having a bath
made in his room, for there's the fellow-closet as matches Mr
Stratton's exactly.'"

"To be sure, I never thought of that," said Stratton merrily. "I'll
give him a hint."

"Mr Stratton, sir, if you've any respect for me and my rheumatism,
don't. The place smells horrid as it is of paint, and French polish,
and plumbers, without counting the mess they made, and if you'll be
guided by me you'll buy a sixpenny box of pastilles and let me burn one
every day till the smell of workmen's gone."

"Oh, I don't mind the smell, Mrs Brade. By George, yes, Mr Brettison
ought to have a bath put in his."

"Mr Stratton, sir, don't, please. He's sure to if you say a word; and
if the workmen come again we shall be having the whole place tumbling
about our ears."

"I hope not. Oh, the old place is strong enough."

"I don't know, sir," said the porter's wife, shaking her head; "it's a
very old and tumble-down sort of place, and I've heard noises, and
crackings, and rappings, sometimes, as have made my flesh creep. They
do say the place is haunted."

"With rats?"

"Worse, sir. Oh, I'm told there were strange goings on here in the old
times, when a Lord Morran lived here. I've heard that your cupboard--"

"Bath room."

"Well, sir, bath room, was once a passage into Mr Brettison's chambers,
and his closet was a passage into yours, and they used to have dinners,
and feasts, and dancing, and masked balls, at which they used to play
dominoes. The gambling and goings on was shameful. But please, sir,
don't say a word to Mr Brettison. I've trouble enough with him now.
There never was such a gentleman for objecting to being dusted, and the
way those big books of his that he presses his bits of chickweed and
groundsel in do hold the dust is awful. If you wished to do him some
kindness you'd get him away for a bit, so that I could turn his rooms
inside out. Postman, sir."

Mrs Brade hurried to the outer door and fetched a letter just dropped
into the box, and upon this being eagerly taken, and opened, she saw
that there was no further chance of being allowed to gossip, and saying
"Good-morning, sir," she went out, and down to the porter's lodge.

Malcolm Stratton's hands trembled as he turned the letter over and
hesitated to open it.

"What a manly hand the old lady writes, and how fond she is of sporting
their arms," he continued, as he held up the great blot of red wax
carefully sealed over the adhesive