Sanderson drew deeply at his pipe, with one reddish eye on Clayton, and then emitted a thin jet of smoke more eloquent than many words.
Clayton ignored the comment. ‘It is the strangest thing that has ever happened in my life. You know I never believed in ghosts or anything of the sort, before, ever; and then, you know, I bag one in a corner; and the whole business is in my hands.’
He meditated still more profoundly and produced and began to pierce a second cigar with a curious little stabber he affected.
‘You talked to it?’ asked Wish.
‘For the space, probably, of an hour.’
‘Chatty?’ I said, joining the party of the sceptics.
‘The poor devil was in trouble,’ said Clayton, bowed over his cigar-end and with the very faintest note of reproof.
‘Sobbing?’ some one asked.
Clayton heaved a realistic sigh at the memory. ‘Good Lord!’ he said; ‘yes.’ And then, ‘Poor fellow! yes.’
‘Where did you strike it?’ asked Evans, in his best American accent.