“I expect she’ll see the unhappy Lady Cullumpton, the most famous of all the Exwood ghosts,” said Mrs. Dole; “my ancestor, you know, Sir Gervase Cullumpton, murdered his young bride in a fit of jealousy while they were on a visit to Exwood.  He strangled her in the stables with a stirrup leather, just after they had come in from riding, and she is seen sometimes at dusk going about the lawns and the stable yard, in a long green habit, moaning and trying to get the thong from round her throat.  I shall be most interested to hear if your friend sees—­”

“I don’t know why she should be expected to see a trashy, traditional apparition like the so-called Cullumpton ghost, that is only vouched for by housemaids and tipsy stable-boys, when my uncle, who was the owner of Exwood, committed suicide there under the most tragical circumstances, and most certainly haunts the place.”

“Mrs. Hatch-Mallard has evidently never read Popple’s County History,” said Mrs. Dole icily, “or she would know that the Cullumpton ghost has a wealth of evidence behind it—­”

“Oh, Popple!” exclaimed Mrs. Hatch-Mallard scornfully; “any rubbishy old story is good enough for him.  Popple, indeed!  Now my uncle’s ghost was seen by a Rural Dean, who was also a Justice of the Peace.  I should think that would be good enough testimony for any one.  Mrs. Norbury, I shall take it as a deliberate personal affront if your clairvoyante friend sees any other ghost except that of my uncle.”

“I daresay she won’t see anything at all; she never has yet, you know,” said Mrs. Norbury hopefully.

“It was a most unfortunate topic for me to have broached,” she lamented afterwards to the owner of the chinchilla voice; “Exwood belongs to Mrs. Hatch-Mallard, and we’ve only got it on a short lease.  A nephew of hers has been wanting to live there for some time, and if we offend her in any way she’ll refuse to renew the lease.  I sometimes think these garden-parties are a mistake.”

The Norburys played bridge for the next three nights till nearly one o’clock; they did not care for the game, but it reduced the time at their guest’s disposal for undesirable ghostly visitations.

“Miss Bleek is not likely to be in a frame of mind to see ghosts,” said Hugo Norbury, “if she goes to bed with her brain awhirl with royal spades and no trumps and grand slams.”

“I’ve talked to her for hours about Mrs. Hatch-Mallard’s uncle,” said his wife, “and pointed out the exact spot where he killed himself, and invented all sorts of impressive details, and I’ve found an old portrait of Lord John Russell and put it in her room, and told her that it’s supposed to be a picture of the uncle in middle age.  If Ada does see a ghost at all it certainly ought to be old Hatch-Mallard’s.  At any rate, we’ve done our best.”

The precautions were in vain.  On the third morning of her stay Ada Bleek came down late to breakfast, her eyes looking very tired, but ablaze with excitement, her hair done anyhow, and a large brown volume hugged under her arm.