“After we had settled in, he coolly informed us that it was reputed to be haunted; that the remains of a woman had been found under the cement of the back-kitchen floor (it is now nicely tiled), and that on the anniversary of its committal the tragedy was reported to be re-enacted in all its grim details.” “And was she murdered in my room?” I inquired. “It is supposed so,” Dora murmured. “There is a tell-tale stain (which nothing will efface) under the carpet--and--former tenants are reported to have seen all you have witnessed, and rather more.” “And the murderer! what of him?” I asked, thinking with a shudder of his eyes. “No one knows anything!” Dora whispered, edging closer to me as we heard a distant clang. “It is only surmised he was her husband--she was quite a stranger here--and--he was never caught.” “But the bucket, what could he want with such an absurd thing as a bucket?” and as I heard it clanging from below I gave a ghastly chuckle. “For Heaven’s sake don’t laugh!” Dora shivered. “They found that bucket--he had used it for transporting her remains!” * * * * * Please remember me, &c., to all. Ever yours sincerely, KATHLEEN M. DEAN. THURLOW HALL,[3] NEAR EXETER FIRE! FIRE! BRING ME FIRE! Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of dead Source of authenticity: First-hand evidence [3] All names altered by request. The following story was related to me by Miss Constance Delaunay, and is given as near as possible in her own words: “The early spring of 1898 was, I daresay you remember, exceptionally fine--so fine, indeed, that my mother, a chronic sufferer from rheumatism, determined to remain in England instead of going, as was her custom, to the Riviera. “We did not want, however, to stay in town, an unusually gay Christmas having given us an appetite for the country; so we sub-let our flat and took Thurlow Hall, furnished, on a three months’ lease. “We had never been to Devon; we had heard much of its beauty; we were disappointed. “Possibly, being of foreign extraction, I am prejudiced, but in my opinion the scenery of Devon is almost, if not quite, as inferior to that of Belgium and Switzerland as the manners of its peasants are inferior to those of the corresponding class of Continentals. “The West Country rustics did not impress us favourably; on our arrival they welcomed us with gapes and stares and boorish grunts; not a few of them giggled, whilst others, slouching up to our boxes, read the labels and muttered disparaging things about foreigners.