“Not personally,” I said, as we stepped into the Long Gallery.

It was a delightful panelled room, with oak-beamed ceiling.  Between the mullioned windows were old Venetian mirrors and seventeenth-century chairs.  At the end, concealed by a rich crimson brocade, hung the Vandyck, the only picture on the walls.

It was the Colonel himself who drew aside the curtain which veiled discreetly the famous picture of Sir Rupert Brodie at the age of thirty-two, in the beautiful costume of the period.  The face was unusually pallid; it was just the sort of portrait you would expect to walk out of its frame.

“You have never seen a finer Vandyck, I am sure,” said Mrs. Brodie, anxiously.  I examined the work with great care, employing a powerful pocket-glass.  There was an awkward pause for about five minutes.

“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, sternly, “have you nothing to say?”

“It is a very interesting and excellent work, though not by Vandyck; it is by Jamieson, his Scotch pupil; the morphic forms . . .”—­but I got no further.  There was a loud clap of thunder, and Flora fainted away.  I was hastening to her side when her father’s powerful arm seized my collar.  He ran me down the gallery and out by an egress which led into the entrance hall, where some menial opened the massive door.  I felt one stinging blow on my face; then, bleeding and helpless, I was kicked down the steps into the snow from which I was picked up, half stunned, by one of the gillies.

“Eh, mon, hae ye seen the bogles at Hootawa?” he observed.

“It will be very civil of you if you will conduct me to the depot, or the nearest caravanserai,” I replied.

I never saw Flora again.’

* * * * *

’But what has happened about the ghost, Mr. Sweat?  You never told us anything about it.  Did you ever see it?’ asked one of the listeners in a disappointed tone.

’Oh, I forgot; no, that was rather tragic. Sir Rupert Brodie never appeared again, not even in the spare bedroom; he seemed offended.  Eventually his portrait was sent up to London, where Mr. Lionel Cust pointed out that it could not have been painted until after Vandyck’s death, at which time Sir Rupert was only ten years old.  Indeed, there was some uncertainty whether the picture represented Sir Rupert at all.  Mr. Bowyer Nichols found fault with the costume, which belonged to an earlier date prior to Sir Rupert’s birth.  Colonel Brodie never recovered from the shock.  He resides chiefly at Harrogate.  Gradually the servants all gave notice, and Hootawa ceased to attract Americans.  Poor Flora!  I ought to have remembered my promise; but the habit was too strong in me.  Sir Oliver Lodge, I believe, has an explanation for the non-appearance of the phantom after the events I have described.  He regards it as a good instance of bypsychic duality—­the fortuitous phenomenon by which spirits are often uncertain as to whom they really represent.  But I am only an art critic, not a physicist.’