"Mr. Harvey Scoffold is an old friend of mine," said Bardolph Just, "although we have not met for some time. A worthy fellow—though he does not take quite so deep an interest in the serious things of life as I do."
"Not I," exclaimed the other man, squaring his shoulders, and giving vent to a hearty laugh that rang through the room. "I'm a very butterfly, if a large one; and life's the biggest joke that ever I tasted. I hope our new friend is of the same order?"
I mumbled something unintelligible, and, after looking at me intently for a moment, he turned and began to speak to his host. I think I had just decided that I had better feign illness, and get up and make a run for dear life, when he staggered us all by a question, put in his hearty, careless fashion.
"By the way," he said, looking from the doctor to the girl, and back again, "what's become of that youngster I used to see here—Gregory Pennington? I took quite a fancy to the boy. Does anyone know where he is?"
CHAPTER IV.
A LITTLE WHITE GHOST.
With the putting of that most awkward question as to what had become of Gregory Pennington, it may be said that a sort of bombshell fell into our midst. I leaned further back, determined to gain what respite I could in the shadows of the room before the inevitable discovery should fall upon me; and of the four of us only the girl, Debora Matchwick, leaned forward eagerly, peering round the lamp at the man who had asked the question.
"That's what we want to know," she said, in a quick, nervous voice. "Gregory has disappeared."
"Nonsense!" It was the doctor who broke in testily, still keeping his face in shadow. "You mustn't get such ideas into your head, child. Young men, strong, and well, and healthy, don't disappear in that fashion. I ordered him away from the house, and he has respected my wishes. Don't let me hear such nonsensical talk again."