He made me describe the savage again. The extraordinary part of it was that, in spite of his baffling blackness, I could do so perfectly. He was as individual to me as a white man—more than that, as a friend. He had personality, that ghost.
“What race should you say he was?”
I thought. “Some race I don’t know; Zulu, perhaps. A well-built beggar.”
“And you’re perfectly sure he was real—I mean, wasn’t human?”
The distinction made me smile, though the question irritated me. “You can see that if his object was murder he made a poor job. You found all your silver, didn’t you?” Then I played my trump-card. “And do you suppose that a burglar would wander round this countryside in a nose-ring and a loincloth? Nice disguise!”
Lithway looked disturbed. “But the other one,” he murmured. “I don’t understand the other.”
“She seems much easier to understand than mine,” I protested.
“Oh, I don’t mean her!” he said. “I mean it.”
For the first time I began to be afraid that Lithway had left the straight track of common sense. It was silly enough to have two ghosts in a new house—but three!
“It?” I asked.