The Haunted Bell | Page 3

then his cunning, faded eyes wavered and dropped.
"I am Johann Wagner," he said humbly. "What do you want?"
"Some time ago--two or three months--you sold a Japanese gong--" Mr. Phillips began.
"I never sold it!" interrupted Wagner vehemently. "I never had a Japanese gong in the place! I never sold it!"
"Of course you sold it," insisted Mr. Phillips. "A Japanese gong--do you understand? Six bells on a silken cord."
"I never had such a thing in my life--never had such a thing in my shop!" declared the German excitedly. "I never sold it, so help me! I never saw it!"
Curiosity and incredulity were in Mr. Phillips' eyes as he faced the old man.
"Do you happen to have any clerk?" he asked. "Or did you have three months ago?"
"No, I never had a clerk," explained the German with a violence which Mr. Phillips did not understand. "There has never been anybody here but me. I never had a Japanese gong here--I never sold one! I never saw one here!"
Mr. Phillips studied the aged, wrinkled face before him calmly for several seconds. He was trying vainly to account for an excitement, a vehemence which was as inexplicable as it was unnecessary.
"It's absurd to deny that you sold the bell," he said finally. "My wife bought it of you, here in this place."
"I never sold it!" stormed the German. "I never had it! No women ever came here. I don't want women here. I don't know anything about a Japanese gong. I never had one here."
Deeply puzzled and thoroughly impatient, Mr. Phillips decided to forego this attempt at a casual inquiry into the history of the gong. After a little while he went away. The old German watched him cautiously, with cunning, avaricious eyes, until he stepped on a car.
As the cool, pleasant days of early spring passed on the bell held its tongue. Only once, and that was immediately after his visit to the old German's shop, did Mr. Phillips refer to it again. Then he inquired casually of his wife if she had bought it of the old man in person, and she answered in the affirmative, describing him. Then the question came to him: Why had Wagner absolutely denied all knowledge of the bell, of its having been in his possession and of having sold it?
But, after a time, this question was lost in vital business affairs which engrossed his attention. The gong still hung over his desk and he occasionally glanced at it. At such times his curiosity was keen, poignant even, but he made no further effort to solve the mystery which seemed to enshroud it.
So, until one evening a wealthy young Japanese gentleman, Oku Matsumi, by name, son of a distinguished nobleman in his country's diplomatic service, came to dinner at the Phillips' home as the guest of Harvey Phillips. They were classmates in Harvard, and a friendship had grown up between them which was curious, perhaps, but explainable on the ground of a mutual interest in art.
After dinner Mr. Matsumi expressed his admiration for several pictures which hung in the luxurious dining-room, and so it followed naturally that Mr. Phillips exhibited some other rare works of art. One of these pictures, a Da Vinci, hung in the little room where the gong was. With no thought of that, at the moment, Mr. Phillips led the way in and the Japanese followed.
Then a peculiar thing happened. At sight of the gong Mr. Matsumi seemed amazed, startled, and, taking one step toward it, he bent as if in obeisance. At the same time his right hand was thrust outward and upward as if describing some symbol in the air.
* * *
. . . Utter silence! A suppliant throng, bowed in awed humility with hands outstretched, palms downward, and yellow faces turned in mute prayer toward the light which fluttered up feebly from the sacred fire upon the stony, leering countenance of Buddha. The gigantic golden image rose cross-legged from its pedestal and receded upward and backward into the gloom of the temple. The multitude shaded off from bold outlines within the glow of the fire to a shadowy, impalpable mass in the remotest corners; hushed of breath, immovably staring into the drooping eyes of their graven-god.
Behind the image was a protecting veil of cloth of gold. Presently there came a murmer, and the supplicants, with one accord, prostrated themselves until their heads touched the bare, cold stones of the temple floor. The murmur grew into the weirdly beautiful chant of the priests of Buddha. The flickering light for an instant gave an appearance of life to the heavy-lidded, drooping eyes, then it steadied again and they seemed fixed on the urn wherein the fire burned.
After a moment the curtain of gold was thrust aside in three places simultaneously, and three silken-robed