Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that night as happy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been heard of, and personal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property. Not so Tom Ingoldsby: the mystery--for mystery there evidently was,--had not only piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The watch of the previous night had been unsuccessful, probably because it was undisguised. Tonight he would "ensconce himself,"--not indeed "behind the arras,"--for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed to the wall,--but in a small closet which opened from one corner of the room, and, by leaving the door ajar, would give its occupant a view of all that might pass in the apartment. Here did the young ghost-hunter take up a position, with a good stout sapling under his arm, a full half-hour before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even his friend did he let into his confidence, fully determined that if his plan did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to himself alone. At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw, from his concealment, the lieutenant enter his room; and, after taking a few turns in it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken that his thoughts were mainly occupied by his approaching happiness, proceed slowly to disrobe himself. The coat, the waistcoat, the black silk stock, were gradually discarded; the green morocco slippers were kicked off, and then--ay, and then--his countenance grew grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once that this was his last stake,--nay, that the very breeches he had on were not his own,--that to-morrow morning was his last, and that if he lost _them_----A glance showed that his mind was made up; he replaced the single button he had just subducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a state of transition, half chrysalis, half grub.