“Queer things these big motors are,” he said, relapsing into generalities as we rose to go. “Often I can scarcely believe that my new car is merely a machine. It seems to me to possess an independent life of its own. It is really much more like a thoroughbred with a wonderfully fine mouth.” “And the moods of a thoroughbred?” I asked. “No; it’s got an excellent temper, I’m glad to say. It doesn’t mind being checked, or even stopped, when it’s going its best. Some of these big cars can’t stand that. They get sulky--I assure you it is literally true--if they are checked too often.” He paused on his way to ring the bell. “Guy Elphinstone’s car, for instance,” he said: “it was a bad-tempered brute, a violent, vicious beast of a car.” “What make?” I asked. “Twenty-five horse-power Amédée. They are a fretful strain of car; too thin, not enough bone--and bone is very good for the nerves. The brute liked running over a chicken or a rabbit, though perhaps it was less the car’s ill-temper than Guy’s, poor chap. Well, he paid for it--he paid to the uttermost farthing. Did you know him?” “No; but surely I have heard the name. Ah, yes, he ran over a child, did he not?” “Yes,” said Harry, “and then smashed up against his own park gates.” “Killed, wasn’t he?” “Oh yes, killed instantly, and the car just a heap of splinters. There’s an odd story about it, I’m told, in the village: rather in your line.” “Ghosts?” I asked. “Yes, the ghost of his motor-car. Seems almost too up-to-date, doesn’t it?” “And what’s the story?” I demanded. “Why, just this. His place was outside the village of Bircham, ten miles out from Norwich; and there’s a long straight bit of road there--that’s where he ran over the child--and a couple of hundred yards farther on, a rather awkward turn into the park gates. Well, a month or two ago, soon after the accident, one old gaffer in the village swore he had seen a motor there coming full tilt along the road, but without a sound, and it disappeared at the lodge gates of the park, which were shut. Soon after another said he had heard a motor whirl by him at the same place, followed by a hideous scream, but he saw nothing.” “The scream is rather horrible,” said I. “Ah, I see what you mean! I only thought of his syren. Guy had a syren on his exhaust, same as I have. His had a dreadful frightened sort of wail, and always made me feel creepy.” “And is that all the story?” I asked: “that one old man thought he saw a noiseless motor, and another thought he heard an invisible one?” Harry flicked the ash off his cigarette into the grate. “Oh dear no!” he said. “Half a dozen of them have seen something or heard something. It is quite a heavily authenticated yarn.” “Yes, and talked over and edited in the public-house,” I said.