“Nothing to cause any alarm, nothing infectious, I assure you. People—er—die in flats just the same as—er—in private houses.” This, being a joke, had its chuckle.
But the agent also knew men in his own way, and he felt it was unwise to wriggle. David had a steadfast glance. He gave others the impression that he heard and treasured each word they uttered. He was really wondering then why the speaker’s neck was so long and thin—nothing more serious, but, with a disagreeable disclosure lurking in the other’s mind, David’s scrutiny compelled candor.
“The thing is bound to come to your ears sooner or later, Mr. Harcourt; so I may as well tell you now,” said the Londoner. “The late tenant was a lady, a singer of much promise, it was said. For an unknown reason—probably some love affair was disturbing her rest—she—er—took an overdose of a sleeping-draft. She was a very charming woman, quite young, of highest character. It is inconceivable that she should have committed suicide. The affair was an accident, of course, but—er—”
“A sceptical coroner thought it a murder?”
“Oh, dear, no, nothing of the kind, not a hint of such a thing. Fact is—well, it sounds ridiculous to say with reference to a popular block of flats in the middle of London, but two foolish women—an excitable actress and her servant, your predecessors in the flat—have spread reports as to queer noises. Well, you know, don’t you? the sort of nonsense women will talk.”
“In plain English, they say the place is haunted.”
“Ha, ha! Something in that nature. You have hit it! Something in that nature. Absurd thing!”
“Who knows?” David had a cold disbelief in spooks, but it amused him to see the agent squirm; and he sat tight. Those eyelids fluttered again, and Mr. Dibbin banged a ledger with wrathful fist.
“Look here, Mr. Harcourt,” cried he finally. “This is a five-guineas-a-week flat. I’ll make you a fair offer; take it for six months and I give it you at half price.”
“I laying the ghost at two and a half guineas weekly?”