“Not actually.  Only in a photograph.  But we have many friends who had the experience of apparitions.”

“Ah!  They see ghosts in London,” mumbled Renouard, not looking at her.

“Frequently—­in a certain very interesting set.  But all sorts of people do.  We have a friend, a very famous author—­his ghost is a girl.  One of my brother’s intimates is a very great man of science.  He is friendly with a ghost . . .  Of a girl too,” she added in a voice as if struck for the first time by the coincidence.  “It is the photograph of that apparition which I have seen.  Very sweet.  Most interesting.  A little cloudy naturally. . . .  Mr. Renouard!  I hope you are not a sceptic.  It’s so consoling to think. . .”

“Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts too,” said Renouard grimly.

The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly.  What crudeness!  It was always so with this strange young man.

“Mr. Renouard!  How can you compare the superstitious fancies of your horrible savages with the manifestations . . . "

Words failed her.  She broke off with a very faint primly angry smile.  She was perhaps the more offended with him because of that flutter at the beginning of the conversation.  And in a moment with perfect tact and dignity she got up from her chair and left him alone.

Renouard didn’t even look up.  It was not the displeasure of the lady which deprived him of his sleep that night.  He was beginning to forget what simple, honest sleep was like.  His hammock from the ship had been hung for him on a side verandah, and he spent his nights in it on his back, his hands folded on his chest, in a sort of half conscious, oppressed stupor.  In the morning he watched with unseeing eyes the headland come out a shapeless inkblot against the thin light of the false dawn, pass through all the stages of daybreak to the deep purple of its outlined mass nimbed gloriously with the gold of the rising sun.  He listened to the vague sounds of waking within the house:  and suddenly he became aware of Luiz standing by the hammock—­obviously troubled.

“What’s the matter?”

“Tse!  Tse!  Tse!”

“Well, what now?  Trouble with the boys?”

“No, master.  The gentleman when I take him his bath water he speak to me.  He ask me—­he ask—­when, when, I think Mr. Walter, he come back.”

The half-caste’s teeth chattered slightly.  Renouard got out of the hammock.

“And he is here all the time—­eh?”

Luiz nodded a scared affirmative, but at once protested, “I no see him.  I never.  Not I!  The ignorant wild boys say they see . . .  Something!  Ough!”

He clapped his teeth on another short rattle, and stood there, shrunk, blighted, like a man in a freezing blast.

“And what did you say to the gentleman?”

“I say I don’t know—­and I clear out.  I—­I don’t like to speak of him.”