"Then you think there is some connection between the reappearance of the ghost and the hiding of the money in the pit it is supposed to haunt?"
"It's not my business to draw inferences of that kind, sir. I leave that to my betters, if they think fit to do so. I am only the village constable."
"But you've already inferred that the legend has been spread round again by means of gossip at the Anchor. Was it started there?"
"It was and it wasn't. A fool of a fellow named Backlog burst into the tap-room one night and said he had heard the White Lady shrieking, and Charles—that's the waiter—declared that he had seen something white the same night. That was the start of the business."
"So I have heard. But what has kept it going ever since?"
"Well, from what I hear—I never go to the inn myself, but a local policeman learns all the gossip in a small place like this—the subject is brought up in the bar-room every evening, either by the innkeeper or Charles, and discussed till closing time, when the silly villagers go home, huddled together like a flock of sheep, not daring to look round for fear of seeing the White Lady."
"Do Benson and Charles both believe in the ghost?"
"It seems as if they do." The constable's voice was noncommittal.
As Colwyn rose to go, Queensmead looked at him with a trace of hesitation in his manner.
"Perhaps you'd answer me a question, sir," he said in a low tone, as though afraid of being overheard. "That greenery that grows inside the pit, by which you climbed down, will it support a heavy weight?"