The man meant nothing; his remark was not intended offensively; but I chanced to be in the drawing-room at the time (on a little footstool by the fire), and I confess I felt hurt. People should be careful what they say in a haunted house. I have a friend doing some haunting about half a mile from here, who would come over and punish these folks horribly if I wished it. He belongs to the Reformation period, works between three and four in the morning, and during that weird hour can make a noise like china falling down a lift. But I am not vindictive. A phantom rarely reaches the age of three hundred without learning to control his temper. “Physical bravery may be shown to greater advantage than in the hunting-field,” said Mr. Warren, answering the Squire. “It may, I grant you, but that is a right good school for it; and a man who loses nerve at a critical moment there will, in my judgment, be likely to do so all through his life.” “Are there no brave men who do not hunt?” asked Ethel. “Thousands, my dear. You give us a beautiful feminine example of begging the question,” answered the parent. “Moral nerve is, I allow, a greater thing than physical bravery at its best; but courage of both kinds, according to my old-fashioned notions, should be the hall-mark of a man.” Talbot expressed a hope that some opportunity might, ere long, be given him. “I trust a chance of showing you that I do not lack either one sort of bravery or the other will come in my way, Mr. Smithson,” said he. Then the company retired, and on the following day private business took Mr. Warren to Hereford for an hour or two. He returned, however, before luncheon; and that night transpired the monstrous event I am now about to relate. Although he slept in an apartment particularly associated with myself, I had not, I may here explain, vouchsafed an interview to our visitor, for reasons sufficiently sound. In my opinion, no good would have come of it. Mentally, Talbot Warren was not a coward; and the knowledge of this fact, combined with a certain underbred cubbishness in the young man’s treatment of inferiors, led me to suspect something derogatory to myself did I appear to him; but, after the recent conversation, I felt I had no choice. As the clock struck twelve, therefore, on the night in question, I made my way through the wash-hand stand in the Russet Room and stood before Talbot Warren. I am nothing by gaslight, and to my surprise and irritation Warren’s gas still burnt. He was dressed and sitting by the fire examining a huge lethal weapon with two barrels. He looked up and caught my wan, weary eyes fixed upon him. “Oh, you’re the ghost, I suppose?” he said rather carelessly.