“Young Aubrey Wales has gone abroad,” I said. “He’s ashamed to show up again, I suppose.”
“H’m!” growled the Major—“I’ve got nothing to crow about, myself, by the Lord Harry! There’s courage and courage, sir! I’ve led more than one bayonet attack, but I’d never qualify for the D.S.O. as a ghost-hunter!—never, by Gad!—never!”
He reached out for the decanter; then withdrew his hand. “Doctor’s orders,” he muttered. “Discipline must be maintained!”
“It was the sudden excitement which precipitated the seizure,” I said, glancing at the altered face of my old friend. “I was wrong to expose you to it; but of course I did not know that the doctor had warned you.”
“And now,” said the Major, sighing loudly as he filled his tumbler with plain soda-water—“what have you to tell me?”
“In the first place—have you definitely decided to leave Low Fennel, for good?”
“Certainly—not a doubt on the point! We’re leasing a flat in town here whilst we look around.”
“Good! Because I very much doubt if the place could ever be rendered tenable....”
“Then it’s really haunted?”
“Undoubtedly.”