Previous experience led one to suspect the girl, who seemed quite honest and very frightened at the occurrences. My host and I were personal witnesses of flying stones and still more remarkable the scattering of a big sheaf of straw. The sheaf was being carried from the barn to the cow-house by the girl herself at about three in the afternoon. We were talking to the bailiff’s wife. Suddenly the girl stopped and the big bundle of straw seemed to be lifted out of her arms at least two feet above her head. It balanced for a moment or two like a captive gas balloon, then whirled into thousands of separate straws which flew all about the yard. No conceivable trick of wind--and it was a wettish, windless day--nor any human effort could have accomplished it. The truss burst like a shell, some of the straws flying right over the roofs of the outbuildings. The terrified girl burst into tears and ran to her mother for comfort and protection. That night we sent the girl away, and though manifestations continued for another two days, these were of decreasing violence. The cottage was only a few years old and no deaths had occurred there, but the farmstead was a very old one, the estate having a connected history to pre-Tudor times. I was puzzled to find any clue to the exciting cause of the trouble. I went over the whole place most carefully, but found nothing to guide me, and at last turned my attention to the structure of the cottage. A certain intuition or psychic susceptibility led me to suspect one of the big kitchen rafters which supported the ceiling of the kitchen and the floor of the girl’s room. On inquiry I found that the architect who had designed the new buildings had employed a local contractor and used old red bricks and old timber wherever possible in order to preserve the old fashioned effect given by weathered colours. It was not difficult to trace the material; the local contractor’s foreman told us at once where it had come from. “It stood in our yard here for ten years or more before we put it into the new buildings,” said the foreman, “and it come to us when we pulled down Blackley Old Grange.” “What kind of a place was that?” said I. “Private madhouse at the last,” he answered. “The owner was a doctor and he went mad and hanged himself, he did, after killing one of the patients a month before. He hanged himself just before the visitors was expected to see the patient he had killed.” * * * * * Research carried us no further, except that I learnt that the murdered patient lay for a month in the room in which she was killed before the crime was found out, after the man’s suicide. It was impossible to trace the beam to its position, but I gathered that the doctor hanged himself from a window bar or curtain hook, not from the beam.