“Where it goes,” I interrupted quietly, “is not the point. The point is, where it comes from.”
“Then where do you believe it comes from?”
“I believe the trouble arises, in the strictest sense of the word, from the same spot whence it arose in the days of Matthew Hopkins, and from which it had probably arisen ages before Low Fennel was built.”
“What the—”
“I believe it to arise from the ancient barrow, or tumulus, above which you have had your new wing erected.”
Major Dale fell back in his chair, temporarily speechless, but breathing noisily; then:
“Tumulus!” he said hoarsely; “d’you mean to tell me the house is built on a dam’ burial ground?”
“Not the whole house,” I corrected him; “only the new wing.”
“Then is the place haunted by the spirit of some uneasy Ancient Briton or something of that sort, Addison? Hang it all! you can’t tell me a fairy tale like that! A ghost going back to pre-Roman days is a bit too ancient for me, my boy—too hoary, by the Lord Harry!”
“I have said nothing about an Ancient British ghost—you’re flying off at a tangent!”