“I am,” Sir George responded; “and if you hear any more reports about ‘The Mayfields’ being haunted, kindly contradict them.”
Sickertorft smiled. “I will make a bet, Sir George,” he said, “that you will be converted one day.”
“You may bet as much as you like, but you’ll lose,” Sir George answered furiously. And turning his back on Sickertorft, he walked away from him without another word.
The following day Lady Cookham and the children left, and Sir George finding himself the sole occupant of the house, the servants having left at midday, telephoned to Sydney N. Morgan, a well-known private detective who specialised in cases of theft and blackmail, asking him to come. On his arrival at “The Mayfields” that same evening, Morgan listened to all Sir George had to say, and then made an exhaustive examination of the premises, paying particular attention to the cupboard in the hall.
“Well?” Sir George asked. “What is your opinion? Rats?”
“Not human ones, at any rate,” Morgan replied. “Anyhow, I can find no traces of them. I incline to your theory of nerves.”
“Imagination first and then suggestion.” Sir George grunted. Now that he was alone there with the detective, he began to have misgivings. The house seemed strangely large and silent. But ghosts! Bah! There were no such things. He said as much to Morgan, and they both laughed.
Then they stared at one another in amazement, for, from afar off, there came an answering echo, a faint yet distinctly audible—chuckle.
They were standing at one end of the corridor on the ground floor when this happened, and to both of them the sound seemed to emanate from the cupboard. “What was that?” Sir George asked. “The wind?”