Into the Fourth Dimension by Ray Cummings

Wilton Grant was at that time just under forty. He was a tall, spare man of muscular build, lean but not powerful. His smooth-shaven face was large-featured, rough-hewn, with a shock of brown hair above it -- hair turning grey at the temples. Beneath heavy brows his grey eyes were deep-set, somber. His ruddy-brown complexion, the obvious strength of his frame at a quick glance gave him an out-of-doors look; a woodsman cast in the mould of a gentleman. Yet there was something poetic about him as well; that wavy, unruly hair, the brooding quality of his eyes. When he spoke, those eyes frequently twinkled with the good nature characteristic of him. But in repose, the somberness was there, unmistakable; an unvoiced, brooding melancholy.

Yet there was nothing morbid about Wilton Grant. A wholesomeness, mental and physical, radiated from him. He was a jolly companion, a man of intellectuality and culture. His deep voice had a pleasing resonance suggestive of the public speaker. Normally rather silent, chary of speech, he could upon occasion draw fluently from a vocabulary of which many an orator would be proud.

He was a bachelor. I often wondered why, for he seemed of a type that would be immensely attractive to women. He did not avoid them; the pose of a woman-hater would have been abhorrent to him. Yet no woman to my knowledge had ever interested him, even mildly. Except his sister. They were orphans and she was his constant companion. They were both in fact, rather chary of friends; absorbed in their work, in which she took an active part. Their home and laboratory was an unpretentious frame cottage in a Westchester village of suburban New York. They lived quietly, modestly, with only one automobile, and no 'plane.

Will opened the door for me himself, smiling as he extended his big, hearty hand. "Well! You came, Rob? You're very forgiving -- that's the mark of a true friend. " He led me into the old-fashioned sitting room. "I'm not going to apologize -- "

"Don't," I said. "I knew of course you had some reason -- "

We were seated. He said with a nod, "Yes. A reason -- you'll hear it now -- tonight -- "

His voice trailed away. It made my heart beat faster. He had changed. I saw him suddenly older.

"Where's Bee? " I asked out of the silence.

He jerked himself back from his reverie. "Upstairs. She'll be down in a moment. She's been ill, Rob."

"But you said not seriously."

"No. She's better now. It's been largely mental -- she's been frightened, Rob. A terrible strain -- that's why I thought it better for us to isolate ourselves for a while -- "

"Oh, then that's why -- "

"That's why I wrote you so peremptorily not to come to see us any more. I was upset myself, I needn't have been so crude -- "

"Please don't apologize, Will. I -- I didn't understand, but -- "

"I'm not. I'm just telling you. But now Bee thought we should have you with us. Our best friend, you understand? And it will make things easier for her -- naturally she's frightened -- "

My hand went to his arm. What I had meant to say I do not know, for Bee at that moment entered the room. A girl of twenty-four. Tall, slim and graceful.

She was dressed now in a clinging negligee which seemed to accentuate the slim grace of her. But the marks of illness were plain upon her face; a pallor; her eyes, though they smiled at me with the smile of greeting upon her lips, had the light of fear in them; her hand as I took it was chill, and its fingers felt thin and wan.

"Bee!"

"It's good to see you, Rob. Will has been apologizing for us, I suppose -- "

These friends of mine calling me to them in their hour of need. I had been annoyed, hurt; I had not realized how deep was my affection for them. for Bee. Vaguely I wondered now if their trouble -- this fear that lay so obviously upon them both -- concerned the coming of the ghosts.