“My lady has discovered, through the servants, that a ghost walks in the sunken garden—a man in a cloak, with a sword at his side. I say it must be a ghost indeed, and yet there is this difficulty: suppose there are ghosts of human beings, what of the clothes they appear in? What of this ghost’s cloak and sword?—are they real cloak and sword, or are they the ghosts of cloak and sword?—and do inanimate things have ghosts?”
“Why, certainly, ghosts always appear in clothes,” said Lady Strange, quite ignoring the dilemma, and not entering into Foxwell’s skeptical mirth.
“And pray what did the ghost do or say while the scullery-maid was present?”
“Merely gazed at her in a strange, supernatural manner till she ran away. But hadn’t you best question the maid?”
“By all means. One ought to be well informed about the ghosts that haunt one’s house—though I don’t consider my ancestors did so much for me that I need care a button if one of them does find his grave uneasy. I’ll have the girl up for interrogation after breakfast.”
But this promise was driven from Foxwell’s mind just as the time came to perform it. A visitor was announced, whose name caused him surprise: it was that of Mr. Thornby.
“What should bring him to see me?” said Foxwell, showing his astonishment to his guests. “’Tis my lubberly neighbour, of whom I have told you. He abominates me because I sometimes pit my powers of speech against his boorish arrogance, and show him what a bumpkin he is. I thought he was sworn never to cross my threshold.”
Ruled by courtesy and curiosity, Foxwell went immediately to the adjoining drawing-room, where he found his enemy standing on the hearth, his legs wide apart, and his burly figure clad in a riding costume neither well-fitting nor new.