“They do, and abominably bad taste I call it, unless a man has neglected to insure his life, and then I doubt if a person of honour could make use of information from—­from that quarter.  Banshees are chiefly the spectres of attached and anxious old family nurses, women of the lower orders, and completely destitute of tact.  I call a Banshee rather a curse than a boon and a blessing to men.  Like most old family servants, they are apt to be presuming.”

It occurred to me that the complacent spectre himself was not an unmixed delight to the inhabitants of Castle Perilous, or at least to their guests, for they never lay in the Green Chamber themselves.

“Can nothing be done,” I asked sympathetically, “to alleviate the disorders which you say are so common and distressing?”

“The old system of spiritual physic,” replied the spectre, “is obsolete, and the holy-water cure, in particular, has almost ceased to number any advocates, except the Rev. Dr F. G. Lee, whose books,” said this candid apparition, “appear to me to indicate superstitious credulity.  No, I don’t know that any new discoveries have been made in this branch of therapeutics.  In the last generation they tried to bolt me with a bishop:  like putting a ferret into a rabbit-warren, you know.  Nothing came of that, and lately the Psychical Society attempted to ascertain my weight by an ingenious mechanism.  But they prescribed nothing, and made me feel so nervous that I was rapping at large, and knocking furniture about for months.  The fact is that nobody understands the complaint, nor can detect the cause that makes the ghost of a man who was perfectly rational in life behave like an uneducated buffoon afterwards.  The real reason, as I have tried to explain to you, is a solution of continuity between subjective thought and will on the side of the spectre, and objective expression of them—­confound it—­”

Here he vanished, and the sound of heavy feet was heard promenading the room, and balls of incandescent light floated about irresolutely, accompanied by the appearance of a bearded man in armour.  The door (which I had locked and bolted before going to bed) kept opening and shutting rapidly, so as to cause a draught, and my dog fled under the bed with a long low howl.

“I do hope,” remarked the spectre, presently reappearing, “that these interruptions (only fresh illustrations of our malady) have not frightened your dog into a fit.  I have known very valuable and attached dogs expire of mere unreasoning terror on similar unfortunate occasions.”

“I’m sure I don’t wonder at it,” I replied; “but I believe Bingo is still alive; in fact, I hear him scratching himself.”

“Would you like to examine him?” asked the spectre.

“Oh, thanks, I am sure he is all right,” I answered (for nothing in the world would have induced me to get out of bed while he was in the room).  “Do you object to a cigarette?”