And I told him briefly of my accidental meeting with Anita in the donjon, of the practical joke we planned, of our sudden meeting with the real ghost on the ramparts. Mr. Hobson listened, his face growing redder and redder. At the finish of my story he suddenly leaped to his feet and brought his fist down on the table with a bang.
“Well, you little devils!” he said admiringly, and burst into loud laughter. “You're a spunky lad, Jeff. And there ain't any doubt that the de Pierreponts are as good stuff as you can get in the ancestry business. The Christmas supper is spread in the banquet hall. Come, de Pierrepont, will you sup with the old Earl?”
The huge oaken banquet hall, lined with rich hangings, shrunk us to dwarfs by its vastness. Golden goblets were at each place. A butler, dressed in antique livery, threw a red cloak over Hobson's fat shoulders. It was a whim of the old man's.
As we took our places, I noticed the table was set for four.
“Whose is the extra place?” I asked.
The old man at first made no reply. At last he turned to me earnestly and said: “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No,” I replied. “Yet how else can I explain that vision I saw on the ramparts?”
“Is the fourth place for him?” Anita almost whispered.
The old man nodded mutely and raised a golden goblet.
“To the Transplanted Ghost!” I said. It was an empty goblet that I touched to my lips.