Uncle Bens Widow

And now for the signal oil program, the Whistler. The mystery program that is unique among all mystery programs. Because you know who's guilty. You see, his every move. You know his complete plans, even his innermost thought.

Yet the final curtain always brings a startling surprise. In the signal oil program, the Whistler. That whistle is your signal for the signal oil program, the Whistler. I am the Whisper. And I know many things, before I walk by night.

I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women. We're accepted to the shadows. Yes. I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Yes, friends, it's the Whisper for tops and entertainment.

And for the tops and gasoline quality, it's signal. It takes extra quality, you know, to give you extra mileage. And signal is the famous go farther, gasoline. So look for the signal circle sign in yellow and black that identifies friendly independent signal stations from Canada to Mexico.

And now the Whistler Strange story. Uncle Ben's widow. From the veranda, the Crestview Sanatorium nestled high on the Mount Tamil Pys slope, Monica Dawson looked across the low rolling hills to the bay in San Francisco beyond.

Presently the faint sound of a bicycle bell reached her ears. The sound of a dog barking. Moments later the rider appeared along the narrow dirt roadway and then wheeled into the hospital ground. Gielding her eyes from the sun, she peered through the haze, watched the dusty figure on the bicycle approach.

And then suddenly she sat upright in her chair. There was something familiar about the man in the khaki trousers, the yellow t-shirt, the knitted cap. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.