Milburd is calling me. Everyone in ecstasies. What wonderful old chambers. Oak panels, diamond panes. Remains of tapestry, containing probably a fine collection of moths. Old rusty armour on the walls. Strange out-of-the-way staircases leading to postern-doors and offices.

Chilvern observes that it all wants doing up, and commences making plans and notes in a book, which he takes from his pocket, in company with a small ivory two-foot rule.

“Plenty of mice,” says Cazell, looking at the old woman for corroboration.

“Yes, in winter-time,” she says.

“And rats?” inquires Milburd.

“I've met 'em on the stairs,” replies the old lady, quite cheerfully.

“Ghosts, too?” suggests Boodels. [He has become somewhat melancholy of late and says that he is studying the phenomena of “Unconscious Cerebration,” which Milburd explains is only a name for thinking of nothing without knowing it. Boodels, in consequence, thinks Milburd a mere buffoon.]

“Well, my husband,” she answers in a matter-of-fact way, “my husband, he see the Ghost. . . I think it were last Christmas twelvemonth.”

“The Ghost!” exclaims Boodels, much interested.

“Yes, the White Lady,” says the old woman as pleasantly as possible. “There's the marks on the floor of the stain where she was murdered. There! that gentleman's standing on it.”

Good gracious! so I am. A dull sort of mulberry-coloured stain. “It won't wash out,” she goes on. “I've tried it. And it won't plane out, as they've tried that. And so,” she finishes with a sniff, “there it is.”

CHAPTER IV.