"My patience, Mr. Charles!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I thought you were out, sir." "I came in again. Who was that man at the door?" "Who's to know, sir--and what does it matter?" cried Leah. "Some half-tipsy fellow who must have mistaken the house." "He did not speak as though he were tipsy at all." "You must have heard what he said, sir." "I heard." Leah turned away, but came back hesitatingly, a wistful expression in her eyes. I believe she looked upon me as a boy still, and cared for me as she did when I had been one. "It is not true, Mr. Charles?" "Of course it is not true, Leah. I neither take drams short, nor go courting Miss Betsys." "Why, no, sir, of course not. I believe I must be getting old and foolish, Mr. Charles. I should just like to wring that man's neck for his impudence!" she concluded, as she went upstairs again. But what struck me was this: either that one of my clerks was playing pranks in my name--passing himself off as Mr. Strange, to appear great and consequential; and if so, I should uncommonly like to know which of them it was--or else that something was being enacted by those people who made the sorrow of Leah's life; that daughter of hers and the husband--as we will call him. For the voice at the door had sounded honest and the application genuine. Posting my letter, I made the best of my way to Clapham. But I had my journey for nothing, and saw only Perry. His mistress had been getting much better, he said, but a day or two ago she had a relapse and was again confined to her room, unable to see anyone. Mr. Close had ordered her to be kept perfectly quiet. Annabel remained at Hastings. "And what about that fright, Perry, that you were all so scared with a fortnight ago?" I asked, as he strolled by my side back to the iron gates: for it was useless for me to go in if I could not see Mrs. Brightman. "Has the house got over it yet?" "Sir, it is in the house still," he gravely answered. "Do you mean the scare?" "I mean the ghost, sir. Poor master's spirit." I turned to look at his face, plainly enough to be discerned in the dimness of the foggy night. It was no less grave than his words had been. "The figure does not appear every night, sir; only occasionally," he resumed; "and always in the same place--in the corner by the wardrobe in Mrs. Brightman's bedroom. It stands there in its grave-clothes." What with the dark trees about us, the weird evening, and Perry's shrinking tones, I slightly shivered, for all my unbelief. "But, Perry, it is _impossible_, you know. There must be delusion somewhere. Mrs. Brightman's nerves have been unstrung by her husband's death." "Hatch has seen it twice, Mr. Strange," he rejoined. "Nobody can suspect Hatch of having nerves. The last time was on Sunday night. It stood in its shroud, gazing at them--her and the mistress--with a mournful face. Master's very own face, sir, Hatch says, just as it used to be in life; only white and ghastly."