“There may be other houses—­” I began.

“There are,” said Carnacki; and stood up.

“Out you go,” he said, genially, using the recognized formula.  And in five minutes we were on the Embankment, going thoughtfully to our various homes.

No. 6

THE THING INVISIBLE

Carnacki had just returned to Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.  I was aware of this interesting fact by reason of the curt and quaintly worded postcard which I was rereading, and by which I was requested to present myself at his house not later than seven o’clock on that evening.  Mr. Carnacki had, as I and the others of his strictly limited circle of friends knew, been away in Kent for the past three weeks; but beyond that, we had no knowledge.  Carnacki was genially secretive and curt, and spoke only when he was ready to speak.  When this stage arrived, I and his three other friends—­Jessop, Arkright, and Taylor—­would receive a card or a wire, asking us to call.  Not one of us ever willingly missed, for after a thoroughly sensible little dinner Carnacki would snuggle down into his big armchair, light his pipe, and wait whilst we arranged ourselves comfortably in our accustomed seats and nooks.  Then he would begin to talk.

Upon this particular night I was the first to arrive and found Carnacki sitting, quietly smoking over a paper.  He stood up, shook me firmly by the hand, pointed to a chair, and sat down again, never having uttered a word.

For my part, I said nothing either.  I knew the man too well to bother him with questions or the weather, and so took a seat and a cigarette.  Presently the three others turned up and after that we spent a comfortable and busy hour at dinner.

Dinner over, Carnacki snugged himself down into his great chair, as I have said was his habit, filled his pipe and puffed for awhile, his gaze directed thoughtfully at the fire.  The rest of us, if I may so express it, made ourselves cozy, each after his own particular manner.  A minute or so later Carnacki began to speak, ignoring any preliminary remarks, and going straight to the subject of the story we knew he had to tell: 

“I have just come back from Sir Alfred Jarnock’s place at Burtontree, in South Kent,” he began, without removing his gaze from the fire.  “Most extraordinary things have been happening down there lately and Mr. George Jarnock, the eldest son, wired to ask me to run over and see whether I could help to clear matters up a bit.  I went.

“When I got there, I found that they have an old Chapel attached to the castle which has had quite a distinguished reputation for being what is popularly termed ‘haunted.’  They have been rather proud of this, as I managed to discover, until quite lately when something very disagreeable occurred, which served to remind them that family ghosts are not always content, as I might say, to remain purely ornamental.