I held up my hand as a mute appeal against such a proceeding so early in the day; but on lowering it again I found that I had almost involuntarily closed my fingers round the tumbler which my adviser had pressed upon me. I drank the contents hastily off, lest anyone should come in upon us and set me down as a toper. After all there was something very amusing about the young fellow’s eccentricities. “Not spirits,” I explained, smilingly; “an apparition--a ghost. If such a thing is to be had, I should be very willing to negotiate.” “A ghost for Goresthorpe Grange?” inquired Mr. Brocket, with as much coolness as if I had asked for a drawing-room suite. “Quite so,” I answered. “Easiest thing in the world,” said my companion, filling up my glass again in spite of my remonstrance. “Let us see!” Here he took down a large red note-book, with all the letters of the alphabet in a fringe down the edge. “A ghost you said, didn’t you? That’s G. G--gems--gimlets--gas-pipes--gauntlets--guns--galleys. Ah, here we are. Ghosts. Volume nine, section six, page forty-one. Excuse me!” And Jack ran up a ladder and began rummaging among a pile of ledgers on a high shelf. I felt half inclined to empty my glass into the spittoon when his back was turned; but on second thoughts I disposed of it in a legitimate way. “Here it is!” cried my London agent, jumping off the ladder with a crash, and depositing an enormous volume of manuscript upon the table. “I have all these things tabulated, so that I may lay my hands upon them in a moment. It’s all right--it’s quite weak” (here he filled our glasses again). “What were we looking up, again?” “Ghosts,” I suggested. “Of course; page 41. Here we are. ‘J. H. Fowler & Son, Dunkel Street, suppliers of mediums to the nobility and gentry; charms sold--love philtres--mummies--horoscopes cast.’ Nothing in your line there, I suppose. I shook my head despondently. “’Frederick Tabb,’” continued my wife’s cousin, “’sole channel of communication between the living and the dead. Proprietor of the spirits of Byron, Kirke White, Grimaldi, Tom Cribb, and Inigo Jones.’ That’s about the figure!” “Nothing romantic enough there,” I objected. “Good heavens! Fancy a ghost with a black eye and a handkerchief tied round its waist, or turning summersaults, and saying, ‘How are you to-morrow?’” The very idea made me so warm that I emptied my glass and filled it again. “Here is another,” said my companion, “’Christopher McCarthy; bi-weekly séances--attended by all the eminent spirits of ancient and modern times. Nativities--charms--abracadabras, messages from the dead.’ He might be able to help us. However, I shall have a hunt round myself to-morrow, and see some of these fellows. I know their haunts, and it’s odd if I can’t pick up something cheap. So there’s an end of business,” he concluded, hurling the ledger into the corner, “and now we’ll have something to drink.”