As the unlucky Marrable left the room, an expression of hope appeared on John Bradfield’s face which became one of intense relief when, following his old chum into the hall, he saw that the latter was sincere in his intention of immediately leaving the house in which he chose to think he had been insulted. Taking his overcoat, a sadly threadbare garment, from the peg on which John Bradfield himself had hung it, Alfred buttoned himself up in it with great dignity, and proceeding down the inner and the outer hall with slow steps, perhaps willing to be called back, he fumbled at the handle of the front door, and finally let himself out into the cold night. Just as Mr. Bradfield was congratulating himself upon having got rid of a dangerous and untrustworthy person, and wondering whether he should be troubled with him again, a voice close to his shoulder disturbed his reflections. It was that of his cousin, Graham-Shute, who had witnessed the abrupt departure of the humble friend, and who had been struck by the fact that Alfred Marrable, confused as he was, had conceived a just opinion of the value of his old friend’s welcome. “I say, Bradfield, you’re not going to let the poor chap go off like that, are you?” John Bradfield turned upon him savagely. “Why not? He chose to go. I couldn’t keep the fool against his will, could I?” “But--but--but d---- it, man, you’re not serious! This fellow helped you when you were a young man, and you turn him out of the house like a dog, on a night like this?” John Bradfield turned upon him sharply. “Helped me! Who says he helped me! The man’s a born fool, and never helped anyone, even himself.” But Mr. Graham-Shute was already at the front door. Before he had time to open it, however, both he and his host were startled by a loud cry of “Help, help!” in Marrable’s voice. It was John Bradfield’s turn to be excited. Pushing past his cousin, he drew back the handle of the front door, and was out upon the stone steps in time to see dimly a man disappearing in the direction of the east wing. Then he turned his attention to Marrable, who had fallen down the steps, and was lying motionless at the bottom. He was not insensible, however; for John Bradfield had no sooner bent over him with a face full of anxiety which was not tender, than Alfred, struggling to sit up, said, in a hoarse whisper: “John, I’ve seen a ghost, I swear I have, the ghost of Gilbert Wryde!” John drew back his head, and affected to laugh boisterously; this merriment was as much for the benefit of his cousin as of Alfred, for the former was now hurrying down the steps with ears and eyes very much on the alert. “Gilbert Wryde!” echoed Bradfield. “Why, he’s been dead these sixteen years; you know that as well as I do.” And he turned to his cousin with a gesture to intimate the tremendous extent to which his potations had affected poor Alfred’s vision.