The Haunted Bell | Page 3

evaded the question.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want to know if this is Mr. Wagner," said Mr. Phillips tersely. "Is it,
or is it not?"
The old man met his frank stare for a moment; 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