"Between us, at any rate, we have laid the ghost, Betty," said Armathwaite. "If Mr. Whittaker complains of increased pain while I am out, tell your mother or Miss Meg to pour cold water over the bandage. That will give him relief. Perhaps, later, warm fomentations may be required, but he is all right now till the doctor sees him." As he walked a second time to Burt's farm-house, his mind dwelt on the singular coincidence that produced the shadow on the wall about the very anniversary of the suicide--or murder--which had vexed the peace of Elmdale two years ago. To one who was wont to relieve the long nights of duty in an Indian frontier station by a good deal of varied scientific reading, the mystery of the vision in the Grange was dissipated as soon as it was understood. Its occurrence was possible only during a few evenings before and after the summer solstice, when the sun had traveled farthest north in the northern hemisphere. Its duration was limited to ten minutes at the utmost, because the sun sinks rapidly when nearing the horizon, and the specter's visits were further curtailed by clouds, since strong sunlight and a clear sky were indispensable conditions to its appearance. But, without posing as an authority on stained glass, Armathwaite was convinced that the window which had produced this disturbing phenomenon was not modern. The elder Walker had spoken of the Grange as a "seventeenth-century dwelling," and there was every likelihood that the painted effigy of the hero of Crecy had been installed by the original builder, who might have cherished the belief that he was a descendant of the gallant Edward and the Fair Maid of Kent. If that was so, the "ghost" has existed, not two Junes, but nearer three hundred, and must have been observed and commented upon countless times. It was odd that Marguerite Ogilvey had not mentioned the fact specifically. It was still more odd that a man should have been found hanged in that exact spot. Somehow, Armathwaite thrilled with a sense of discovery when that phase of the problem dawned on him. He was still turning it over in his thoughts when he reached Burt's farm. Here he was again fortunate. Some chance had kept the farmer at home, and, although the latter had neither man nor horse to spare for a second journey to Bellerby, he dispatched a messenger to a laborer in the village who owned a bicycle, and was always ready to ride the six miles for half a crown. Armathwaite, of course, had told Burt of the accident, and the farmer shook his head sapiently when he heard its cause. "Ay!" he said. "If I owned yon place I'd rive that window out by t' roots. It's done a fair share of mischief in its time--it has, an' all!" "Do you mean that it has been responsible for other mishaps?" was the natural query. "Yes, sir; three in my time, an' I'm the right side o' sixty yet." "What were they?"