riend, who was writing furiously
in a large ledger--upside down, as I afterward discovered.

After the first greetings, I plunged into business at once. "Look
here, Jack," I said, "I want you to get me a spirit, if you can."

"Spirits you mean!" shouted my wife's cousin, plunging his hand into
the waste-paper basket and producing a bottle with the celerity of a
conjuring trick. "Let's have a drink!"

I held up my hand as a mute appeal against such a proceeding so early
in the day; but on lowering it again I found that I almost
involuntarily closed my fingers round the tumbler which my adviser had
pressed upon me. I drank the contents hastily off, lest any one should
come in upon us and set me down as a toper. After all, there was
something very amusing about the young fellow's eccentricities.

"Not spirits," I explained, smilingly; "an apparition--a ghost. If
such a thing is to be had, I should be very willing to negotiate."

"A ghost for Goresthorpe Grange?" inquired Mr. Brocket with as much
coolness as if I had asked for a drawing-room suite.

"Quite so," I answered.

"Easiest thing in the world," said my companion, filling up my glass
again in spite of my remonstrance. "Let us see!" Here he took down a
large red note-book, with all the letters of the alphabet in a fringe
down the edge. "A ghost you said, didn't you. That's G.
G--gems--gimlets--gaspipes--gauntlets--guns--galleys. Ah, here we are!
Ghosts. Volume nine, section six, page forty-one. Excuse me!" And
Jack ran up a ladder and began rummaging among a pile of ledgers on a
high shelf. I felt half inclined to empty my glass into the spittoon
when his back was turned; but on second thoughts I disposed of it in a
legitimate way.

"Here it is!" cried my London agent, jumping off the ladder with a
crash, and depositing an enormous volume of manuscript upon the table.
"I have all these things tabulated, so that I may lay my hands upon
them in a moment. It's all right--it's quite weak" (here he filled our
glasses again). "What were we looking up, again?"

"Ghosts," I suggested.

"Of course; page 41. Here we are. 'J. H. Fowler & Son, Dunkel Street,
suppliers of mediums to the nobility and gentry; charms
sold--love-philters--mummies--horoscopes cast.' Nothing in your line
there, I suppose?"

I shook my head despondingly.

"Frederick Tabb," continued my wife's cousin, "sole channel of
communication between the living and the dead. Propr