“Not a drop until you tell me,” I said firmly.  “Besides, you know very well there’s nothing the matter with me.  This arm of mine is only a false belief.”  I sat up gingerly.  “Now—­why don’t you open that window?”

Mrs. Klopton succumbed.  “Because there are queer goings-on in that house next door,” she said.  “If you will take the beef tea, Mr. Lawrence, I will tell you.”

The queer goings-on, however, proved to be slightly disappointing.  It seemed that after I left on Friday night, a light was seen flitting fitfully through the empty house next door.  Euphemia had seen it first and called Mrs. Klopton.  Together they had watched it breathlessly until it disappeared on the lower floor.

“You should have been a writer of ghost stories,” I said, giving my pillows a thump.  “And so it was fitting flitfully!”

“That’s what it was doing,” she reiterated.  “Fitting flitfully—­I mean flitting fitfully—­how you do throw me out, Mr. Lawrence!  And what’s more, it came again!”

“Oh, come now, Mrs. Klopton,” I objected, “ghosts are like lightning; they never strike twice in the same night.  That is only worth half a cup of beef tea.”

“You may ask Euphemia,” she retorted with dignity.  “Not more than an hour after, there was a light there again.  We saw it through the chinks of the shutters.  Only—­this time it began at the lower floor and climbed!”

“You oughtn’t to tell ghost stories at night,” came McKnight’s voice from the doorway.  “Really, Mrs. Klopton, I’m amazed at you.  You old duffer!  I’ve got you to thank for the worst day of my life.”

Mrs. Klopton gulped.  Then realizing that the “old duffer” was meant for me, she took her empty cup and went out muttering.

“The Pirate’s crazy about me, isn’t she?” McKnight said to the closing door.  Then he swung around and held out his hand.

“By Jove,” he said, “I’ve been laying you out all day, lilies on the door-bell, black gloves, everything.  If you had had the sense of a mosquito in a snow-storm, you would have telephoned me.”

“I never even thought of it.”  I was filled with remorse.  “Upon my word, Rich, I hadn’t an idea beyond getting away from that place.  If you had seen what I saw—­”

McKnight stopped me.  “Seen it!  Why, you lunatic, I’ve been digging for you all day in the ruins!  I’ve lunched and dined on horrors.  Give me something to rinse them down, Lollie.”

He had fished the key of the cellarette from its hiding-place in my shoe bag and was mixing himself what he called a Bernard Shaw—­a foundation of brandy and soda, with a little of everything else in sight to give it snap.  Now that I saw him clearly, he looked weary and grimy.  I hated to tell him what I knew he was waiting to hear, but there was no use wading in by inches.  I ducked and got it over.

“The notes are gone, Rich,” I said, as quietly as I could.  In spite of himself his face fell.