d undeniable spectre. Its
existence only dates back, I believe, to the reign of the Second
George, when a young lady cut her throat upon hearing of the death of
her lover at the battle of Dettingen. Still, even that gives the house
an air of respectability, especially when coupled with bloodstains upon
the floor. Jorrocks is densely unconscious of his good fortune; and his
language when he reverts to the apparition is painful to listen to. He
little dreams how I covet every one of those moans and nocturnal wails
which he describes with unnecessary objurgation. Things are indeed
coming to a pretty pass when democratic spectres are allowed to desert
the landed proprietors and annul every social distinction by taking
refuge in the houses of the great unrecognized.

I have a large amount of perseverance. Nothing else could have raised
me into my rightful sphere, considering the uncongenial atmosphere in
which I spent the earlier part of my life. I felt now that a ghost must
be secured, but how to set about securing one was more than either Mrs.
D'Odd or myself was able to determine. My reading taught me that such
phenomena are usually the outcome of crime. What crime was to be done,
then, and who was to do it? A wild idea entered my mind that Watkins,
the house-steward, might be prevailed upon--for a consideration--to
immolate himself or someone else in the interests of the establishment.
I put the matter to him in a half jesting manner; but it did not seem
to strike him in a favourable light. The other servants sympathized
with him in his opinion--at least, I cannot account in any other way
for their having left the house in a body the same afternoon.

"My dear," Mrs. D'Odd remarked to me one day after dinner as I sat
moodily sipping a cup of sack--I love the good old names--"my dear,
that odious ghost of Jorrocks' has been gibbering again."

"Let it gibber!" I answered recklessly.

Mrs. D'Odd struck a few chords on her virginal and looked thoughtfully
into the fire.

"I'll tell you what it is, Argentine," she said at last, using the pet
name which we usually substituted for Silas, "we must have a ghost sent
down from London."

"How can you be so idiotic, Matilda?" I remarked severely. "Who could
get us such a thing?"

"My cousin, Jack Brocket, could," she answered confidently.

Now, this cousin of Matilda's was rather a sore subject between us. He
was a rakish clever young fellow, who had tried his hand at many