"'Well,' said I bluntly, 'a lady came out of the end room just now, walked down the verandah, and went out into the garden. You'd better see if anything is missing as she's not an inhabitant!'
"'No—there won't be anything missing,' he replied. 'Did she wear a crinoline and a general air of last century?'
"'She did,' said I.
"'Our own private ghost,' was the answer—and it was the sort of statement I had anticipated. Now I solemnly assure you that at that time I had never heard, read, nor dreamed that there was a 'ghost' in this bungalow, nor in Duri—nor in the whole Northern Presidency for that matter….
"'What's the story?' I asked, of course.
"'Mutiny. 1857,' said Malet-Marsac. 'Husband shot on the parade-ground. She got the news and marched straight to the spot. They cut her in pieces as she held his body in her arms. Lots of people have seen her—anywhere between that room and the parade-ground.'
"'Then you have to believe in ghosts—in Duri, or how do you account for it?' I asked.
"'I don't bother my head,' he replied. 'But I have seen that poor lady a good many times. And no one told me a word about her until after I had seen her.'"
And then Mrs. Dearman suddenly rose, as her hostess "caught" the collective female eye of the table.
"Was all that about the 'ghosts' of the old Irishwoman and the Early
Victorian Lady true, you fellows?" asked John Bruce, the Professor of
Engineering, after coffee, cigars and the second glass of port had
reconciled the residue or sediment to the departure of the sterner sex.