The following account, which concludes my notes on hauntings by dog phantasms, was sent me many years ago by a gentleman then living in Virginia, U.S.A.  It runs thus:—­

The Strange Disappearance of Mr. Jeremiah Dance

“Twenty pounds a year for a twelve-roomed house with large front lawn, good stabling and big kitchen gardens.  That sounds all right,” I commented.  “But why so cheap?”

“Well,” the advertiser—­Mr. Baldwin by name, a short, stout gentleman, with keen, glittering eyes—­replied, “Well, you see, it’s a bit of a distance from the town, and—­er—­most people prefer being nearer—­like neighbours and all that sort of thing.”

“Like neighbours!” I exclaimed.  “I don’t.  I’ve just seen about enough of them.  Drains all right?”

“Oh, yes!  Perfect.”

“Water?”

“Excellent.”

“Everything in good condition?”

“First rate.”

“Loneliness the only thing people object to?”

“That is so.”

“Then I’ll oblige you to send someone to show me over the house, for I think it is just the sort of place we want.  You see, after being bottled up in a theatre all the afternoon and evening, one likes to get away somewhere where it is quiet—­somewhere where one can lie in bed in the morning inhaling pure air and undisturbed by street traffic.”

“I understand,” Mr. Baldwin responded, “but—­er—­it is rather late now; wouldn’t you prefer to see over it in the morning?  Everything looks at its worst—­its very worst—­in the twilight.”

“Oh, I’ll make allowances for the dusk,” I said.  “You haven’t got any ghosts stowed away there, have you?” And he went off into a roar of laughter.

“No, the house is not haunted,” Mr. Baldwin replied.  “Not that it would much matter to you if it were, for I can see you don’t believe in spooks.”

“Believe in spooks!” I cried.  “Not much.  I would as soon believe in patent hair restorers.  Let me see over it at once.”

“Very well, sir.  I’ll take you there myself,” Mr. Baldwin replied, somewhat reluctantly.  “Here, Tim—­fetch the keys of the Crow’s Nest and tell Higgins to bring the trap round.”

The boy he addressed flew, and in a few minutes the sound of wheels and the jingling of harness announced the vehicle was at the door.

Ten minutes later and I and my escort were bowling merrily over the ground in the direction of the Crow’s Nest.  It was early autumn, and the cool evening air, fragrant with the mellowness of the luscious Virginian pippin, was tinged also with the sadness inseparable from the demise of a long and glorious summer.  Evidences of decay and death were everywhere—­in the brown fallen leaves of the oaks and elms; in the bare and denuded ditches.  Here a giant mill-wheel, half immersed in a dark, still pool, stood idle and silent; there a hovel, but recently inhabited by hop-pickers, was now tenantless, its glassless windows boarded over, and a wealth of dead and rotting vegetable matter in thick profusion over the tiny path and the single stone doorstep.