“That’s just it,” said the spectre.  “The Perilouses have no sense of humour—­never had.  I am entirely destitute of it myself.  Even in Scotland, even here, this family failing has been remarked—­been the subject, I may say, of unfavourable comment.  The Perilous of the period lost his head because he did not see the point of a conundrum of Macbeth’s.  We felt, some time in the fifteenth century, that this peculiarity needed to be honourably accounted for, and the family developed that story of the Secret Chamber, and the Horror in the house.  There is nothing in the chamber whatever,—­neither a family idiot aged three hundred years, nor a skeleton, nor the devil, nor a wizard, nor missing title-deeds.  The affair is a mere formality to account creditably for the fact that we never see anything to laugh at—­never see the joke.  Some people can’t see ghosts, you know” (lucky people! thought I), “and some can’t see jokes.”

“This is very disappointing,” I said.

“I can’t help it,” said the spectre; “the truth often is.  Did you ever hear the explanation of the haunted house in Berkeley Square?”

“Yes,” said I.  “The bell was heard to ring thrice with terrific vehemence, and on rushing to the fatal scene they found him beautiful in death.”

“Fudge!” replied the spectre.  “The lease and furniture were left to an old lady, who was not to underlet the house nor sell the things.  She had a house of her own in Albemarle Street which she preferred, and so the house in Berkeley Square was never let till the lease expired.  That’s the whole affair.  The house was empty, and political economists could conceive no reason for the waste of rent except that it was haunted.  The rest was all Miss Broughton’s imagination, in ‘Tales for Christmas Eve.’”

He had evidently got on his hobby, and was beginning to be rather tedious.  The contempt which a genuine old family ghost has for mere parvenus and impostors is not to be expressed in mere words apparently, for Mauth-hounds of prodigious size and blackness, with white birds, and other disastrous omens, now began to display themselves profusely in the Haunted Chamber.  Accustomed as I had become to regard all these appearances as mere automatic symptoms, I confess that I heard with pleasure the crow of a distant cock.

“You have enabled me to pass a most instructive evening, most agreeable, too, I am sure,” I remarked to the spectre, “but you will pardon me for observing that the first cock has gone.  Don’t let me make you too late for any appointment you may have about this time—­anywhere.”