He broke off suddenly and peered nervously through the open door into the passage.
“I thought I saw it again,” he whispered.
“Look—at the foot of the stairs. Can you see anything?”
“No, there’s nothing there,” said Malcolm, whose own voice shook a little. “Go on. You felt a tap on your shoulder—”
“I turned round and saw it—a little wicked head and a white dead face. Pah!”
“That’s what I saw in the bar,” said George. “’Orrid it was—devilish!”
Hirst shuddered, and, still retaining his nervous grip of Malcolm’s sleeve, dropped into a chair.
“Well, it’s a most unaccountable thing,” said the dumbfounded Malcolm, turning round to the others. “It’s the last time I come to this house.”
“I leave to-morrow,” said George. “I wouldn’t go down to that bar again by myself, no, not for fifty pounds!”
“It’s talking about the thing that’s caused it, I expect,” said one of the men; “we’ve all been talking about this and having it in our minds. Practically we’ve been forming a spiritualistic circle without knowing it.”