"D' ye know, Swift," said he, with much seriousness, extending his chubby hands to the welcome warmth of the library fire, "it's an outrage—damme, if it is n't—that I 'm so fat. H'm! Believe in ghosts?"
I was instantly all attention. Genevieve's terrifying experience was too recent and real for me to scout any supernatural suggestion of my colleague.
I quickly asked:
"Seen anything about the house?"
"Not in here. Outside. Could n't chase 'em."
"I'm glad you are fat, then; who would have watched the house while you were chasing whatever it was you thought you saw?"
He clapped one hand on top of his bullet of a head, and stared at me in comical surprise.
"Say! You're right, Swift! You are, by George! First time I ever found a—ah—you know—a consolation for my—er m—my stoutness.
"Two shadows. Didn't get to see 'em plain. All the time you were gone I could glimpse 'em now and then—first one place, then another—slipping and sliding through the bushes, trying to keep hid, y' know."
As may be imagined, I was profoundly interested.