itude to such an event, and the opinions concerning it, of such
people might have been pretty accurately predicted; nor would it be fair
to laugh at their terror and bewilderment, their confusion of tongues
and the fatuous theories they adventured by way of explanation. For
wiser than they--men experienced in the problems of humanity and trained
to solve its enigmas--were presently in no better case.

A very trivial and innocent remark was prelude to the disaster; and had
the speaker guessed what his jest must presently mean in terms of human
misery, grief, and horror, it is certain enough that he would not have
spoken.

The women were gone to bed and the men sat around the fire smoking and
admiring Sir Walter's ancient blend of whisky. He himself had just flung
away the stump of his cigar and was admonishing his son-in-law. "Church
to-morrow, Tom. None of your larks. When first you came to see me,
remember, you went to church twice on Sunday like a lamb. I'll have no
backsliding."

"Mary will see to that, governor."

"And you, Henry."

Sir Walter, disappointed of his hopes respecting his nephew and
daughter, had none the less treated the young man with tact and
tenderness. He felt for Henry; he was also fond of him and doubted not
that the youth would prove a worthy successor. Thomas May was one with
whom none could quarrel, and he and his wife's old flame were now, after
the acquaintance of a week, on friendly terms.

"I shan't fail, uncle."

"Will anybody have another whisky?" asked Sir Walter, rising.

It was the signal for departure and invariably followed the stroke of
a deep-mouthed, grandfather clock in the hall. When eleven sounded, the
master rose; but to-night he was delayed. Tom May spoke.

"Fayre-Michell has never heard the ghost story, governor," he said, "and
Mr. Travers badly wants another drink. If he doesn't have one, he won't
sleep all night. He's done ten men's work to-day."

Mr. Fayre-Michell spoke.

"I didn't know you had a ghost, Sir Walter. I'm tremendously interested
in psychical research and so on. If it's not bothering you and keeping
you up--."

"A ghost at Chadlands, Walter?" asked Ernest Travers. "You never told
me."

"Ghosts are all humbug," declared another speaker--a youthful "colonel"
of the war.

"I deprecate that attitude, Vane. It may certainly be that our ghost is
a humbug, or, rather, that we have no such thing as a ghost at all.
And that is my own impression. Bu