“I haven’t been there yet,” Dick replied with a laugh; “at least, not to stay. The property has just been left me by my aunt. It’s a queer old house, just the kind of place a romantic beggar like you would like, and if any house ought to be haunted, it ought. They say a murder was once committed there by an ancestress of mine, a girl whose face was as beautiful as she herself was evil, and that her spirit still roams the house and grounds.”
“I should certainly like to see her,” I said, “and so, I am sure, would Greg.” (Greg was Dick’s bloodhound).
“Well, I’ll give you both an opportunity,” Tom laughed. “Take Greg with you, and a friend too, if you like, for I may not be able to join you at once.”
“I accepted, and in due course arrived at ‘The Gables,’ accompanied by my cousin Ralph, who was then a Lieutenant in the Buffs, and Greg.
“The grounds surrounding ‘The Gables,’ which stood near the edge of the heath, were encompassed by a very high, red-brick wall, and consisted of a broad, well-kept lawn in front, a small spinney on one side, an extensive shrubbery on the other, and big kitchen gardens at the back. The house itself, seventeenth century and covered with ivy from tip to toe, was picturesque in the extreme. There were no servants, only the caretakers, a middle-aged man and his wife, who occupied rooms in the east wing. The west wing was reserved for us.
“After dinner, in a hall so enormous that it made us feel positively lilliputian, we wandered out into the garden. It was a glorious night, the sky one mass of silver, scintillating stars, the air redolent with the odour of spring flowers. ‘By Jove,’ Ralph remarked to me, as we strolled across the lawn, ‘By Jove! No one would think we were so close to that God-forsaken heath; why, it was only a few years ago that a fellow in my regiment was set on there, and, after being robbed of all he had on him, half beaten to death with bludgeons. It’s one of the worst cut-throat spots round London.’ Then he uttered an exclamation of surprise and jogged my elbow.
“Coming towards us from the house was the figure of a young girl. She wore a white dress with a dark cloak flung loosely over her shoulders, and the moonlight playing over her face revealed a countenance of extraordinary delicacy and beauty. Her eyes were large and childlike in their expression, her lips daintily modelled, her teeth wonderfully white and even, her hair golden. Whether it was the effect of the moonlight on them or not, I cannot say, but her cheeks were absolutely devoid of colour, almost strikingly pale, whilst I fancied I detected in the slightly open mouth an expression of pain. I saw every detail most distinctly, even to the shape of her fingers, which were very pointed. She came on without apparently noticing us, and we watched her trip past us and disappear in the spinney.
“‘What a stunner!’ Ralph exclaimed. ‘I don’t know when I’ve seen a prettier face! Sly fellow, Denning! I wonder who she can be!’ He had hardly finished speaking when we heard the most awful scream, a shriek of terror and despair, such as sent all the blood in my body to my heart, and left the rest of me like ice.
“‘My God! What’s happened to her?’ Ralph gasped. ‘She’s being murdered. Quick!’ We dashed into the spinney, but despite the fact that we searched everywhere, no girl was to be found.
“Returning to the house, we made enquiries of the caretakers, who were vehement in their denial of knowing the girl or of having heard her cries. Much puzzled, we then retired to our night quarters. The room that had been assigned to us, for we preferred to share one between us, was situated about midway down a long, narrow corridor, lighted at the further end by a casement window, across which sprays of ivy blew to and fro in the cool breeze.