“‘I have thought it expedient to give a minute description of this dismal old house, because it has somewhat to do with my history. About the time Harry returned from California, a rumor began to circulate among the negroes (who are by nature very superstitious) to the effect that the house was haunted by ghostly visitors every night. Of course this story was not believed by any except very ignorant persons; but the matter began to attract some attention, nevertheless, because those who did not believe in ghosts were of the opinion that perhaps the house was being used by thieves and counterfeiters. At any rate, it was very certain that one of the upper rooms was occupied every night by some one, for a dim light was often seen gliding about the apartment. This mysterious circumstance was the usual topic of conversation among Mr. Rockland’s servants. The coachman was an old, gray-headed negro named Zack. He was as full of superstitions as he could be crammed, and he vowed that he had seen a ghost, all robed in white, with long, black hair streaming down her back, and a face as white as snow. One evening I met Harry in the street, not very far from the mysterious house; he cast on me an inquiring look, and spoke as if irritated about something. “‘What woman is that who is staying in that old brick house?’ “‘How should I know?’ “‘I don’t ask you how you know, but I demand a sensible answer.’ “I was thunderstruck by his manner, for it was evident that he was very much enraged about something. “‘Why do you not make me an answer?’ he again demanded, his voice still rising with anger. “‘Really, Harry, upon my word of honor I don’t know,’ I replied mildly. “‘I don’t believe you, sir,’ he exclaimed as he stamped his foot on the ground. ‘Be cautious how you attempt to deceive me--I am not in the humor to be fooled with by anybody now.’ “‘Harry, I implore you, tell me what you mean?’ “‘Don’t you be uneasy about what I mean; you shall know to your sorrow ere long, or my name is not Harry Wallingford. I am not such a simpleton as you have imagined, as you’ll find out one of these days. I am not a coward, nor am I a bully, but under certain circumstances I would kill a man. I am heartily sick of these sentimental hypocrites who pretend to be a man’s friend when before his face, but sneak round and stab him in the dark!’ “‘Harry, are you mad?’ “‘No; but I would to Heaven I were; then I could not see and know of the corruption and villainy that boils and bubbles up on every hand. We are in the very middle of a deep sea of treachery and corruption. I thought I had one honest friend; but alas! it was all a mistake, no one will do to trust; they are all hypocrites!’