“And then, I saw a vague shadowy shape—like Sanford’s—and it passed slowly through the room—not stepping, more like floating—and it stopped right at my bedside, and leaned over me—”
“You saw this!”
“Well, it was so dark, I can’t say I saw it—but I was—I don’t know how to describe it—I was conscious of its presence, that’s all!”
“And you think it was Sanford’s ghost?”
“Don’t put it that way, Al. It was Sanford’s spirit, leaving the earth, and bidding me good-by as it wafted past.”
“Why didn’t he bid his wife good-by?” Hendricks was blunt, but he deemed it best to speak thus, rather than to encourage the ghost talk.
“He probably tried to, but Eunice must have been asleep. I don’t know as to that—but, you know, Alvord, it is not an uncommon thing for such experiences to happen—why, there are thousands of authenticated cases—”
“Authenticated fiddlesticks!”
“Your scorn doesn’t alter the truth. I saw him, I tell you, and it was not a dream, or my imagination. I really saw him, though dimly.”
“What did he have on?”