I didn't tell my father till the next morning, when I was already expecting Worthing to arrive. I didn't at all know how my father would take the information, but as it happened it seemed to amuse him, and he raised no objection. It seemed to me as though he saw no danger, and I said questioningly, "But suppose there is a ghost, daddy?" "Ghosts," he answered with a laugh, "are like miracles. They only happen to people who believe in them." Worthing arrived early, and we spent a splendid day clambering about the old mansion. Half of it was in ruins, and the habitable part had been partially bricked and partially boarded up. My father and I shared a room at the top of the first flight of the great oaken stairs. It was a huge room, and its mere spaciousness made it an eerie place at night, for the little circle of the candlelight intensified the shadows in the corners. And there was a great wardrobe by the fireplace which suggested secret things, and facing it across the room a tall mirror by my bed which played unholy tricks with my reflection in the dark. This was bad enough; but at least the room was in the main body of the house. But before we could reach the room which Worthing was to occupy, an archway on the landing, which had been closed before we took possession, had to be opened again. The room lay out among the ruins, and was fairly easily approachable, though not always under cover, by a long and tortuous passage and one flight of stairs; but though in the ruined part of the house the room itself was still sound and weatherproof. I had frequently been in it, having chosen it indeed as my own private sanctum; but my method of approach had been by an unorthodox route up a broken wall or two and along a perilous causeway, not to be attempted in the night. Especially on such a night. For during the day the wind began to rise, and before sunset half a gale was sweeping across from the north-east, howling dismally among the turrets and corridors of our ruinous home, and wailing down the great chimney of our dining-room, puffing the smoke out in great blue clouds. It was a night for strange stories, but there were no stories as it happened. In spite of the increasing wind, which tore at the great lonely house, shaking it to its foundations as though envying it its place there on the hill, and grappling with it like a foe to root it up and send it flying headlong, Worthing remained calmly by the fire talking to my father in the most matter-of-fact voice as though nothing unusual were to take place that night. As for me I was straining out to catch the first echo of that bitter cry which I knew would soon come wailing in the heart of some great burst of wind, thinner but more piercing than the gale itself. And when at last I thought I heard it I looked quickly across at Worthing, but he seemed to have heard nothing; and my father was evidently lost in the conversation, for he showed no sign of having heard anything other than the wind.