“That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy goblin.” “Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?” said the detective testily. “Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description.” “Her husband can tell us the story,” put in Grant. “I’ll fetch him.” He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time. “Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect,” said Hart. “If it’s that Robinson—” growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening to forestall Minnie. But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a stranger fixed on her. “I don’t quite know why I’m here,” she said, with a nervous laugh, addressing Grant directly. “You will think I am always gazing in the direction of _The Hollies_, but my room commands this house so fully that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing in the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened. You’ll pardon me, I’m sure.” “Say you don’t, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you,” pleaded Hart. “Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart,” smiled Grant. “Won’t you sit down? We have an exciting story for you.” “Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out.” Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that she should take the proffered chair. “Sorry to interrupt,” broke in Furneaux. “Did you meet P. C. Robinson!” “No.” “You came by way of the bridge?” “There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk.” The detective whirled round on Grant. “What room is over this one?” “Minnie’s.” “She’s in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn’t come upstairs while I’m absent. You three keep on talking.” “Thanks,” said Hart. Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly. “Mr. Grant has often spoken of you,” she said. “You talk, and we’ll listen.” “Not so, divinity,” came the retort. “I may be a parrot, but I don’t want my neck wrung when you’ve gone.” “Don’t encourage him, Doris,” said Grant, “or you’ll be here till midnight.” “If that’s the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me,” laughed Hart. Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The casement window was open—he had noted that fact while in the garden. He peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer cautiously through the small window. The detective’s blood ran cold. What if Hart discovered yet another ghost?