"Merton Tower, of course, booby!" cried Clive. "You knew all along."
"Well, there's a place called Merton Tower. What next?"
"There's an ass known as Bert Seymour," declared his brother in disgust. "As if you weren't there when we were talking."
"Oh, I'm there nearly always," came the rejoinder, for the two brothers often sparred. "But you do the talking, you and Clive. I have to listen. It's no wonder if I forget things. Let's get along. There's a tower, a place, and I'm supposed to know that a place is this Merton Tower."
If looks could have brought punishment, Bert would have been a sad individual. He grinned at the threatening glances of his friends.
"Well?" he demanded again, impatiently.
"We're going to explore it," said Clive, forgetting his anger at the prospect before him. "It's said to be haunted."
Hugh went a trifle pale. Ghost stories and tales of haunted houses always had that effect on him.
"Haunted?" he repeated in awed tones.
"Rot!" reflected Bert rudely. "Stuff and nonsense!"