“It is an old one now—fourteen years old—and yet they have not got to the end of it. There were four of them who had come down from London to spend a few days in Lord Avon’s old house. One was his own young brother, Captain Barrington; another was his cousin, Sir Lothian Hume; Sir Charles Tregellis, my uncle, was the third; and Lord Avon the fourth. They are fond of playing cards for money, these great people, and they played and played for two days and a night. Lord Avon lost, and Sir Lothian lost, and my uncle lost, and Captain Barrington won until he could win no more. He won their money, but above all he won papers from his elder brother which meant a great deal to him. It was late on a Monday night that they stopped playing. On the Tuesday morning Captain Barrington was found dead beside his bed with his throat cut. “And Lord Avon did it?” “His papers were found burned in the grate, his wristband was clutched in the dead man’s hand, and his knife lay beside the body.” “Did they hang him, then?” “They were too slow in laying hands upon him. He waited until he saw that they had brought it home to him, and then he fled. He has never been seen since, but it is said that he reached America.” “And the ghost walks?” “There are many who have seen it.” “Why is the house still empty?” “Because it is in the keeping of the law. Lord Avon had no children, and Sir Lothian Hume—the same who was at the card-party—is his nephew and heir. But he can touch nothing until he can prove Lord Avon to be dead.” Jim lay silent for a bit, plucking at the short grass with his fingers. “Roddy,” said he at last, “will you come with me to-night and look for the ghost?” It turned me cold, the very thought of it. “My mother would not let me.” “Slip out when she’s abed. I’ll wait for you at the smithy.” “Cliffe Royal is locked.” “I’ll open a window easy enough.” “I’m afraid, Jim.” “But you are not afraid if you are with me, Roddy. I’ll promise you that no ghost shall hurt you.” So I gave him my word that I would come, and then all the rest of the day I went about the most sad-faced lad in Sussex. It was all very well for Boy Jim! It was that pride of his which was taking him there. He would go because there was no one else on the country side that would dare. But I had no pride of that sort. I was quite of the same way of thinking as the others, and would as soon have thought of passing my night at Jacob’s gibbet on Ditchling Common as in the haunted house of Cliffe Royal. Still, I could not bring myself to desert Jim; and so, as I say, I slunk about the house with so pale and peaky a face that my dear mother would have it that I had been at the green apples, and sent me to bed early with a dish of camomile tea for my supper.