She rose, still clasping the little silver-backed note-book, and looked me over with amusement in her face and eyes. "You are almost too ingenious, Mr. Ames. I hope that by breakfast-time you will have some more plausible solution of the problem. Good-night." And so, tightly clasping the little book, she left the room. I followed her to the door, and at the turn of the stair she glanced down and nodded. Her face, as it hung above me for an instant, seemed transfigured with happiness. But, as will appear, my adventures for the day were not concluded. IX I MEET A PLAYFUL GHOST It was not yet ten o'clock, and I was dismayed at the thought of being left to my own devices in this big country-house, at an hour when the talk at the Hare and Tortoise usually became worth while. I sat down and began to turn over the periodicals on the library table, but I was in no mood for reading. The butler appeared and offered me drink, but the thought of drinking alone did not appeal to me. I repelled the suggestion coldly; but after I had dropped my eyes to the English review I had taken up, I was conscious that he stood his ground. "Beg pardon, sir." "Well?" "Hit's a bit hod about the chimney, sir." The professional man in me was at once alert. The chimney's conduct was inexplicable enough, but I was in no humor to brook the theories of a stupid servant. Still, he might know something, so I nodded for him to go on. He glanced over his shoulder and came a step nearer. "They say in the village, sir, that the 'ouse is 'aunted." "What?" "'Aunted, sir." "Who say it, James?" "The liveryman told the coachman, and the 'ousemaid got hit from a seamstress. Hit's werry queer, sir." "Rubbish, James. I 'm amazed that a person of your station should listen to a liveryman's gossip. There 's the chimney, it's working perfectly. Some shift of air-currents causes it to puff a little smoke into this room occasionally, but those things are not related to the supernatural. We 'll find some way of correcting it in a day or two." "Werry good, sir. But begging pardon, the chimney hain't hall. Hit walks, if I may so hexpress hit." "Walks?" I exclaimed, sitting up and throwing down my review. "What walks?" "You 'ear hit, sir, hin the walls. Hit goes right through the solid brick, most hunaccountable." "You hear a mouse in the walls and think it's a ghost? But you forget, James, that this is a new house,--only a year or so old,--and spooks don't frequent such places. If it were an old place, it might be possible that the creaking of floors and the settling of walls would cause uneasiness in nervous people. The ghost tradition usually rests on some ugly fact. But here nothing of the kind is present." "Hit was one of 'is majesty's horfficers, sir," he answered hoarsely. [Illustration: "Hit was one of 'is majesty's horfficers, sir," he answered hoarsely.]