‘I have been asking about the hotel, at the servants’ supper to-night,’ she said.  ’The valet of one of the gentlemen staying here has heard that the late Lord Montbarry was the last person who lived in the palace, before it was made into an hotel.  The room he died in, ma’am, was the room you slept in last night.  Your room tonight is the room just above it.  I said nothing for fear of frightening you.  For my own part, I have passed the night as you see, keeping my light on, and reading my Bible.  In my opinion, no member of your family can hope to be happy or comfortable in this house.’

‘What do you mean?’

’Please to let me explain myself, ma’am.  When Mr. Henry Westwick was here (I have this from the valet, too) he occupied the room his brother died in (without knowing it), like you.  For two nights he never closed his eyes.  Without any reason for it (the valet heard him tell the gentlemen in the coffee-room) he could not sleep; he felt so low and so wretched in himself.  And what is more, when daytime came, he couldn’t even eat while he was under this roof.  You may laugh at me, ma’am—­but even a servant may draw her own conclusions.  It’s my conclusion that something happened to my lord, which we none of us know about, when he died in this house.  His ghost walks in torment until he can tell it—­ and the living persons related to him are the persons who feel he is near them.  Those persons may yet see him in the time to come.  Don’t, pray don’t stay any longer in this dreadful place!  I wouldn’t stay another night here myself—­no, not for anything that could be offered me!’

Mrs. Norbury at once set her servant’s mind at ease on this last point.

‘I don’t think about it as you do,’ she said gravely.  ’But I should like to speak to my brother of what has happened.  We will go back to Milan.’

Some hours necessarily elapsed before they could leave the hotel, by the first train in the forenoon.

In that interval, Mrs. Norbury’s maid found an opportunity of confidentially informing the valet of what had passed between her mistress and herself.  The valet had other friends to whom he related the circumstances in his turn.  In due course of time, the narrative, passing from mouth to mouth, reached the ears of the manager.  He instantly saw that the credit of the hotel was in danger, unless something was done to retrieve the character of the room numbered Fourteen.  English travellers, well acquainted with the peerage of their native country, informed him that Henry Westwick and Mrs. Norbury were by no means the only members of the Montbarry family.  Curiosity might bring more of them to the hotel, after hearing what had happened.  The manager’s ingenuity easily hit on the obvious means of misleading them, in this case.  The numbers of all the rooms were enamelled in blue, on white china plates, screwed to the doors.  He ordered a new plate to be prepared, bearing the number, ‘13 A’; and he kept