"'Aunted, sir."
"Who say it, James?"
"The liveryman told the coachman, and the 'ousemaid got hit from a seamstress. Hit's werry queer, sir."
"Rubbish, James. I 'm amazed that a person of your station should listen to a liveryman's gossip. There 's the chimney, it's working perfectly. Some shift of air-currents causes it to puff a little smoke into this room occasionally, but those things are not related to the supernatural. We 'll find some way of correcting it in a day or two."
"Werry good, sir. But begging pardon, the chimney hain't hall. Hit walks, if I may so hexpress hit."
"Walks?" I exclaimed, sitting up and throwing down my review. "What walks?"
"You 'ear hit, sir, hin the walls. Hit goes right through the solid brick, most hunaccountable."
"You hear a mouse in the walls and think it's a ghost? But you forget, James, that this is a new house,—only a year or so old,—and spooks don't frequent such places. If it were an old place, it might be possible that the creaking of floors and the settling of walls would cause uneasiness in nervous people. The ghost tradition usually rests on some ugly fact. But here nothing of the kind is present."
"Hit was one of 'is majesty's horfficers, sir," he answered hoarsely.