He was quite certain that Mrs. Griffiths and her evil-faced son were guilty of murder, that, having done away with Wotherall and some other man by means of the stepping-stone, they had deliberately set the same deathtrap for him, and that he had only been saved from falling into it by the apparition of his old friend's dog; but he could not, of course, expect the police to work up a case, which, from their point of view, rested upon such an unsubstantial foundation, and as on examination the skeleton showed no evidence of foul play, there was no alternative, the usual verdict of "Death from misadventure" had to be returned. CHAPTER XIII THE PINES "Who is the most interesting person in this institution?" my friend Dr. Custance remarked, repeating my words. "If you mean from your point of view--ghosts, I should say Dacre, George Richard Dacre. He is pretty old now--close upon seventy, and very possibly you have never heard of him. The case, with which he was somewhat closely connected, took place in Cumberland about forty years ago, and the spot is still said to be haunted. If you would like to hear all about it, come along, and I will introduce you to him." Custance led me into a room, where an old man, with a glistening bald head and white beard, sat, leaning back in his chair, and examining his hands with an air of strange intensity. "Mr. Dacre," Custance remarked, "I have brought you a visitor, a Mr. Elliot O'Donnell, who is very interested in the supernatural, and would much like to hear some of your experiences." The old man raised his eyes; they did not look at me, but beyond, far beyond, into a world that seemed known only to himself. "I have only had one experience," he said, "and that was a long while ago; so long that, at times, it seems as if it must have happened to me in another incarnation, when I was something out of doors--a pine or an elm--something growing in a wood. I can still, occasionally, smell resin, after one of those long hot summers we used to have,--seventy or eighty years ago,--and occasionally hear the wind, the deliciously cool, evening breezes, rustling and sighing, as it were, through my branches and fanning my perspiring bark. Sit down, and I will tell you all about it. * * * * *