"Ah, ha, friend Fox!" said John Dixon. "Caught tripping for once. Actually betraying interest in the object of my visit, when indifference was your proper cue! No, it is not in other papers; the whole of the small legacy must not be eaten up in expenses. Had I been informed of this business before the insertion of the advertisement even in one paper, I should have suggested to Paxton and Freshfield the advisability of a little delay until I had made certain inquiries. Lawyers are practical people, and they would have recognized the absurdity of inviting by public proclamation a visit from a ghost. There is no mistake, I suppose, about poor Bob being dead?" "You know he is dead." "Softly, Fox, softly. I know nothing of poor Bob except what I have gathered from you. If Mrs. Grantham is a widow, why of course Robert Grantham is a dead man; if she is not a widow, why of course Robert Grantham is alive, and you stand small chance of stepping into his shoes, which I believe you are eager to do. It is hardly likely that she has seen the advertisement, but it must be brought to her notice very soon." "By whom?" "Naturally, in the first place, by you, as her business agent, because, in the event of Bob being dead, the legacy will fall to his heirs. Failing you, naturally by Paxton and Freshfield, who have this inconsiderable business in hand, and whose duty it is to attend to it. Probably we shall await some communication from you or Mrs. Grantham upon the matter. It may be that Paxton and Freshfield will expect something from you in the shape of a document, such, for instance, as proof of poor Bob's death; and they might consider it advisable to ask for certain particulars, such as the place and date of his death, where buried, etcetera. All of which you will be able to supply, being positive that Mrs. Grantham is a widow. Now, Fox, I have still a word or two to say to you in private. Call it an adventure, an impression, what you will; it occurred to me, and it would be unfair to keep it from Charlotte's brother. Until to-day I have not mentioned it to a soul. We have passed through a hard winter, as you know, and have established a record in fogs. I do not remember a year in which we have had so many foggy days and nights, and the month of March usurped the especial privilege of the month of November. I cannot recall the precise date, but it was about the middle of March when I walked from the Strand into Regent Street by way of the Seven Dials. It was one of the foggiest nights we had, and I had to be careful how I picked my steps. Men walked a yard or two ahead of you, and you could not see their faces, could scarcely distinguish their forms; but quite close, elbow to elbow, as it were, you might by chance catch a momentary glance of a face. A flash, and it was gone, swallowed up in Egyptian darkness. Two men passed me arm-in-arm, and, looking up, I could have sworn that I saw the face of Robert Grantham's ghost. I turned to