“He was!” replied Sergeantson, grimly. “The British shot him in the Tower when I was in London six months ago.”
The girl looked up sharply.
“I’m sure I’ve never seen his photograph before!” she said, as though answering an allegation she felt in the silence of the others. “How could I?”
“I can’t imagine, Miss Forsdyke. The extraordinary thing is that you should have got his limp. That’s what gave him away to the British. He broke his leg dropping over a wall in an exceedingly daring escape at the beginning of the war. But how you should know about it beats me all to pieces.”
“I didn’t know—I saw——”
“You saw his ghost, I guess, Miss Forsdyke—and that’s all there is to it.” Captain Sergeantson lit himself another cigar by way of showing how cold-blooded he could be in the possible presence of a spectre.
Jimmy shuddered. “It’s uncanny,” he said. “I don’t like it.”
“But why?” puzzled Hetty, wrinkling her brows. She turned to her father. “Poppa——!”
Forsdyke shook his head smilingly.