This distinguished-looking man wished to find a dwelling far removed from any social center. His ideal was a tiny moorland hamlet, miles from the railway, and out of the beaten track of summer visitors. Suddenly, the son cried: "Elmdale is the very place, dad!" Dad's face brightened, but clouded again instantly. "You mean--er--the house 'round the corner?" he said, pursing his lips. "Yes." "I'm afraid it wouldn't suit." "Why not?" put in the stranger. "I rather like the name." "I didn't mention any name, sir," and Walker, senior, still looked glum. "You described it as the house 'round the corner--an excellent name. It attracts me. Where is Elmdale?" The head of the firm pointed to a map of the North Riding hanging above the fireplace. "Here you are," he said, seizing a pen and running it along the meandering black line of a stream. "Eight miles from Nuttonby, and thousands from every other town--on the edge of the moor--about forty houses in the village--and a first-rate beck, with trout running from four ounces to half a pound--but----" "But what?" "The house, sir. You won't like the house." "What's wrong with it?" "Nothing. It's comfortable enough, and well furnished." Yet again he hesitated. "Why, it appears to be, as your son said, the very place." Walker, senior, smiled drearily. He knew what was coming. "I can't recommend it, sir, and for this reason. A gentleman named Garth--Mr. Stephen Garth; some sort of professor, I understand--lived there a many years, with his wife and daughter. Nice, quiet people they were, and the young lady was a beauty. No one could make out why they should wish to be buried alive in a hole like Elmdale, but they seemed happy enough. Then, two years since, in this very month of June, Mrs. Garth and the girl drove into Nuttonby in their governess car, and went off by train, sending the trap back by a hired man. Mr. Garth mooned about for a week or two, and then hanged himself one evening alongside a grandfather's clock which stands in the hall. That made a rare stir, I can tell you; since then, no one will look at the Grange, which is its proper name. I need hardly say that the villagers have seen Mr. Garth's ghost many times, particularly in June, because in that month the setting sun throws a peculiar shadow through a stained-glass window on the half landing. Last year I let the place to a Sheffield family who wanted moorland air. My! What a row there was when Mrs. Wilkins heard of the suicide, and, of course, saw the ghost! It was all I could do to stave off an action for damages. 'Never again,' said I. 'If anybody else rents or buys the house, they take the ghost with it.'" "Is it for sale?"