The scamp related how a noise had awakened him; how, seeing a light in the hall, he had crept downstairs, to find two ruffians with black masks lowering a sack of valuables out of the dining-room window; how he had hurled himself upon them with the courage of an army; how they had twice fired point-blank at him, and then fled; how he had followed them, seized one, and struggled with him; how, finally, uniting their efforts, they had succeeded in escaping from him. And there was an end of the matter; for of course it appeared impossible to question the truth of the story, or raise any further doubt about the moral and physical pluck of a young man who could do these things. Next morning the pistol was discovered in the garden; detectives wandered about, lunched at the Squire’s expense, found clues, and took the address of the tramp who had fallen into the greenhouse. This man had departed a physical wreck, swearing that he would never put himself out of the way again for anybody as long as he lived. I confess my ghostly heart went out to him. The local paper published two columns of sickening adulation upon the subject of Talbot Warren; Ethel’s father consented to her engagement, and--bitterest blow of all--thought it proper and decent to censure me at breakfast, before the servants, for the part that I had played. “What’s the use of a paltry shade that cannot even scare burglars away from a family mansion?” he asked. “The poor little chap tried his best,” said Ethel. “Yes, after it was all over and the mischief nearly done. If he’d had the pluck of a mouse, he would have gone down to help Warren, instead of fluttering about making faces and doing nothing, and getting in the way. Why didn’t he speak up like a man?” The brute Warren said he thought that most spectres were cowards at heart, and the butler ventured to agree with him. I am leaving Capon Hall. These incidents have knocked all the spirit out of me. I wish to say no bitter word of anybody; it is more in sorrow than anger that I write; but misunderstanding so humiliating, coupled with loss of self-respect so complete, can neither be lightly forgiven nor forgotten. Change, repose, lapse of ages are all necessary to the renewal of my shattered moral tone and vital principle. It may be many centuries before I revisit “the glimpses of the moon.” If I had my way I should never haunt again. In my case the game is not worth the phosphorescence. There obtains an idiotic belief among men that “all appearances are deceitful”; but that such a rule has many exceptions I can only trust this narrative will sufficiently attest. GREENSMITH’S CHARADE