Captain Duggle lived all by himself—­well, what God-fearing Christian, male or female, would be found to live with him—­came and went mysteriously and capriciously, always full of money, and at least equally full of drink!  What he did with himself nobody knew, but evil legends gathered about him.  Terrified wayfarers, passing the cottage by night, took oath that they had heard more than one voice!

“This is proper Christmas!” a subaltern interjected into Gertie’s ear.

Mr. Penrose, with an air of gratification, continued his narrative.

“The story goes on to tell,” he said, “of a final interview with the village clergyman, in which that reverend man, as in duty bound, solemnly told Captain Duggle that however much he might curse, and blaspheme, and drink, and, er, do all the other things that the Captain did (obviously here Mr. Penrose felt hampered by the presence of ladies), yet Death, Judgment, and Churchyard wait for him at last.  Whereupon the Captain, emitting an inconceivably terrific imprecation, which no one ever dared to repeat and which consequently is lost to tradition, declared that the first he’d never feared, the second was parson’s gabble, and as to the third, never should his dead toes be nearer any church than for the last forty years his living feet had been!  If so be as he wasn’t drowned at sea, he’d make a grave for himself!”

Mr. Penrose paused, sipped port wine, and resumed.

“And so, no doubt, he did, building the Tower for that purpose.  By bribes and threats he got two men to work for him.  One was the uncle of my informant.  But though he built that Tower, and inside it dug his grave, he never lay there, being, as things turned out, carried off by the Devil.  Oh, yes, there was no doubt!  He went home one night, a Saturday, very drunk, as usual.  On the Sunday night a belated wayfarer, possibly also drunk, heard wild shrieks and saw a strange red glow through the window of the Tower, now, by the way, boarded up.  And no doubt he’d have smelt brimstone if the wind hadn’t set the wrong way!  Anyhow Captain Duggle was never seen again by mortal eyes, at Inkston, at all events.  After a time the landlord of the cottage screwed up his courage to resume possession; the Captain had only a lease of it, though he built the Tower at his own charges, and, I believe, without any permission, the landlord being much too frightened to interfere with him.  He found everything in a sad mess in the house, while in the Tower itself every blessed stick had been burnt up.  So the story looks pretty plausible.”

“And the grave?” This question came eagerly from at least three of the company.

“In front of the fireplace there was a big oblong hole—­six feet by three, by four—­planks at the bottom, the sides roughly lined with brick.  Captain Duggle’s grave; but he wasn’t in it!”

“But what really became of him, Mr. Penrose?” cried Cynthia.

“The Rising Generation is very skeptical,” said old Naylor.  “You, of course, Penrose, believe the story?”