Mrs. Halsey had not long cleared away the tea, and brought in a paraffin lamp, small but cheerful.  She was a middle-aged woman, much younger than her husband—­with an ironic half-dreamy eye, and a native intelligence much superior to her surroundings.  She was suffering from a chronic abscess in the neck, which had strange periodic swellings and subsidences, all of which were endlessly interesting to its possessor.  Mrs. Halsey, indeed, called the abscess “she,” wrapped it lovingly in red flannel, describing the evening dressing of it as “putting her to bed,” and talked of “her” qualities and oddities as though, in the phrase of her next-door neighbour, “it’d a been a christened child.”  She had decided views on politics, and was a match for any political agent who might approach her with an eye to her vote, a commodity which she kept, so to speak, like a new shilling in her pocket, turning it from time to time to make sure it was there.

But independent as she was, she rarely interfered with the talk of Halsey and his male friends.  And on this occasion when the three men—­Halsey, Peter Betts, and young Dempsey—­had gathered smoking round the fire, she settled herself with her knitting by the table and the lamp, throwing in every now and then a muttered and generally sarcastic comment, of which her husband took no notice—­especially as he knew very well that the sarcasms were never aimed at him, and that she was as proud of him as she was generally contemptuous of the rest of the world.

Halsey had just finished a rather grudging description of his experiences two days before for John Dempsey’s benefit.  He was conscious that each time he repeated them, they sounded more incredible.  He didn’t want to repeat them; he didn’t mean to repeat them; after this, nobody should get any more out of him at all.

Young Dempsey’s attitude was certainly not encouraging.  Attentive at first, he allowed himself, as Halsey’s talk developed, a mild, progressive grin, which spread gradually over his ugly but honest face, and remained there.  In face of it, Halsey’s speech became more and more laconic, till at last he shut his mouth with a snap, and drawing himself up in his chair, re-lit his pipe with the expression that meant, “All right—­I’ve done—­you may take it or leave it.”

“Well, I don’t see that what you saw, Mr. Halsey, was so very uncommon!” Dempsey began, still smiling, in spite of a warning look from Betts.  “You saw a man come down that road?  Well, in the first place, why shouldn’t a man come down that road—­it’s a reg’lar right of way—­”

“It’s the way, mind ye, as the ghost of old Watson has allus come!” put in Peter Betts, chivalrously anxious to support his friend Halsey, as far as he could, against a sceptical stranger.  “An’ it’s been seen twice on that road already, as I can remember:  once when I was a little boy, by old Dan Holt, the postmaster, and once about ten years ago.”