“When we got to Paris, we put up at one of them big hotels—I forget the name of it. And one day he and she were going up to their rooms in the lift. Just as they were stepping aboard of it, they looked chanceways at the man who managed it, and I’m blessed if it wasn’t the same coachman as had driven that there carriage up to the door at Broadwater. They were that frightened that they stepped back, and the lift went up without them. And well it was they did so, for something or other went wrong with the hauling gear, and every soul on board of it was killed. “And now you know, Master Ronald, why your uncle won’t have that carriage never touched. He’s got it into his head, and you won’t get it out again, that it was sent to save his life. All I can say is that, if that’s what it did mean, old Nick carries on his business in a queer, roundabout kind of way.” II Not many days after Frampton had imparted to us his sensational story, we were told to expect a visit from the family lawyer. Ronald and I always hailed his visits with delight. He was one of those cheery individuals whom boys can chum with. In age he must have been nearly seventy-five, but hale and hearty still: entering into our amusements, never minding our noise, and tipping us when he left with a liberality that appalled our uncle. Ronald and I would have put him down for fifty. But boys do not recognise the gradations of age. To them a man seems definitely old at fifty, and live as long as he may after that, years will add nothing to the mystery of his age, if only he keeps young in heart and interests. At sixty, seventy, or even eighty, he will in their eyes be fifty still. As a matter of course Ronald and I were told to put in an appearance on the day of his arrival. The unvarying order of the programme was that, after he had had a few words with our uncle, we two should form his escort in a progress round the park and outlying farms. “So your uncle still cherishes the old Crofton coach,” he said, as we passed the outhouse tenanted by the family ghost. “I wonder he cares to keep it,”—almost Ronald’s own words to Frampton, the coachman—from which it was clear he had never heard of our uncle’s visitant, nor did we venture to enlighten him. “Do you know anything about it, Sir?” asked Ronald, in the eager tone of one who had by no means lost hope of solving the mystery. “My boy, I’ve _ridden in it_.” Ronald’s face was a study. “Ridden in it? actually _ridden_ in that coach? And did you, Sir, _did_ you see the devil?” he continued anxiously. “Frampton says he always drives it.” “Not exactly, Ronald. And, by the way, my lad, I wouldn’t, if I were you, introduce his name quite so familiarly into your conversation. Frampton must be cautioned, Fred, as to what he tells the boy.” “Well, he didn’t exactly say that, Sir,” continued Ronald, willing to justify his friend. “He called him old Nick.”