“It wouldn’t be a pleasant place to live in certainly,” I remarked. “I should be afraid of ghosts.”
“Do you believe in them, eh, Becky?”
“I’ve never seen one,” I replied, “but I can’t help believing in them—a little. There’s one comfort—they don’t trouble people who haven’t wronged them. So we’re all right.”
“Yes, Becky, yes—they wouldn’t come through brick walls to scare a poor old woman, eh?”
“No,” I said, “and I’ve never read of a ghost speaking or making a noise of any kind. Have you?”
“Not that I can remember,” replied the old lady.
“Mrs. Bailey,” I said, “since the night of the murder you have not heard anything going on next door?”
“Not a sound, Becky. It’s been as still as a mouse.”
“As a mouse,” I repeated; “ah, but mice scratch at walls sometimes.”