Dempsey declared he should have to go and examine the ground himself before he could answer the question. But of course there was an answer to it--there must be. As to the man--why Millsborough, and Ipscombe too, had been full of outlandish East Enders, flying from the raids, Poles and Russians, and such like--thievin' fellows by all accounts. Why couldn't it be one of them--prowling round the farm for anything he could pick up--and frightened off, when he saw Halsey? Betts, smoking with prodigious energy, inquired what he made of the _blood_. Didn't he know the old story of how Watson was tracked down to the cart-shed? Dempsey laughed again. "Well, it's curious, grant ye. It's real funny! But where are you going to get blood without a body? And if a thing's a body, it isn't a ghost!" The two old men were silent. Halsey was lost in a hopeless confusion of ideas, and Betts was determined not to give his pal away. But here--say what you like!--was a strange man, seen, on the road, which had been used, according to village tradition, on several previous occasions, by the authentic ghost of Watson; his course was marked by traces of blood, just as Watson's path of pain had been marked on the night of the murder; and on reaching the spot where Watson had breathed his last, the apparition, whatever it was, had vanished. Perplexity, superstition, and common sense fought each other. Halsey who knew much of his Bible by heart was inwardly comparing texts. "A spirit hath not flesh and blood"--True--but on the other hand what about the "bodies of the saints"--that "arose"? While, perhaps, the strongest motive of all in the old man's mind was the obstinate desire to prove himself right, and so to confound young scoffers like Dempsey. Dempsey, however, having as he thought disposed of Halsey's foolish tale was determined to tell his own, which had already made a great impression in certain quarters of the village, and ranked indeed as the chief sensation of the day. To be able to listen to the story of a murder told by the grandson of the murderer, to whom the criminal himself had confessed it, and that without any fear of unpleasant consequences to any one, was a treat that Ipscombe had seldom enjoyed, especially as the village was still rich in kinsfolk of both murdered and murderer.