They all started at the sound of a smothered cry from the staircase and the sound of somebody running hurriedly along the passage. Before anybody could speak, the door flew open and a figure bursting into the room flung itself gasping and shivering upon them.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” demanded Malcolm. “Why, it’s Mr. Hirst.” He shook him roughly and then held some spirit to his lips. Hirst drank it greedily and with a sharp intake of his breath gripped him by the arm.
“Light the gas, George,” said Malcolm.
The waiter obeyed hastily. Hirst, a ludicrous but pitiable figure in knee-breeches and coat, a large wig all awry and his face a mess of grease paint, clung to him, trembling.
“Now, what’s the matter?” asked Malcolm.
“I’ve seen it,” said Hirst, with a hysterical sob. “O Lord, I’ll never play the fool again, never!”
“Seen what?” said the others.
“Him—it—the ghost—anything!” said Hirst, wildly.
“Rot!” said Malcolm, uneasily.
“I was coming down the stairs,” said Hirst. “Just capering down—as I thought—it ought to do. I felt a tap—”