My car is down-stairs. Woodbine is not far, and you'll
find it a very attractive suburb, aside from this mystery."
Andrews lost no time in getting us out to Woodbine, and on the
fringe of the little town, one of the wealthiest around the city,
he deposited us at the least likely place of all, the cemetery. A
visit to a cemetery is none too enjoyable even on a bright day. In
the early night it is positively uncanny. What was gruesome in the
daylight became doubly so under the shroud of darkness.
We made our way into the grounds through a gate, and I, at least,
even with all the enlightenment of modern science, could not
restrain a weird and creepy sensation.
"Here is the Phelps tomb," directed Andrews, pausing beside a
marble structure of Grecian lines and pulling out a duplicate key
of a new lock which had been placed on the heavy door of grated
iron. As we entered, it was with a shudder at the damp odour of
decay. Kennedy had brought his little electric bull's-eye, and, as
he flashed it about, we could see at a glance that the reports had
not been exaggerated.
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