destructive to the composition of what are termed ghosts. And here was an instance of the latter. Fitzsimmons waited for a few minutes, until he felt sure the thing was gone altogether, entirely quit of the premises, and then, revolver in hand, pulled aside the curtains. The next moment he reeled back, stupefied with horror. Lying at full length on the floor, her white face turned towards him, with a hideous grin of agony on her lips, was Rosalie. "Good God!" Fitzsimmons said to himself. "Good God! I've killed her. What in Heaven's name can I do?" He deliberated shooting himself; and then the cries of the children, who had been wakened by the noise, reminding him of his duties to them, he grew calmer, and telephoned at once for the nearest doctor. The latter, happening to be at home, was speedily on the spot. "You say you shot her," he remarked to Fitzsimmons, after he had examined the body very carefully. "You must be dreaming, sir. There's not the slightest sign of any bullet. Moreover, the girl's been dead at least two hours. From the look of her, I should say she died from strychnine poisoning." The doctor was right. The girl's death was due to strychnine, and from the bottle that was found in her possession and a message she scribbled on the study wall, there is no doubt whatever she committed suicide. "I was a nice enough girl till I came here," she wrote, "but it's the coombe that's done it. Mother warned me against it. Coombes make everyone bad." After this, Fitzsimmons decided to clear out. Indeed, he could hardly have done otherwise, for Shane Garth was now placed under a rigorous ban. Agatha left--she did not even wait till the morning, but cleared out the same night--and after that it was impossible to get a woman to come in, even for the day. Consequently, Fitzsimmons had not only to cook and look after the children, but to do all the packing as well. At last, however, it was all over, and the carriage stood at the door, waiting to take him and the children to the station. As he came downstairs, followed by Bobbie and Jane, someone, he fancied, called his name. He turned, and Bobbie and Jane turned too. Bending over the balustrades of the top landing, and looking just like she had done in her lifetime, save perhaps for the excessive pallor of her cheeks, and a curious expression of fear and entreaty in her eyes, was Rosalie. She faded away as they stared, and close beside the spot where she had stood, they saw the dim and shadowy outline of a gnarled tree. CHAPTER VIII THE TRUNK A STRANGE CASE OF HAUNTING IN SYDENHAM