“Can a man doubt the evidence of his own senses, ma’am? I have lived in too many good families to have any imagination: I am matter-of-fact to the back-bone. Such being the case, what then? Why simply this, Miss Piper: that I know for a fact this house is haunted. Haven’t I heard noises myself?”
“Gracious goodness! What kind of noises, Mr. Finch?”
“Why—er—rumblings and grumblings, and—er—moanings and scratchings. And haven’t I woke up in the middle of the night, and sat up in bed, and listened and heard strange noises that couldn’t be made by anything mortal? And then in the dusk of evening, haven’t I seen the curtains move, and heard feet come pitter-pattering down the stairs; and far-away doors clash in the dark as if shut by ghostly hands? Dreadful, I assure you.”
“You make me feel quite nervous!” cried Miss Piper, edging an inch nearer.
“The old clock on the second landing has never kept right time since the night of the murder. And didn’t Mary Ryan swear that she saw Mr. Percy Osmond coming downstairs one evening, in his bloodstained shirt?—asking your pardon, Miss Piper, for mentioning such a garment before a lady. These are facts that can’t be got over. But there’s worse to follow.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Finch?”
“At first the house was haunted by one ghost, but now they do say there’s two of them.”
“Oh, lor! Two! And whose is the second one?”
“Why, whose ghost should it be but that of our late master, Mr. Lionel Dering? Five servants have left in six weeks, and I shall give warning next Saturday.”
“My nerves are turning to jelly,” returned Miss Piper. “Oh, Mr. Finch, we should be dull indeed at Park Newton if you were to go away!”