"Then you've given up London, and political economy, and the writing of tracts for the People?"
"Yes, the whole lot. Political economy palls after fifteen years of it, and Socialism is stale. I have taken a turn for sport, and that's the truth of it; they tell me there is good shooting to be had round about Wynyates."
Roddick's face wore a guilelessness that was far from convincing his companion.
"I don't believe a word of it. You always were a secretive beggar, Roddick; if you won't tell me your motive, though, you won't, and there's an end of it. You're looking seedy," he added, taking a long look at his face.
"Possibly; it would be funny if I didn't.—Is this Wynyates? The place looks gloomy enough, in all conscience."
"Yes, that's Wynyates. Are you afraid of ghosts, by the way? They are said to simply swarm hereabouts."
"So I've been told. Let 'em swarm." Roddick dropped his exaggerated listlessness; he leaned over to Griff, just as the preacher had done not long ago. "Lomax," he said, gruffly, "have you ever touched a ghost—not a filmy white affair, decently clothed, but a sort of hag from hell-pit, with lips that are wet and cling, and a body that—ugh! Don't babble to me about your country ghosts; they fight with a brandy-bottle, don't they, that pretty pair of brothers in there? Well, they can fight till Doomsday, for all I care. You don't mind good clean ghosts when once you have seen what I see every other day or so."
"Roddick," said Griff, slowly, "it is no affair of mine, I suppose, but you're in a bad way. The man who just left us is great on hell-pit and these sinuous terrors of yours; I'm trying to bring him round to sanity."
Roddick gave a great guffaw, and set his voice to a rasping shout.
"You baby, you unutterable fool, to come and preach sanity to me, after your Samson-and-Delilah farce with Sybil Ogilvie! I believe in my ghost, I tell you, because it won't let me forget; go home to your bed, and pray for experience."