“Oh, the ghost!” said Doris eagerly. “The Bateses would think of him, of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be an agent of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter quarreled with him and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing to his age, I believe, and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. At last he was released, being then a very old man, and he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It is quite a terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people remembered that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through that small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the place in the middle of last century didn’t have the window removed altogether.” “Glad I began the work of demolition tonight,” said Hart, and, for once, his tone was serious. “Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?” inquired Grant. “You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar your enthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend,” she said frankly. “Not that what I’ve related isn’t true. The record appears in a Sussex Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven o’clock!” The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for some reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious reference to the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same clock announce the hour. Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off immediately. When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter. “My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many virtues and few vices,” he mused aloud. Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his crony poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently on each occasion when the specter-producing window was markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle. “What is there in ‘The Talisman’ which needed so much research?” he asked. “Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott,” was the answer. “Are these they?” And Hart read: _One thing is certain in our Northern land; Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit, Give each precedence to their possessor, Envy, that follows on such eminence, As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck’s trace, Shall pull them down each one._ “Yes,” said Grant. “Love isn’t mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You’re in luck, my boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What is a lyme-hound?” “‘Lyme,’ or ‘leam,’ is the old-time word for ‘leash.’”