"Burying the Mitre hymnals," replied the vicar. The clock struck a quarter to nine. "I must hurry!" exclaimed Joseph. On reaching his lodgings he found Major Dolgelly Jones in his sitting-room, sitting on the edge of his table tossing up a tennis-ball. In the armchair, invisible to the major, reclined Lady Mabel. "I am so sorry to be late," apologised Joseph. "How are you, sir?" "Below par. I have been so ever since you put me into your book. I have no appetite for golf. I can do nothing to pass the weary hours but toss up and down a tennis-ball." "I hope----" began Joseph; and then a horror seized on him. He had no personality of his creation left but that of Lady Mabel. Would it be possible to translate that into the major? He remained silent, musing for a while, and then said hesitatingly to the lady: "Here, my lady, is the body you are to individualise." "But it is that of a man!" "There is no other left." "It is hardly delicate." "There is no help for it." Then turning to the major, he said: "I am very sorry--it really is no fault of mine, but I have only a female personality to offer to you, and that elderly." "It is all one to me," replied the major, "catch"--he caught the ball. "Many of our generals are old women. I am agreeable. _Place aux dames._" "But," protested Lady Mabel, "you made me a member of a very ancient titled house that came over with the Conqueror." "The personality I offer you," said I to the major, "though female is noble; the family is named in the roll of Battle Abbey." "Oh!" said Dolgelly Jones, "I descend from one of the royal families of Powys, lineally from Caswallon Llanhir and Maelgwn Gwynedd, long before the Conqueror was thought of." "Well, then," said Leveridge, and waved his hand. In Swanton it is known that the major now never plays golf; he keeps rabbits. * * * * * It is with some scruple that I insert this record in the _Book of Ghosts_, for actually it is not a story of ghosts. But a greater scruple moved me as to whether I should be justified in revealing a professional secret, known only among such as belong to the Confraternity of Writers of Fiction. But I have observed so much perplexity arise, so much friction caused, by persons suddenly breaking out into a course of conduct, or into actions, so entirely inconsistent with their former conduct as to stagger their acquaintances and friends. Henceforth, to use a vulgarism, since I have let the cat out of the bag, they will know that such persons have been used up by novel writers that have known them, and who have replaced the stolen individualities with others freshly created. This is the explanation, and the explanation has up to the present remained a professional secret. H. P.