"I can't go just now, dear," he said to his wife, then he whispered with an air of mystery:
"It's there!"
Someone gave a little scream.
"Oh, is the house haunted?"
"Well," admitted Mr. Croombe, not without a certain wistful pride, "it's not exactly the house. To be quite precise, it's I who am haunted."
The whole table was agog.
AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS WAS WILLIAM,
IN A CONSPIRATORIAL ATTITUDE, HIS
POCKETS BULGING.
"It's—a boy," said Mr. Croombe. "I see him everywhere—in the road, in the house, with a piercing expression and curious raiment. He looks straight at me as if he meant something—a sort of freckled face—not friendly, I'm afraid. I've been psycho analysed. It's a sort of—er—complex——"
There was a hubbub of excitement.