“Where?”
“Leaning over the banisters in the third-floor hall.”
“What is she like?”
“A slip of a girl. Rather fair and drooping, but a strange look in her eyes. Dressed in white, with a blue sash. That’s all.”
“Does she speak?”
“No; but she waves a folded paper at me.”
“What time of day have you seen her?”
“About eleven in the morning.”
The clocks were then striking twelve.
“Well,” I ventured, “that’s clearly the ghost’s hour. But the two of them couldn’t be more different.”