ent. You three keep on talking."

"Thanks," said Hart.

Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.

"Mr. Grant has often spoken of you," she said. "You talk, and
we'll listen."

"Not so, divinity," came the retort. "I may be a parrot, but I don't want
my neck wrung when you've gone."

"Don't encourage him, Doris," said Grant, "or you'll be here till
midnight."

"If that's the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me,"
laughed Hart.

Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The
casement window was open--he had noted that fact while in the garden. He
peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian
on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer
cautiously through the small window. The detective's blood ran cold. What
if Hart discovered yet another ghost?

"Robinson--go home!" he said, in sepulchral tones.

The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror.
He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.

"Go home!" hissed Furneaux, leaning out.

Then the other looked up.

"Oh, it's you, sir!" he gasped, sighing with relief.

"Man, you've had the closest shave of your life! There's a fellow below
there who shoots at sight."

"But I'm on duty, sir."

"You'll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!"

"I--"

"Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don't do as I bid you. And that
would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a
particularly smart man in Steynholme."

"Very well, sir, if _you're_ satisfied, I _must_ be."

And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear of
the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced.

Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a
real good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing
spell-bound at the felt hat.

"Now, young lady, you're coming with me," he said, grinning amiably. "The
Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour."

"But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!" said Doris, and it was notable
that even Hart remained silent.

The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question.

"I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society," went
on the girl. "It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a
burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from
walking about