“Young man,” he said, “when you get your head above water and make good in the world—if you ever do—don't fool with curios, don't monkey with antiques. Keep away from castles. They're like everything else sold by curio dealers—all humbug. Look nice, yes. But get 'em over to America and they either fall to pieces or the paint comes off. Whether it's a chair or a castle—same old story. The sly scalawags that sell you the goods won't live up to their contracts.”
“Hasn't Gauntmoor all the ancient inconveniences a Robber Baron could wish?” I asked.
“It ain't,” announced Mr. Hobson. “Though it looks all right to a stranger, perhaps. There may be castles in the Old World got it on Gauntmoor for size—thank God I didn't buy 'em!—but for looks you can't beat Gauntmoor.”
“Comfortable?” I asked.
“Can't complain. Modern plumbed throughout. Hard to heat, but I put an electric-light plant in the cellar. Daughter Annie's got a Colonial suite in the North Tower.”
“Well,” I suggested, “if there's anything the castle lacks, you can buy it.”
“There's one thing money can't buy,” said Mr. Hobson, leaning very close and speaking in a sibilant whisper. “And that's ghosts!”
“But who wants ghosts?” I inquired.
“Now look here,” said Mr. Hobson. “I'm a business man. When I bought Gauntmoor, the London scalawags that sold it to me gave me distinctly to understand that this was a Haunted Castle. They showed me a haunted chamber, showed me the haunted wall where the ghost walks, guaranteed the place to be the Spook Headquarters of the British Isles—and see what I got!” He snapped his fingers in disgust.
“No results?”