rk, gloomy
woods and the funereal shadows.

Frank straightened up. There was a queer look on his face.

"Did you hear it?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Of course I heard it," answered Browning, thinking he spoke of the
whisper. "The words came to my ears distinctly."

"No, no; I did not mean the whisper."

"Then what did you mean? I heard no other sound."

"It is strange, for I fancied I heard it distinctly."

"Where did the sound come from?"

Without a word, Merriwell pointed downward toward the grave. There was
a look on his face that made his companion shiver.

Bruce swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"I am a fool!" he thought. "I am ashamed of such childish fears!"

Then he forced himself to distinctly ask:

"What kind of a sound did you think you heard?"

"A rustle--a movement. It was as if the body down there had turned
restlessly in its bed of earth!"

Never did Bruce forget how those words sounded in the deep silence of
the black woods. Never did he forget the sensation of unutterable horror
that they brought with a shock to his soul. He stared at Frank, his jaw
dropping, while awful thoughts ran riot in his brain.

They had heard the whispered words, "dead and buried," which at first
seemed to float in the air, and then appeared to come up from the grave
before them. Browning fancied the dead lips down there uttering those
words. He fancied the murdered man turning restlessly in his cold, dark
bed--turning, twisting, unable to rest till he had been avenged.

What thoughts fled through Frank Merriwell's brain? Surely he was
besieged by uncanny fancies, but never in all his life was he more on
the alert. The very air of mystery that surrounded him was a stimulant.
He had solved many mysteries, and now he was determined to solve this
one.

Down the slope in the shadows of the dark woods below there was a
rustling sound. Quick as a flash, Merriwell wheeled, rifle in hand, and
bounded in that direction.

Browning did not care to be left there alone beside that grave, and he
followed Frank in a hurry. He saw Merry disappear amid the trees, heard
a sudden chattering, and then there was a flash of fire and the clear
report of a rifle. Frank had fired at something while he was on the run.

The big Yale man crashed into the woods and came upon his friend, who
was stooping to pick up a dead squirrel.

"I rather think this fellow made the rustling that seemed to come from
the grave," said Merry.