“I do hope,” remarked the spectre, presently reappearing, “that these interruptions (only fresh illustrations of our malady) have not frightened your dog into a fit. I have known very valuable and attached dogs expire of mere unreasoning terror on similar unfortunate occasions.”
“I’m sure I don’t wonder at it,” I replied; “but I believe Bingo is still alive; in fact, I hear him scratching himself.”
“Would you like to examine him?” asked the spectre.
“Oh, thanks, I am sure he is all right,” I answered (for nothing in the world would have induced me to get out of bed while he was in the room). “Do you object to a cigarette?”
“Not at all, not at all; but Lady Perilous, I assure you, is a very old fashioned châtelaine. However, if you choose to risk it—”
I found my cigarette-case in my hand, opened it, and selected one of its contents, which I placed between my lips. As I was looking round for a match-box, the spectre courteously put his forefinger to the end of the cigarette, which lighted at once.
“Perhaps you wonder,” he remarked, “why I remain at Castle Perilous, the very one of all my places which I never could bear while I was alive—as you call it?”
“I had a delicacy about asking,” I answered.
“Well,” he continued, “I am the family genius.”
“I might have guessed that,” I said.