Now was that a ghost, or can science explain? For instance, can the mere shell of a human face and body exist (below ground, it is true, but open to the air) and yet be so easily dispersed. For myself, I don't know. It is, in any case, the nearest approach to a ghost that I, personally, have ever seen. I did not make a search, but, after the body and face disappeared, I looked round but could see no trace of any equipment, boots, entrenching tools, and such like things. A Dream—or a Ghost? I KNOW nothing of the occult, and claim no great belief in it, yet an instance occurred in which I was undoubtedly assisted by what appears to be the occult. It was just after the signing of the Armistice that I was at Dobritch (in the Dobrudja) running a Y.M.C.A. centre there. The goods for the boys used to come by ship to Varna. They were placed on rail at Varna by another Y.M.C.A. officer stationed there. They were locked, and sealed, and a guard placed over them by the British R.T.O. at Varna, before being transported to Dobritch by the Bulgar railway authorities. These stores always arrived locked, and, yet, invariably, with quantities of goods missing. Both my colleague at Varna and the R.T.O. thought I was mistaken, and the Bulgar railway official said “Nothing could have been stolen.” I was puzzled. Then, one night as I lay in bed, there passed before me—as in a panorama or a moving picture, so vivid and real was it—a vision of a train drawing up in the night, to a small station. I distinctly saw a stout, middle-aged Bulgar station-master (as proved by his uniform) go to a coach, unlock it, creep in, and roll out some crates marked Y.M.C.A., lock it again, and then whistle for the train to proceed. Vivid as the vision was, I paid little heed to it. As the next two or three consignments all revealed goods missing again, I decided to act Sherlock Holmes myself, next time. I went down to Varna. After the goods were loaded, I allowed the R.T.O. to lock the doors with me inside, and seal them. Only we two knew I was there. The train rumbled along in the night, for some considerable distance, and then drew up at a wayside station. It was midnight, and very dark, but I heard heavy footsteps approach and stop at my coach. Then a heavy breathing and a fumbling at the lock—and the door was gently slid back. A bull's eye cast a gleam inside, and, by it, I saw the burly form of a Bulgar station-master begin to creep in. His lantern shone right on his face. It was the exact face I had seen in the vision—even to a scar on the cheek. I waited no longer for the vision to be further fulfilled but jumped down off my bed and planted a running kick, square on his jaw. He fell back, outside, with a groan, mumbling “Anglaise dobra, dobra” (English, it all right). I closed the door again, the train proceeded. Goods were never missing again. Instinct or—What?