‘And it was never no ghosts after all!’ said Mrs Bizzey, in accents of disappointment, as her husband marched her downstairs.
There is nothing more to tell. I reconciled Mr Julian Cockleboat to his guardian and his destiny; and I wrote ‘The Origin of Dreams,’ the best part, by the way (as all the critics affirmed), of ‘The Cyclopædia of the Brain.’ I made more money by my little trip than six months of ordinary labour would have brought me; and Lord Seaborne speaks of me to this day, amongst his acquaintances, as the ‘very cleverest amateur detective he has ever known.’
And so I am.
THE END.
THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY.
