“A moment later,” she went on, “another mass of ashes fell; then perhaps five minutes passed, and I saw the remnant of the cigar placed on the tray.  I confess that my nerves gave way at that point, and I fled from the room.”

“Locking the door after you?”

“No; but I came back and locked it ten or fifteen minutes later.”

“Did you enter the room?”

“Yes; I had left the light burning and entered to turn it off.  I found on the desk another note beginning, ‘My dear wife.’”

“And then what?”

“I was here the next night and the next.  There was something about it that fascinated me, and I saw that there was no reason for fear.  In the end it came to seem almost natural—­almost as if he were here in the flesh.”

“And always the same things happened?”

“Yes, or nearly so, the writing growing more legible all the time.”

“And then?”

“Then, three nights ago, I grew brave enough to go and stand by the desk, and look over his shoulder, as it were, while he wrote the note which I showed you this morning.”

“You mean that he actually did write it while you were looking over his shoulder?”

“I mean that the words formed themselves on the sheet of paper under my eyes, precisely as they flowed off his pen.”

“And there wasn’t any pen?”

“There wasn’t anything.  Only the ashes and the odor of tobacco.”

I glanced across at Mrs. Magnus sharply.  Could it be possible that she was inventing all of this incredible tale?

“No,” she said, answering my thought; “it happened precisely as I tell it.  I am hoping that you will see for yourself before long.  It is almost time for him to come.”

I felt the hair crawling up my scalp as I glanced around again at the desk.  Like everybody else, I had always professed a lively interest in ghosts and a desire to meet one; but now that it seemed about to be gratified, the desire weakened perceptibly.

“I didn’t at first intend to give him the money,” she went on.  “I didn’t see why I should.  He was dead.  It was mine.  He had never, in his life, given me fifty thousand dollars.  But when, the next night, the money wasn’t there, he expackets over to Mrs. Magnus.

“In writing?”

She nodded and held another sheet of paper out to me.  On it, in Peter Magnus’ hand, was written: 

MY DEAR WIFE:  Do not delay.  I must right a great wrong before either of us can rest in peace.

“And from this you judge that he wants the money to—­to—­”

“Yes,” she said, not waiting for me to finish.  “Even then I hesitated.  I did not see that I had any concern in his misdeeds.  But last night—­”

She stopped, and I saw sweep across her face the sudden, pallor I had noted in the morning.

“Yes,” I encouraged, “last night—­”

She was clutching the chair arms convulsively, trying to force her trembling lips to form the words.  What horrible thing was it had happened last night?  What—­