"It's very good of you," he rejoined, pausing, "but it seems unkind to drag you out."
"Not at all," I replied; "I shall like a walk." And I partially dressed myself, and took my umbrella; and he put his arm through mine, and we went out together.
Just by the gate we met Jones, one of the local constables.
"Good-night, Jones," I said (I always feel affable at Christmas- time).
"Good-night, sir," answered the man a little gruffly, I thought.
"May I ask what you're a-doing of?"
"Oh, it's all right," I responded, with a wave of my umbrella; "I'm just seeing my friend part of the way home."
He said, "What friend?"
"Oh, ah, of course," I laughed; "I forgot. He's invisible to you. He is the ghost of the gentleman that killed the wait. I'm just going to the corner with him."
"Ah, I don't think I would, if I was you, sir," said Jones severely. "If you take my advice, you'll say good-bye to your friend here, and go back indoors. Perhaps you are not aware that you are walking about with nothing on but a night-shirt and a pair of boots and an opera-hat. Where's your trousers?"
I did not like the man's manner at all. I said, "Jones! I don't wish to have to report you, but it seems to me you've been drinking. My trousers are where a man's trousers ought to be—on his legs. I distinctly remember putting them on."