"That was rash, Barney," I put in, sarcastically. "It was in your intherest, sorr," said he, impressively. "And you saw what?" I queried, growing very impatient. "What I hope niver to see again, sorr," said Barney, compressing his lips solemnly. "_Six impty chairs,_ sorr, wid six segyars as hoigh up from the flure as a man's mout', puffin' and a-blowin' out shmoke loike a chimbley! An' ivery oncet in a whoile the segyars would go down kind of an' be tapped loike as if wid a finger of a shmoker, and the ashes would fall off onto the flure!" "Well?" said I. "Go on. What next?" "I wanted to run awaa, sorr, but I shtood rutted to the shpot wid th' surproise I had on me, until foinally ivery segyar was burnt to a shtub and trun into the foireplace, where I found 'em the nixt mornin' when I came to clane up, provin' ut wasn't ony dhrame I'd been havin'." I arose from my chair and paced the room for two or three minutes, wondering what I could say. Of course the man was lying, I thought. Then I pulled myself together. "Barney," I said, severely, "what's the use? Do you expect me to believe any such cock-and-bull story as that?" "No, sorr," said he. "But thim's the facts." "Do you mean to say that this house of mine is haunted?" I cried. [Illustration: "'SIX IMPTY CHAIRS, SORR'"] "I don't know," said Barney, quietly. "I didn't t'ink so before." "Before? Before what? When?" I asked. "Whin you was writin' shtories about ut, sorr," said Barney, respectfully. "You've had a black horse-hair sofy turn white in a single noight, sorr, for the soight of horror ut's witnessed. You've had the hair of your own head shtand on ind loike tinpenny nails at what you've seen here in this very room, yourself, sorr. You've had ghosts doin' all sorts of t'ings in the shtories you've been writin' for years, and _you've always swore they was thrue, sorr_. I didn't believe 'em when I read 'em, but whin I see thim segyars bein' shmoked up before me eyes by invishible t'ings, I sez to meself, sez I, the boss ain't such a dommed loiar afther all. I've follyd your writin', sorr, very careful and close loike; an I don't see how, afther the tales you've told about your own experiences right here, you can say consishtently that this wan o' mine ain't so!" "But why, Barney," I asked, to confuse him, "when a thing like this happened, didn't you write and tell me?" Barney chuckled as only one of his species can chuckle. "Wroite an' tell ye?" he cried. "Be gorry, sorr, if I could wroite at all at all, ut's not you oi'd be wroitin' that tale to, but to the edithor of the paper that you wroite for. A tale loike that is wort' tin dollars to any man, eshpecially if ut's thrue. But I niver learned the art!"