"Yes, the White Lady," says the old woman as pleasantly as possible. "There's the marks on the floor of the stain where she was murdered. There! that gentleman's standing on it." Good gracious! so I am. A dull sort of mulberry-coloured stain. "It won't wash out," she goes on. "I've tried it. And it won't plane out, as they've tried _that_. And so," she finishes with a sniff, "there it is." [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. ALONE--THE SECRET DOOR--UNSOCIABILITY--THE PICTURE--GRIM THOUGHTS-- ONE CHEERFUL IDEA--MELON--HIDING--CRUEL JOKES--SPIRAL--ANGLES-- ASSASSINS--WHITE LADY--A COMFORT--NERVES--THE DOOR--A GROWL--SNIFFS --A FOLLOWER--REASONING--SAD THOUGHTS--OUT AT LAST. Every one is silent for a minute, and then we smile at the absurd idea of there being a ghost about. I linger for a few seconds after the others. They go out on to the landing. When I leave the room I pass out there too. They are all gone. I catch sight of a small door, in the panelling, on my right at the end of this corridor, closing quickly. They are gone evidently to visit some other quarter of the house. They might have stopped for me. Very unsociable. One seems to hear every footfall in this house. And even when you're not speaking, your thoughts appear to find an echo, and to be repeated aloud. In this short narrow gallery, there is an old picture of a man in a Spanish dress, holding a melon in his hand. His eyes follow me. Curious effect. I stop for a moment. They are fixed on me. Remember some story about this somewhere, when it turned out that there was a man concealed, who came out to murder people at night, living happily behind the picture in the day-time. Cheer myself up by thinking that if Milburd had seen this picture he'd have named it "The Meloncolic Man." Odd. I don't hear their voices. They can't be playing me any trick, and hiding. If there is a thing I detest, if there is one thing above another absolutely and positively wicked and reprehensible, it is hiding behind a door or a curtain ... or in fact behind anything ... and then popping out on you suddenly. Heard of a boy to whom this was done, and he remained an idiot for the rest of his life. _Happy Thought._--To look cautiously _at_ the corners. To open the small door quietly, and say, "Ah!" ... No. No one there. All gone down. A dark narrow winding staircase (lighted only by loopholes), so that one is perpetually going round angles and might come upon anyone, or anyone upon you, without any sort of preparation. I can quite understand assassins coming down on their victim, or up on their victim, or up and down, simultaneously, on their victim, in one of these old places. Assassins in the olden time. I wonder if it's true about the White Lady? The old woman's husband was not a bit frightened of her, so she says. Perhaps he had come home rather tipsy, and mistook some shadow in the moonlight for a ghost.