“I told you I did not allow that word to be mentioned.”

“I did not; it was old Mallet.”

“But, pray, what were you doing in old Mallet’s domain?” asked Atherley.

“Cooking cabbage for Tip.”

“Hum!  What with ghosts by night and boys by day, our cook seems to have a pleasant time of it; I shall be glad when Miss Jones’s holidays are over.  Castleman, is it true that Mrs. Mallet talks of leaving us because of the ghost?”

“I am sure I don’t know, Sir George,” answered the old butler.  “She was going on about it very foolish this morning.”

“And how is the kitchen-maid?”

“Has not come down yet, Sir George; says her nerve is shook,” said Castleman, retiring with a plate to the sideboard; then added, with the freedom of an old servant, “Bile, I should say.”

“Probably.  We had better send for Doctor What’s-his-name.”

“The usual doctor is away,” said Lady Atherley.  “There is a London doctor in his place.  He is clever, Lady Sylvia said, but he gives himself airs.”

“Never mind what he gives himself if he gives his patients the right thing.”

“And after all we can manage very well without Ann, but what are we to do about Mrs. Mallet?  I always told you how it would be.”

“But, my dear, it is not my fault.  You look as reproachfully at me as if it were my ghost which was causing all this disturbance instead of the ghost of a remote ancestor—­predecessor, in fact.”

“No, but you will always talk just as if it was of no consequence.”

“I don’t talk of the cook’s going as being of no consequence.  Far from it.  But you must not let her go, that is all.”

“How can I prevent her going?  I think you had better talk to her yourself.”

“I should like to meet her very much; would not you, Lindy?  I should like to hear her story; it must be a blood-curdling one, to judge from its effect upon Ann.  The only person I have yet met who pretended to have seen the ghost was Aunt Eleanour.”

“And what was it like, daddy?” asked Denis, much interested.

“She did not say, Den.  She would never tell me anything about it.”

“Would she tell me?”

“I am afraid not.  I don’t think she would tell any one, except perhaps Mr. Lyndsay.  He has a way of worming things out of people.”

“Mr. Lyndsay, how do you worm things out of people?”

“I don’t know, Denis; you must ask your father.”

“First, by never asking any questions,” said Atherley promptly; “and then by a curious way he has of looking as if he was listening attentively to what was said to him, instead of thinking, as most people do, what he shall say himself when he gets a chance of putting a word in.”

“But how could Aunt Eleanour see the ghost when there is not any such thing?” cried Harold.

“How indeed!” said his father, rising; “that is just the puzzle.  It will take you years to find it out.  Lindy, look into the morning-room in about half an hour, and you will hear a tale whose lightest word will harrow up thy soul, etc., etc.”