His hand on the knob, he paused, undecided, looking toward Dodd for some intimation the course to pursue. But Dodd had not stirred, and Stockbridge turned to the youth.
"Thank you," he said, and closed the door.
For a moment he was at a loss, but, when he tried to speak, he was silenced by Dodd's beckoning hand. He approached, stopping at Dodd's side, his eyes following the other man's finger.
"I want you to tell me what you see in his face," said Dodd.
The request seemed so strange to Dr. Stockbridge that he glanced up quickly to see if Dodd were in earnest. What could he see in a dead man's face but — death? However, a glance was sufficient to assure him of his companion's earnestness, and he lowered his eyes. A long moment of silent scrutiny, and then the surgeon bent lower, his eyes narrowing.
"Yes," he muttered, awed by his discovery. "I see what you mean. It's amazing. It wasn't that way when he died—"
"What do you see?" interrupted Dodd.
"The mouth," said Dr. Stockbridge. "The corners seem to droop more. And the eyelids look more strained. His whole face seems to have changed, as though he were—"
"Dissatisfied?" prompted Dodd, as the surgeon hesitated.
"Yes. As though he were restless and unhappy about something."
"Ah!" muttered Dodd. "I noticed that when I first came into the room, and. I have been held by it. Dr. Stockbridge," he added, looking up for the first time, "my old friend is restless, dissatisfied. His spirit is not at peace. And that is why the bell is ringing."
"Then you think—"
"I am certain. And I have been standing here, wondering what he was distressed about, what message he was trying to convey. He is trying to say something to us, doctor. He is trying to direct our attention to something he wants done. And he will not rest, doctor, until it is done. I must try to understand him. I must find out what he wants."
"Have you any idea?"
"Perhaps, but I am not sure."
He turned.
"Shall we go back to the office?" he asked.
III
When they re-entered the office, they found a group of internes and nurses gathered in a corner of the room. The report of the mysterious calls from Room 42 had spread throughout the building, and an awed, silent circle of men and women in hospital uniform were watching the indicator for the call that was momentarily expected. An interne came forward as Dodd and the surgeon entered.
"It rang twice while you were out," lie said. "And young Carrington is here, in the inner office. He was told, and when he heard the bell ring and. how the number came up he fainted. He's lying down in there."
Dr. Stockbridge, followed by Dodd, hurried to the inner office. Elsa Lloyd was bending over a couch, on which lay Edward Carrington, his back to the door. The girl came forward as the men entered.
"He's better now," she said.
Dr. Stockbridge approached the couch, caught Carrington's wrist and touched two fingers to his pulse. The youth did not stir, his arm hanging limp in the surgeon's grasp. Dr. Stockbridge looked up at last and nodded reassuringly to Dodd. Then he turned to the girl.
"I'll look after him," he said. "We won't need you."
The girl withdrew.
Madison Dodd retired to the window, and he stood there, his eyes fixed on the horizon, in deep thought. The surgeon came up to him.
"Poor fellow," he muttered. "I can understand how he'd feel about it."
Dodd did not reply.
Once more the bell in the outer office rang, the indicator clicked. Dr. Stockbridge turned to observe the effect on the youth. He lay there very still, as though he had not heard; but his eyes, turned to the wall, were wide open. He seemed too stunned for any sensation.
As the moments fled by, the surgeon grew more and more ill at ease under the strain of the silence and the unsolved mystery. He wondered why they were waiting there, inactive, undecided; and yet, when he tried to think what they could do, he was at a loss. He could not wait there all day, however, obedient to a vague call, an intangible summons from the dead.
If only he could persuade Dodd of the absurdity of the whole situation. But how could he convince Dodd when he was himself so completely at sea? He had never believed in these things, had always waved aside any testimony concerning spirits as the invention of gullible minds; yet here before him there was evidence that he could not thrust aside so easily. He paced the room restlessly, finally pausing beside Carrington's friend.
"What can we do?" he asked.
"I am thinking," said Dodd quietly, his eyes still on the horizon.
"But," persisted the surgeon, "do you still believe—?"
"I am sure that the bell is a summons to some one. If you do not understand its message, it is because it is not for you. Perhaps it is not even for me, for I do not seem to grasp the meaning of it. But it is calling to some one here, or it would not ring. And that one will understand if he is here."
"Still," pursued the surgeon, encouraged, "even granting the existence of a spirit that exists after death, is it conceivable that that spirit can assert itself in this way? As a man of science, it seems too fanciful to me."
"What," replied Dodd, "can be more fanciful than science itself? It is dumb before the mysteries which it pretends to understand. Can you, as a scientist, explain to me why, when a button is pressed in Room 42, a bell should ring in this room?"
"Electricity—" began the surgeon.
"And what is electricity? Even science does not pretend to know. Is it not inconceivable that it should be able to flow through a solid copper wire? And yet it does. Man's soul, his spirit, is more mysterious than electricity. Why can it not flow through the ether and create a disturbance in its environment? Released from the body which it inhabited, why can it not hover near by and make its will known to those it wishes to reach? Scofield Carrington's body died, but his spirit, refusing to die unsatisfied, is still alive, restless, insistent, urging the fulfillment of its desire that it may be set at peace. And it will not give up until it is satisfied. There," he added, as the bell rang, "it is still calling. It will continue until he for whom it is meant obeys the call."
"But who is it for?" asked the surgeon weakly.
Madison Dodd turned slowly, but his eyes did not meet the surgeon's. They made a circuit of the room and came to pause on the figure of young Carrington, who had stirred for the first time and was now sitting up, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The surgeon followed his companion's gaze. It suddenly came to him that perhaps young Carrington, who had not uttered a word, understood; for he could see that, beneath the surface of his immobility, there was a great struggle going on, that a difficult resolve was forming.
He turned to Dodd, expecting some revelation from him, but the man's face was a mask. His fingers were twined in the cord hanging from the window-shade and his eyes were fixed on the youth. The surgeon observed the youth once more.
Slowly Edward Carrington's hands lowered from his face. Slowly he rose and turned. His eyes were clear. His features were firm. And he came forward with decision in his whole bearing.
"Mr. Dodd," he said in a slow, level voice, pausing before his father's friend, "that bell was for me."
IV
Dr. Stockbridge's eyes grew wide with amazement at this simple avowal. But Madison Dodd's expression did not change.
"Well?" he prompted calmly, his fingers still toying with the window-shade cord.
"I have been fighting it out with myself," said young Carrington, "all morning, ever since father—" He paused, and his lips were unsteady. "You know how unhappy he was over me, my failure to live up to his name. And he died feeling that he had failed to redeem me. But all morning I have felt his nearness. And when I came in here and they told me — when I heard the bell and saw the call from his room — I knew. The call was for me. I understood what he wanted me to do. I obey."