Then he went on. “I have no peace or rest for it. It calls tome， for many minutes together， in an agonised manner， ‘Belowthere！ Look out！ Look out！’ It stands waving to me. It rings mylittle bell—”
I caught at that. “Did it ring your bell yesterday eveningwhen I was here， and you went to the door？”
“Twice.”
“Why， see，” said I， “how your imagination misleads you. Myeyes were on the bell， and my ears were open to the bell， andif I am a living man， it did NOT ring at those times. No， nor atany other time， except when it was rung in the natural courseof physical things by the station communicating with you.”
He shook his head. “I have never made a mistake as tothat yet， sir. I have never confused the spectre’s ring with theman’s. The ghost’s ring is a strange vibration in the bell that itderives from nothing else， and I have not asserted that the bellstirs to the eye. I don’t wonder that you failed to hear it. But Iheard it.”
“And did the spectre seem to be there， when you looked out？”
“It WAS there.”
“Both times？”
He repeated firmly： “Both times.”
“Will you come to the door with me， and look for it now？”
He bit his under lip as though he were somewhat unwilling，but arose. I opened the door， and stood on the step， while hestood in the doorway. There was the Danger-light. There wasthe dismal mouth of the tunnel. There were the high， wet stonewalls of the cutting. There were the stars above them.
“Do you see it？” I asked him， taking particular note of hisface. His eyes were prominent and strained， but not very muchmore so， perhaps， than my own had been when I had directedthem earnestly towards the same spot.
“No，” he answered. “It is not there.”
“Agreed，” said I.
We went in again， shut the door， and resumed our seats. Iwas thinking how best to improve this advantage， if it might becalled one， when he took up the conversation in such a matterof-course way， so assuming that there could be no seriousquestion of fact between us， that I felt myself placed in theweakest of positions.
“By this time you will fully understand， sir，” he said， “thatwhat troubles me so dreadfully is the question， What does thespectre mean？”
I was not sure， I told him， that I did fully understand.
“What is its warning against？” he said， ruminating， withhis eyes on the fire， and only by times turning them on me.
“What is the danger？ Where is the danger？ There is dangeroverhanging somewhere on the Line. Some dreadful calamitywill happen. It is not to be doubted this third time， after whathas gone before. But surely this is a cruel haunting of me.
What can I do？”
He pulled out his handkerchief， and wiped the drops fromhis heated forehead.
“If I telegraph Danger， on either side of me， or on both， Ican give no reason for it，” he went on， wiping the palms of hishands. “I should get into trouble， and do no good. They wouldthink I was mad. This is the way it would work，—Message：
‘Danger！ Take care！’ Answer： ‘What Danger？ Where？’
Message： ‘Don’t know. But， for God’s sake， take care！’ Theywould displace me. What else could they do？”
His pain of mind was most pitiable to see. It was the mentaltorture of a conscientious man， oppressed beyond enduranceby an unintelligible responsibility involving life.
“When it first stood under the Danger-light，” he went on，putting his dark hair back from his head， and drawing hishands outward across and across his temples in an extremity offeverish distress， “why not tell me where that accident was tohappen，—if it must happen？ Why not tell me how it could beaverted，—if it could have been averted？ When on its secondcoming it hid its face， why not tell me， instead， ‘she is goingto die. Let them keep her at home’？ If it came， on those twooccasions， only to show me that its warnings were true， andso to prepare me for the third， why not warn me plainly now？
And I， Lord help me！ A mere poor signal-man on this solitarystation！ Why not go to somebody with credit to be believed，and power to act？”