“And went to sleep?” interrupted Mrs. Dearman.

‘"I nevah sleep,’” quoted Mr. Ross-Ellison, “and I had no time, if any inclination.  Scarcely indeed had I seated myself, and actually while I was placing my topi on an adjacent stool, a lady emerged from a distant door at the end of the verandah and walked towards me.  I can tell you I was mighty surprised, for not only was Captain Malet-Marsac a lone bachelor and a misogynist of blameless life, but the lady looked as though she had stepped straight out of an Early Victorian phonograph-album.  She had on a crinoline sort of dress, a deep lace collar, spring-sidey sort of boots, mittens, and a huge cameo brooch.  Also she had long ringlets.  Her face is stamped on my memory and I could pick her out from a hundred women similarly dressed, or her picture from a hundred others....”

“What did you do?” asked Mrs. Dearman, whose neglected ice-pudding was fast being submerged in a pink lake of its own creation.

“Do?  Nothing.  I grabbed my topi, stood up, bowed—­and looked silly.”

“And what did the lady do?”

“Came straight on, taking no notice whatsoever of me, until she reached the steps leading into the porch and garden....  She passed down these and out of my sight....  That is the plain statement of an actual fact.  Have you any ‘explanation’ to offer?”

“Well—­what about a lady staying there, unexpectedly and unbeknownst (to the station), trying on a get-up for a Fancy Dress Ball.  Going as ’My ancestress’ or something?” suggested Mrs. Dearman.

“Exactly what I told myself, though I knew it was nothing of the kind....  Well, five minutes later Malet-Marsac rode up the drive and we were soon fraternizing over cheroots and cold drinks....  As I was leaving, an idea struck me, and I saw a way to ask a question—­which was burning my tongue,—­without being too rudely inquisitive.

“‘By the way,’ said I, ’I fear I did not send in the right number of visiting cards, but they told me there was no lady here, so I only sent in one—­for you.’

“‘There is no lady here,’ he replied, eyeing me queerly.  ’What made you think you had been misinformed?’

“‘Well,’ said I bluntly, ’a lady came out of the end room just now, walked down the verandah, and went out into the garden.  You’d better see if anything is missing as she’s not an inhabitant!’

“‘No—­there won’t be anything missing,’ he replied.  ’Did she wear a crinoline and a general air of last century?’

“‘She did,’ said I.

“‘Our own private ghost,’ was the answer—­and it was the sort of statement I had anticipated.  Now I solemnly assure you that at that time I had never heard, read, nor dreamed that there was a ‘ghost’ in this bungalow, nor in Duri—­nor in the whole Northern Presidency for that matter....

“‘What’s the story?’ I asked, of course.

“‘Mutiny. 1857,’ said Malet-Marsac.  ’Husband shot on the parade-ground.  She got the news and marched straight to the spot.  They cut her in pieces as she held his body in her arms.  Lots of people have seen her—­anywhere between that room and the parade-ground.’