shape. It is frequently seen in swampy places, or over grave yards—”
“The marsh lights!” exclaimed Rokesbury: “I have heard of the phenomenon. They have been seen hereabouts, Mr. Brent.”
“So I understand,” remarked the stoop-shouldered man. “That is why I wanted to live here. The ignis fatuus is one natural marvel that science has never explained to satisfaction. I am determined to learn its cause.”
“Does it appear at night?”
“Generally a short while after sunset. Sometimes later. It hovers a few feet above the ground; sometimes it is fixed; sometimes it travels. It has been known to glow until dawn. Sometimes it vanishes and reappears at definite intervals.”
“Amazing!” exclaimed Rokesbury.
“This solid ground is not suited to the ignis fatuus,” declared Brent. “Hence I intend to search through the marsh itself, night by night. I have already discovered paths; Twindell has told me of those with which he was familiar.”
“Your boots show that you have escaped the bog itself,” remarked Rokesbury.
“Quite so,” agreed Brent, in a rather testy tone. “Yes, I am making progress. Concerning the ignis fatuus itself, some hold that it is due to phosphureted hydrogen gas — a tenable theory. Others say it is caused by the combustion of methane, or marsh gas. I disagree with that supposition, for the simple reason that methane is not spontaneously combustible. Marsh gas could produce a weird flame; but it would first have to be ignited. Hence the ignis fatuus cannot—”
BRENT broke off. He stared steadily at Clyde Burke. The reporter was listening intently; something in his manner made Brent suspect him as a newspaper man.
“Are you here to interview me?” demanded the stoop-shouldered naturalist. “Is this a pretext — this visit here? Are you trying to pry into my scientific researches? To lampoon me in the press?”