“We have no ghost here, I am sorry to say,” answers Sir Adrian, laughing.  “For the first time I feel distressed and ashamed that it should be so.  We can only boast a haunted chamber; but there are certain legends about it, I am proud to say, the bare narration of which would make even the stoutest quail.”

“Good gracious—­how distinctly unpleasant!” exclaims Mrs. Talbot, with a nervous and very effective shudder.

“How distinctly delicious, you mean!” puts in Miss Delmaine.  “Sir Adrian, is this chamber anywhere near where I shall sleep?”

“Oh, no; you need not be afraid of that!” answers Dynecourt hastily.

“I am not afraid,” declares the girl saucily.  “I have all my life been seeking an adventure of some sort.  I am tired of my prosaic existence.  I want to know what dwellers in the shadowy realms of ghost-land are like.”

“Dear Sir Adrian, do urge her not to talk like that; it is positively wicked,” pleads Dora Talbot, glancing at him beseechingly.

“Miss Delmaine, you will drive Mrs. Talbot from my house if you persist in your evil courses,” says Sir Adrian, laughing again.  “Desist, I pray you!”

“Are you afraid, Dora?” asks Florence merrily.  “Then keep close to me.  I can defy all evil spirits, I have spells and charms.”

“You have indeed!” puts in Sir Adrian, in a tone so low that only she can hear it.  “And, knowing this, you should be merciful.”

Though she can not hear what he says, yet Mrs. Talbot can see he is addressing Florence, and marks with some uneasiness the glance that passes from his eyes to hers.  Breaking quickly into the conversation, she says timidly, laying her hand on her host’s arm—­

“This shocking room you speak of will not be near mine?”

“In another wing altogether,” Sir Adrian replies reassuringly.  “Indeed it is so far from this part of the castle that one might be safely incarcerated there and slowly starved to death without any one of the household being a bit the wiser.  It is in the north wing in the old tower, a portion of the building that has not been in use for over fifty years.”

“I breathe again,” says Dora Talbot affectedly.

“I shall traverse every inch of that old tower—­haunted room and all—­before I am a week older,” declares Florence defiantly.  After which she smiles at Adrian again, and follows the maid up the broad staircase to her room.

By the end of the week many other visitors have been made welcome at the castle; but none perhaps give so much pleasure to the young baronet as Mrs. Talbot and her cousin.

Miss Delmaine, the only daughter and heiress of an Indian nabob, had taken London by storm this past season; and not only the modern Babylon, but the heart of Adrian Dynecourt as well.  She had come home to England on the death of her father about two years ago; and, having no nearer relatives alive, had been kindly received by her cousin, the Hon. Mrs. Talbot, who was then living with her husband in a pretty house in Mayfair.