"Oh, no; you do him an injustice. Godfrey really was an angel, and if he had not killed himself I think he would not now be in such an uncertain position. He is still on probation, you see." "Between two fires, as it were." "I think not. The last time I saw him he was shivering." "I don't wonder," said Gates, ruefully, recalling the chill of a moment since. "Does he ever come here?" "Not often. There are so many unpleasant associations, he says. It was here that the funeral took place and he has expressed very strong exceptions to the sermon of a minister who alluded to him as an unfortunate victim of his own folly. The idea! It would have been folly, indeed, for Godfrey to have lived after I was dead. Every woman in Virginia would have been crazy to marry him. And then one of the pall-bearers did not suit him. He had cheated Godfrey in a horse trade, I think." "I should like to have known Godfrey Gloame." "You would have admired him. He was the best pistol shot, the bravest man in all Virginia. Three times he fought duels, coming off victorious each time. He would have been an ideal husband if he had not been so indolent, so dissipated, and so absurdly jealous of Harry Heminway. I shall never forgive him for killing me on account of poor Harry." "Is that why he killed you?" asked Gates eagerly. "He said so at the time, but he was sorry for it afterward. That is usually the way with jealous men." "Whew!" exclaimed the man, starting up. "There's another draft, didn't you feel it?" "It is my husband coming, I know his footstep," she said delightedly, looking toward the door. "Holy smoke!" cried Gates, in alarm. "Don't let him hear you speak of smoke. He is very touchy about it just now. Ah, come in, Godfrey, dear." She crossed to the door to meet the tall, grey young man in the eighteenth century costume, Garrison looking on with open mouth, and rising hair. Godfrey Gloame was a handsome fellow, albeit he was as transparent as glass. His hair was powdered with all the care of a dandy and his garments hung properly upon his frame. He kissed his wife and then glared at young Mr. Garrison. "Who is this man, Beatrice?" he demanded, his hand going to his sword hilt. Mrs. Gloame caught the hand and there was passionate entreaty in her eyes. "Speak, woman! What are you doing here with him at this time of night?" "Now, don't be cross, Godfrey," she pleaded. "It's only Mr. Garrison." "And who the devil is Mr. Garrison?" "What a very disagreeable ghost," muttered Gates, remembering that ghosts are harmless. Mrs. Gloame led the unruly Godfrey up to the table and, in a delightfully old-fashioned way, introduced the two gentlemen. "Mr. Garrison is the brother of my successor, the present mistress of Gloaming," she said.