"'Absolutely,' she replied. 'I couldn't mistake him. There he was--with his hunchback, huge head, cheeks looking whiter than ever--and red hair. How I could see that it was red in the dark I can't tell you, but all the same I could, and moreover, the colour was very clear and distinct. Well, he stood and looked at me for some seconds beseechingly, and then said something--but so quickly I couldn't catch what it was. I told him so, and he repeated it, jabber, jabber, jabber. Then I grew angry. "Why have you brought me here?" I shouted. "I wanted to go to the Gyp Mill." He spoke again in the same incomprehensible way, and holding out his hands as if to implore my forgiveness, suddenly disappeared. Where he went to is a mystery. The rain had now begun to fall in torrents, and to attempt to go on was madness. Consequently, I rapped at the door and asked the woman who opened it if she could put me up for the night. "Yes, miss," she said. "We have a spare room, if you don't mind it's being rather small. The gentleman that has been staying here left this morning. Did anyone recommend you?" "Mr. Dyer brought me here," I said, "and, I believe, he is somewhere outside." "Mr. Dyer!" the woman exclaimed, looking at me in the oddest manner. "I don't know a Mr. Dyer. Who do you mean?" "Why, Davy Dyer," I replied, "the son of the old woman who lives at the Mill. Davy Dyer, the hunchback." "'Then, to my amazement, the woman caught me by the arm. "Davy Dyer, the hunchback!" she cried. "Why, miss, you must either be dreaming or mad. Davy Dyer drowned himself in the Mill pool two years ago!"'" CHAPTER VII THE COOMBE A CASE OF A WILTSHIRE ELEMENTAL People are not half particular enough about new houses. So long as the soil is gravel, so long as the rooms are large and airy, the wall-papers artistic, and there's no basement, the rest does not matter; at least not as a rule. Few think of ghosts or of superphysical influences. And yet the result of such a consideration is what would probably weigh most with me in selecting a newly built house. But then, I have had disagreeable experiences, and others I know have had them too. Let me quote, for example, what befell my old acquaintance, Fitzsimmons. Robert Fitzsimmons was for years editor of the _Daily Gossip_, but finally retired from the post owing to ill health. His doctor recommended him some quiet, restful place in the country, so he decided to migrate to Wiltshire. After scouring the county for some time, he alighted on a spot, not very far from Devizes, that attracted him immensely.