“This Madeira is not so bad,” he said condescendingly, as he swallowed his third glass at a gulp with the gusto of a connoisseur. “Miss Piper,” refilling his glass, “I look towards you. Here’s your very good health. May you live long and die happy.” “Oh, Mr. Finch! deeply gratified, I’m sure.” “I must have fallen into a doze just now, because I never heard you when you opened the door, and was quite startled when I saw you standing beside me. But then you always do go about the house more quietly than anybody else—except the ghost himself.” Miss Piper glanced round with a shudder, and hitched her chair a little nearer the fire and Mr. Finch. “But surely, Mr. Finch,” she said, “you are not one of those who believe that Park Newton is haunted? Uncle Pearce says that he never heard of such rubbish in the whole course of his life.” “Can a man doubt the evidence of his own senses, ma’am? I have lived in too many good families to have any imagination: I am matter-of-fact to the back-bone. Such being the case, what then? Why simply this, Miss Piper: that I know for a fact this house is haunted. Haven’t I heard noises myself?” “Gracious goodness! What kind of noises, Mr. Finch?” “Why—er—rumblings and grumblings, and—er—moanings and scratchings. And haven’t I woke up in the middle of the night, and sat up in bed, and listened and heard strange noises that couldn’t be made by anything mortal? And then in the dusk of evening, haven’t I seen the curtains move, and heard feet come pitter-pattering down the stairs; and far-away doors clash in the dark as if shut by ghostly hands? Dreadful, I assure you.” “You make me feel quite nervous!” cried Miss Piper, edging an inch nearer. “The old clock on the second landing has never kept right time since the night of the murder. And didn’t Mary Ryan swear that she saw Mr. Percy Osmond coming downstairs one evening, in his bloodstained shirt?—asking your pardon, Miss Piper, for mentioning such a garment before a lady. These are facts that can’t be got over. But there’s worse to follow.” “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Finch?” “At first the house was haunted by one ghost, but now they do say there’s two of them.” “Oh, lor! Two! And whose is the second one?” “Why, whose ghost should it be but that of our late master, Mr. Lionel Dering? Five servants have left in six weeks, and I shall give warning next Saturday.” “My nerves are turning to jelly,” returned Miss Piper. “Oh, Mr. Finch, we should be dull indeed at Park Newton if you were to go away!” “Then why not go with me and make my life one long happiness? You know my feelings, you know that I——” “No more of that Mr. Finch, if you please. I know your feelings, and you know my sentiments. Nothing can ever change them. But don’t let us talk any more nonsense. I want you to tell me about the ghosts.” “I don’t know that I’ve much more to tell,” said Finch, in a mortified tone.