McCabe mused awhile, and then asked:
“You don’t believe in ghosts, Mike?”
“Och, but I do, though,” asserted the Irish boy. “Me father used to belave in ’em, ye know, an’ he used to till long sthories about ’em that ’ud raise the hair iv me to hear.”
“Pshaw! your father was a drunken sot.”
“Yis; he resimbled, in that respect, yer own dear silf,” said Mike, with a flash of his old jocoseness. “But, Jamie,” he added, seriously, “av I had niver belaved in sperits before, I couldn’t help doin’ it now, afther phat I’ve been an’ seen.”
“Come with me, cousin,” said McCabe, in a changed tone of voice. “Let us go to my house and talk this thing over.”
He linked his arm in that of the lad, and the two walked slowly on together.
No sooner were they gone from the spot where they had been conversing, than a man stepped out from behind a tree, and stalked away as calmly as if nothing had been said in his hearing.
Again it was Nick Robbins!