"Are you?" asks the wraith.
"I—I—I don't know," says Philo, and he didn't.
The ghost rises, steps down from the gig, and extends his hand. It is very cold and clammy, but still a sound, fleshly hand, though quite hard and shrunken from its early proportions.
"Thank God!" shouts Philo Avery.
"Thank God!" responds John Avery, fervently.
"How came you here?" asks Philo, still a little incredulous as to the real mortality of his companion.
"On my way to attend your funeral," says John.
"Why, no,—that can't be,—I'm going to yours."
"Heavens!" exclaims John.
"I guess it's a hoax," suggests Philo.