"When was it heard last?"
"Twenty-three years ago, ma'am, the night before Mr Reginald was killed by Mr Wilfred Sinclair."
Twenty-three years, that was exactly my age.
"It has not been heard since, not even at Mrs Wilder's death?"
"No, ma'am, that trumpet never sounds for the death of women, not for no one, only the eldest son who is about to die."
"Did anyone hear or see this trumpeter the last time he came?"
"I did, ma'am, see him, and hear him both."
"Tell me about it. Did you see his face?"
"No, ma'am." Somehow I knew the old fellow was telling a lie, and that he had seen the trumpeter's face, but I said nothing.
"No, ma'am, not distinctly so to say. I was a young servant then, an under-butler, and in the night, when I was sound asleep, I suddenly woke and sat up to listen. The house was as still as death, and there was nothing to hear, yet I sat listening and listening and straining my ears, waiting to hear something that I knew would come. Oh, ma'am, I needn't have strained my ears, for suddenly the most awful blast of a trumpet shook the house, I sickened, and thought I'd have died, for though I knew nothing of the ghost, or the history of the house, I knew that the sound of that trumpet was not right; it stopped for a moment after the first blast, and then it came again, louder and louder. I rushed out of my room into the dark passage, then, ma'am, I ran down the passage and down the servants' staircase until I found the first floor. I ran down the corridor till I came to the great staircase overlooking the hall, and there I saw him. There was no light, but I saw him, for there was light all round him. He was crossing the great hall when I caught a glimpse of him. His long black hair was tossed back, and he had to his mouth a great, glittering, silvern trumpet, and I could see his cheeks puffed out as he blew. He was dressed like the portrait of Sir Gerald."