The constable looked blankly at him. “That’s not Giles, sir. You must have been dreaming.”
“Nonsense, he came in through that door not five minutes ago.”
“What did you say he was like?”
Fletcher repeated the description minutely and Brown’s face took on a look of horror.
“Oh Lord, sir! That was an old Reckavile, the father of the one who was drowned.”
“Nonsense,” said Fletcher sharply, “don’t talk that rot.”
“Come and see, sir,” said he, and his voice shook.
They went into the hall with a lamp, and Brown pointed with a shaking finger to a portrait on the wall. There, gazing at them with a sardonic smile, was Fletcher’s visitor, clear and unmistakable.
A cold, numb feeling gathered round his heart, but Fletcher realised that he must keep his nerve at all costs.
“You must be right, I have been dreaming,” he said in a voice he tried to make light. “Well, I am very tired, let’s shut the place up, and get off.”