IT was some time since I had seen my friend Morton, and the last I had heard of him was that in one of his many whims he had taken an old country house for a year and had gone to live there with his sister, vowing that he had done with London for ever. At the time of which I write he had been in the house for nearly a month; therefore I confidently expected to see him very soon in town. Nor was I deceived in this, for one fine morning as I was coming out of a club to which we both belong, I heard him asking if Mr. Latimer was in the club. I went up and spoke to him, and he turned round and shook hands with me with unusual warmth.

       'You,' he said, 'are the very man I wanted to see. Come into the smoking-room — there'll be nobody there now — and I'll tell you all about it.'

       I followed him, not in a very curious frame of mind, for I felt a certainty that 'it' was some more or less ingenious excuse which he had invented to himself for leaving the country house after the first month of the twelve for which he had taken it. In this belief, as will be seen, I was mistaken. After we had sat down he remained silent for a space, gazing alternately straight into the empty fireplace and then sideways at me with a queer look as of one who had a confidence to make but shrank from making it. Once or twice indeed he almost began to speak and suddenly stopped himself. Finally I broke the silence by saying, 'Well, old chap, what about the house?'

       He replied eagerly, and as if relieved, 'That's just it, Darsie; that's what I want to talk to you about.'

       'I suppose,' I answered, 'that you want to give it up and would like to pass on the agreement if it can be arranged.' Give it up be hanged!' said Morton; 'I was never so bent on staying in a place in my life.'

       'Indeed,' I continued with the surprise natural to one who knew his restless character, 'is it so very agreeable?'

       'On the contrary,' he made answer, 'it's so deuced disagreeable. Now don't interrupt' — I had done nothing of the kind — and I'll tell you all about it. He had said that before, but I was not indiscreet enough to tell him so, and he proceeded with his narrative.

       'When I took Grey Towers' (that was the name of the country house) 'you were not in London, or I should have called you into council.' I bowed acknowledgment, well knowing that if he had done so it would have been for the purpose of having somebody to disagree with.

       'It belongs to a relation of mine who never lives there, and it had been empty for a considerable time. Too large for most people, but I like to have lots of room.'

       'That,' I said, 'is true enough,' remembering Morton's habit of constantly changing and interchanging the purpose of every room in his house.

       'Yes, yes,' he said impatiently. Well, I knew what kind of house it was although I'd never been there — an Elizabethan mansion, moat, family pictures, owner's and my own ancestors, shaven lawn, peacocks, cut yews, box edgings, priest's room, haunted room; all the bag of tricks, in fact. Drainage had been lately put in perfect order; climate excellent; fine old library left open for my use: everything perfect, in fact.'

       'Then,' I said, in a moment of forgetfulness, 'I don't quite understand your sticking to the place.'

       'Didn't I tell you,' replied Morton with a touch of irritation, that there turned out to be something very much the reverse of perfect in it? If you'll only let me get in a word edgeways I'll explain.'

       'Do so, Barkins, do so,' I answered, quoting a great actor.

       'My sister,' Morton went on, 'was delighted with the place. So was I. So were the servants. So was even the Incomparable One.' (This was the name by which Morton's confidential valet was known among us.) 'In fact I feared that, as you hinted just now, the place might turn out to be far too perfect to suit me.'

       'Yes,' I observed, 'perfection is monotonous, and you don't like that.'

       'I can assure you,' said Morton, 'that I have had mighty small chance of trying it at Grey Towers. It was for a very brief period — two or three days, I forget which — that the sameness of excellence endured. And when it ceased —–' Morton here exhibited as eloquent an aposiopesis as I have heard, or rather as I have not heard.

       'Why, what happened?' I asked.

       'That,' retorted Morton, 'is precisely what I am anxious to find out. Part of what happened I can tell you in a very few words, but "the greatest is behind," and that is what I want to get at.'

       'So,' I interposed, 'the whole for once is really greater than a part.'

       'Just so,' replied my companion; 'but let me tell you the part. At the expiration of two or three days one of the housemaids gave warning, making some rather hollow excuse and saying that she was sorry to leave so good a place, but really had no choice in the matter. The next day another one followed suit, and then came the kitchen-maid. Then the housekeeper was closeted with my sister for some time, and then my sister came and begged me to see the housekeeper. This I did, and when she came in I said, "What is all this, Mrs. Thompson?"

       '"Well, sir," she replied, "I wish I rightly knew; but my belief is that if things goes on much longer as they are going on now there won't be a servant as will be left in the place in a few days' time."

       '"The Haunted Room, Mrs. Thompson?" I said interrogatively.

       '"No, sir," she replied, 'not that particularly. I've been in old houses like this before, and most of them has a Haunted Room, and I have noticed that it's generally next door to the priest's room; but I've never known much trouble come of the regular Haunted Room before. Besides, if that was all, sir, you could have it shut up. No, it's more than that, sir. It's all over the place like."

       '"What is all over the place?" I asked.

       '"Well, sir, things as oughtn't to be, from what I make out."

       '"Indeed. I hope you don't believe any of this nonsense, Mrs. Thompson?"

       "'I don't rightly know what to believe, sir."

       '"Well, what do these silly girls say they've seen?"

       '"With some it's seeing and with some it's hearing, sir. Martha, that was the under-housemaid, there was a picture of an old man in the top room she slept in, and she said it came down and stood by her bedside and looked at her in a dreadful threatening way the first night, and just when she was going to scream it vanished away; and the second night it came down again, and just as she was putting her head under the bedclothes it put a cold hand on her forehead and she nearly fainted away. Then there was Jane, the housemaid, sir; she heard voices in the corner of her room, one shrill and like a woman's that said in a cruel way, Shall I do it now? and the other deep and gruff that answered, No; wait for two nights; and they said this over and over again, and she said she'd rather not wait. Then there was Selina, that's the kitchen-maid; she was sent into the kitchen garden to gather some herbs that the gardener had forgotten, and just as she was rising up from stooping to gather them if there wasn't — that's what she says — a little grey man in an old-fashioned-looking suit, with a spud in his hand, right in front of her; and he laughs a nasty chilly kind of laugh, and says he, Herbs you call 'em, he says; you was born two hundred years too late. With that she gave a screech, not knowing quite why, and there was nothing in front of her but a tall bush."

       '"Extremely probable," I said. "All this is the talk of ignorant, superstitious girls. May I ask if you have seen or heard anything odd, Mrs. Thompson?"

       'Mrs. Thompson folded her hands and looked straight up to the ceiling.

       '"Come, come, Mrs. Thompson," I said, "let us have it all out. In talking to you I am speaking with a woman of sense, and it is important you should tell me all you can that may throw light on this business."

       '"Well, sir," said Mrs. Thompson, "it may be fancy or it may not be, but goodness knows I was thinking of nothing of the kind when I saw — or seemed as if I saw — a procession of monks going up the great grass walk between the moat and the ha-ha."

       '"Monks! how do you know they were monks?" I asked.

       '"They was dressed like those in Faust at the Lyceum," said Mrs. Thompson, not an imaginative person, and the answer so far was conclusive.

       '"Thank you, Mrs. Thompson; that will do," I said. "I must consider what steps it is best to take in this business."

       'Well,' Morton went on, 'things did not get any better after my interview with Mrs. Thompson. My sister came down to breakfast the next morning looking very white and worn; but she is not a talkative person and I asked her no questions. Indeed, if I had she would not have answered them. Presently the butler — a model of discretion — wished to speak with me. He slept in a room overlooking the moat, and through his window, which was left open, he had heard a noise as of people paddling about and talking to each other in hoarse whispers. He did not suggest any ghostly explanation, and of course I did not, but while I entrusted him with a double-barrelled gun I could not help remembering that the old boat which was still moored in one corner of the moat was more than half rotten. Then the boy, a pert youth, said he wouldn't stay in a place where the moment he'd cleaned the knives they got dirty again and looked as if somebody had been trying to saw wood with them; and the footman explained that he was not used to practical jokes and could not think it due to himself to remain where they were played. It appeared that he had found the pepper-box filled with snuff, the salt-cellar with sugar, the mustard-pot with treacle, and the marmalade-jar with chutney.'

       'Looks like Brownies,' I interposed.

       'Yes,' said Morton somewhat wearily; 'we have 'em of all sorts, as you will see. In the garden is a rockery with a fountain and cascade, and the gardener intimated that he was not accustomed to a waterfall making faces at him and wouldn't stay where he was expected to put up with it.'

       'Kühleborn,' I said. 'I should not have thought it of him.'

       'Nor I, Darsie,' replied Morton; 'but after the loss of his niece what can you expect? However, in this part of the proceedings there was a touch of humour. Not so with other branches of the affair. We managed to get a man-servant to sleep for one night in the room where the maid had heard voices, and the next day he left. He too had heard voices, but with a difference. He described a whispering and muttering as of many persons holding secret counsel together, and then a dead, cold silence, broken by a fierce whisper of Is it time? Then many voices seemed to say with a horrible hiss Yes; and then he said he felt, although he saw nothing, that a man was standing over him with a knife, and then he fainted. I needn't tell you all the things I heard of, but here is one more. One of my nephews came to stay with us for a few nights, and his first night in the house I put him in a cheery-looking oak-panelled room. I had noticed, as it happened, that there was a space between the wall on one side of this room and the room next to it. There might formerly have been a passage there, or it might have been a hiding-place in troublous times — a kind of supplement to the Priest's Room. Anyhow there was nothing remarkable in the fact. But the boy told me that he was waked in the small hours by some one chanting prayers and psalms in Latin in a low weak voice just outside his room. Then he heard a tramp of feet and a rattle of steel, and then a miserable groan and a heavy fall, and then all was still. He is a nervous boy, but plucky, and after he had lain quaking a little while he made up his mind that it was nightmare and rats, and wanted to sleep in the same room again. However I made some excuse for preventing that, and soon afterwards he left us without having been disturbed again.'

       Morton paused awhile, and I struck in with, 'Have you yourself, Morton, seen or heard anything of this strangely inclusive assortment of Presences?'

       'Well,' he answered with some hesitation, 'not absolutely, but it may be that Bruno' (his favourite mastiff) 'has.'

       'How was that?' I asked.

       'In this way,' he replied. 'There was something wrong with the lock of my study door, and I had had it put in order by the village locksmith. My sister and the servants had gone to bed, and Bruno and I were alone in the study at night, when it occurred to me to try the result of the locksmith's handiwork. I locked, unlocked, and relocked the door several times, and finally, having locked it, I happened to think suddenly of a passage I wanted to look up in Apuleius, and acting on the thought, took the book from its shelf and sat down in my armchair with Bruno at my feet. I got interested and absorbed, and it may have been half an hour before my attention was aroused by a low growl from Bruno. At the same time I felt a cold wind on the back of my neck.'

       'Ausgespielt,' I ventured to interpose.

       'Deuce a bit,' said Morton; 'it was a real draught. I looked round and saw the door that I had locked, and which opened outwards, slowly unclosing itself and swinging inwards. As it opened so did Bruno retreat backwards, still growling, with his eyes and coat both staring horridly, until when it was wide open he gave a dolorous whine, dropped down with his head between his fore paws, and lay there trembling and whimpering.'

       'And what did you do?' I asked.

       'I went and shut the door,' he replied with a manner that prevented me from asking if he had had any difficulty in doing so.

       'You saw and heard nothing?'

       'Nothing but what I have told you.'

       'You are sure the door was locked and opened the wrong way?'

       'I can't swear to it, but I'm sure about the dog.'

       'Ah! What of the Incomparable One?'

       'He says he has heard strange sounds and seen odd sights, but he doesn't mind them. I don't think he's much of a "sensitive."'

       'Well,' I went on, 'it appears to me that you have got some very undesirable and uninvited guests at Grey Towers.'

       'That is my impression,' returned Morton; 'and now perhaps you understand why I am bent on sticking to the house.'

       'Quite so. At the same time you can't live there without any servants, and if these disturbances, however caused, go on, that is what it will come to.'

       'Exactly,' Morton said, 'and that is why I have come to you for help and counsel.'

       'If,' I said, 'you like to try an experiment —–'

       'Why, of course I do,' he interrupted —–

       'You will get into a hansom with me and come to a certain house in the Adelphi.'

       'I am with you,' said Morton, and we accordingly started.

       When I discharged the cab we found ourselves opposite the door of a house divided into chambers, with the names of the owners written up in the passage. 'First floor and ground floor, Mr. Peregrine,' I read out from this list; 'that's our man.'

       'Peregrine?' said Morton. 'Haven't I seen his name in connexion with a private inquiry office?'

       'Yes,' I replied, 'but not a private inquiry of an ordinary kind, as you will soon find out. He is an old friend of mine and a somewhat remarkable person. Quite young still; has travelled a good deal, knows many languages, is very agreeable, and takes a great interest in magic, which he studied in the East.'

       'Come, come, Darsie,' said Morton, 'your taking all the Grey Towers stories so quietly was odd enough, but I thought it was explained when I saw that this Peregrine was a kind of head of a detective office.'

       'So he is,' I replied.

       'But now you say he's a sort of magician.'

       'So he is,' I repeated. 'But instead of speculating about him, let us come up and see him. I think he may be able to help you, but I cannot be sure.'

       'Very well,' said Morton, shrugging his shoulders, and we ascended to Peregrine's office. This was like most offices in that it had an office chair and table, but unlike most in having walls hung with good pictures and little tables covered with articles of bigotry and virtue. In the office chair, with the mouths of various speaking tubes within his reach, sat Peregrine himself — a slight, tallish man of between thirty and forty, clean shaven and with a curiously Oriental cast of face. He rose and came forward to shake hands with me, and then I introduced Morton, whom he received with pleasant if elaborate courtesy. We talked awhile de omnibus rebus, and then Morton proceeded to tell Peregrine what it was that troubled him, making the narrative as concise as possible but not forgetting any of the points that he had told me. Peregrine sat listening with a note-book in front of him, but so far as I could judge confined himself to entering each variety of Mysterious Appearance as Morton detailed it. When Morton had finished his story Peregrine considered for a moment and then said, 'You have not told me how long the house had been empty before you took it. Do you know?'

       'Yes,' replied Morton; 'five years.'

       'And do you happen to know if it had any reputation for being — well, let us say strange before then?'

       'I have made all possible inquiries,' answered Morton again, 'and I cannot find that six years ago there was supposed to be anything more odd about it than a vague tradition of the figure of a priest being sometimes seen in the Priest's Room.'

       'Ah! common enough,' rejoined Peregrine in a dry, business-like tone. 'Five years ago. Let me see. With this he gave a turn to a revolving bookstand that stood at his elbow and took from one of its shelves a thick manuscript volume, the leaves of which he turned over with deliberate swiftness. 'Five years ago,' he continued, half to himself, as he looked at page after page; 'it fits exactly. Black Abbey burnt down, Grange Mount rebuilt, the room at Drippingwell Hall stripped to the stone walls and new panelled, the Convent Walk at St. Jude's unturfed and gravelled, and — yes, here's another — of course that is it. As for the practical jokes, they're not worth tracing. Might happen anywhere. Kühleborn — a piece of impertinence, but not ill-meant. Well — well.' All this Peregrine said with his face bent down towards his manuscript book, while Morton looked at me in much surprise, raising his eyebrows as if to question whether Peregrine was playing the fool or was, indeed, something more than a fool. Suddenly Peregrine looked up.

       'Any old women about the passages? ' he asked in a sharp tone, as a doctor might say, 'Any pains in the head?'

       'No,' said Morton, still astonished, 'none that I know of.'

       'No ladies in purple or grey, or any other colour, that come to meet you and suddenly vanish, eh?'

       'No,' said Morton again, 'none that I know of.'

       'Back a woman against the lot,' said Peregrine, again dropping into his half-aside tone, and then resumed his direct address to Morton by saying, 'Sooner or later I think I can set this all right for you. May be able to put things in train at once. Will you allow me?'

       So saying he whistled into a speaking-tube, and having heard an answering whistle, called down it, 'Is the Green Lady at home?'

       'I'll see, sir,' came the answer, quickly followed by an assurance that the Green Lady was at home.

       'Ask her to speak to me for a moment,' said Peregrine, and immediately afterwards whistled down the tube again. Again came an answering whistle, but one quite different from that which had previously been heard. This one, though not so loud, was of so strange a quality that both Morton and I involuntarily started, while Peregrine looked at us with a quiet, benevolent smile. The sound seemed to carry more with it than any whistle, low or loud, ought to carry; it had some far-off kinship with the whistle which Signor Boïto gives to his Mefistofele, and yet it was not like that. Indeed, it was not like anything one had heard before, but had a strangeness all its own, and seemed charged not so much with terror as with the peculiar sense of uneasiness and disquiet that goes before a thunderstorm. Peregrine smiled again, and again spoke down the tube in a language which sounded Oriental, but with which neither Morton nor I was acquainted. Only here and there we caught the name Grey Towers. An answer came up through the tube, seemingly in the same language which Peregrine had employed, and in a tone of which the effect corresponded closely enough to that produced by the whistle. Peregrine looked over at us with an expression of amused content, and spoke down the tube again, this time in English, and as I thought for the express purpose of puzzling us.

       'Thank you, my dear,' he said. 'You can start as soon as you like, and if you can engage one or two of the well-behaved ones so much the better. You know the terms and the commission. Only, mind, the place must be cleared in a week. And now, Mr. Morton,' he said, turning to my friend, 'I see you are not unwilling to have an explanation of all this, and you shall have one if, as I expect, all goes well, in a very short time. Just for the present I must ask you to be content not to burst but to rest in ignorance. Do you propose returning to Grey Towers before the week which you heard me mention has elapsed?'

       'I had thought of going back to-night and asking Latimer to accompany me,' replied Morton, who was by this time in the state of a man whom nothing can surprise.

       'There can be no objection,' observed Peregrine; 'only I must beg, if my plan is to succeed, to make one condition with you. It is not a difficult one. If you should meet a lady in a — in somewhat eccentric attire on the staircases, or in the passages, or in the grounds, or, in short, anywhere about, please do not notice or interfere with her in any way. This is important. You will undertake this? Thank you. If you will kindly speak to my head clerk as you go out he will make all business arrangements with you. One moment. Perhaps it might be as well if you could devise some story to account for the presence of a — a strange lady to whatever servants are still staying with you. It may save trouble.' And with this Peregrine bowed us out.

       'This is an odd business,' said Morton when we got into the street; "but as I've consulted Peregrine I'll go by his advice and see it out according to his instructions. We shall just catch the next train if we start now.'

       We occupied part of our time on the journey — the day of the week was Tuesday — in devising a more or less plausible tale to account for the presence which Peregrine had told us to expect of a strange lady, and arrived at Grey Towers in time for dinner. Morton's sister informed us that nothing new had happened in the way of disturbance, but that some of the old experiences had been repeated and that some more servants had given warning. He in return took her into confidence concerning our visit to Mr. Peregrine. I watched with some curiosity to see how she would receive his story; she is a woman of strong nerve, strong judgment, and little speech. She heard him out and said quietly, 'I think Mr. Peregrine is a man of sense.' She went to bed early, and Morton and I went to the billiard room, where presently entered to us the Incomparable One with bottles and glasses. Having put his tray down, he stopped and looked inquiringly at Morton.

       "Well, what is it?' asked Morton.

       'Beg pardon, sir,' replied the confidential valet, 'but I told you about those lights and noises.'

       'Yes; what of them?'

       'They were there again to-night, sir, and a curious thing happened.'

       'What was it?'

       The lights were flashing and hopping about in the passage to the anteroom, and I heard mutterings and whisperings all round, when the lights grew gradually dim, and I saw — or I thought I saw — a woman taller than any of the women in the house come along the passage. I could not hear her footfall, but I thought I could hear the rustle of her dress, and she seemed to lift up her hand with a commanding gesture, and then the lights all went out and the noises ceased. I thought you might like to know, sir.'

       'Thank you. Did you see how she was dressed?'

       'No, sir; it was too dark.'

       'Very good. I rely upon you not to say a word of this to anyone else. And if you see this woman again don't take any notice.'

       'Very good, sir,' said the essence of discretion, and left us.

       'The Green Lady!' said I to Morton.

       'May be,' he replied. 'Let us go to the room where my nephew slept.'

       We went, taking glass-shaded candles with us. Now both Morton and I remembered the story his nephew had told about the room, and therefore it cannot be denied that imagination may have caused us to think that on entering the room we heard a scuffle behind the wainscoting, followed by the clank of steel, which gave way to a rustling sound as of a silk dress, which in its turn was succeeded by absolute silence. We left the room and exchanged our impressions, which were as above recorded.

       The next day, as was once said in evidence before a Grand Jury by an engaging pawnbroker's boy who came to a sudden stop in the midst of a too fluent and probable story — 'the next day nothink 'appened.' But in the evening, after Morton's sister had gone to bed, an idea occurred to me. 'What was it you told me about strange doings in the moat?' I asked Morton. 'Singular Conduct of a Rotten Boat might have been the heading in a newspaper, might it not?'

       'Yes,' Morton replied; 'it was something of that kind that the butler told me.'

       'Then,' said I, 'let us go down to the moat.' There was just enough moon to show us our way without the help of a lantern, and we took up our station just opposite to the butler's window. In about five minutes we heard a distinct splashing in the water.

       'Water rats,' I whispered to Morton.

       'Hush! he whispered back angrily; 'listen!'

       I did, and presently through the gentle plash, plash which still went on we both heard a low curious voice say, 'No! I will not have it. Then the splashing ceased and all was quiet.

       We looked at each other.

       'The same voice,' I said.

       'Yes,' replied Morton, 'not a doubt of it. I think that will do for to-night.' So we went back and played one game at billiards and then went to bed.

       The morning of the following day, Thursday, we spent in idleness and lawn tennis, and, whether by design on each person's part or by chance, no reference was made to the Singular Manifestations until we all met at luncheon. Then Morton's sister said: 'Have you been in the grass walk this morning?'

       We replied that we had not, and I ventured to ask why the inquiry was made.

       'For this reason,' she answered. 'You remember Mrs. Thompson's story about what she called the Monks?'

       'Quite well," replied Morton. 'Anything new about them?'

       'This much. Either she was not far wrong or some strange folk got into the garden this morning, for as I was going up the grass walk I distinctly saw a person, either in a long brown ulster or in a brown monk's frock, going quickly into a by-path, followed by a woman in a green dress. You may imagine that I pursued them, but when I got to the path there was nothing there.'

       'Was she tall?' asked Morton.

       'She was tall. Perhaps it was Mr. Peregrine's Green Lady.'

       'Perhaps it was,' said Morton, and then we went back to lawn tennis.

       On Friday morning at about twelve the new gardener asked for an interview with Morton, with whom I was sitting at the time in the smoking-room.

       'Coming to give warning?' I said to Morton, interrogatively. 'More Appearances?'

       'Not so sure,' Morton answered. 'I'll have him in. Don't you go. Stay and see it out.'

       Accordingly the new gardener came in bashfully. He stood first on one leg, then on the other, twirling a hat characteristic of gardening between his hands, and twice addressed himself to motion as he would speak, and ended in a kind of crowing gape.

       'Come, Williams,' said Morton, 'speak out. Don't be afraid of astonishing me.'

       'Well, sir,' said the gardener, taking heart, 'since you say so. I did hear, sir, that the last gardener left on account of something wrong with the cascade.'

       'Wrong,' said Morton. 'Well — why — yes — you may call it wrong.'

       'There was something, sir, if I'm not mistaken — and I'm here to be set right, sir, if I am — about what he called a face that made shapes at him in the water. Childish stuff it seemed to me, sir, till —–' here the gardener stopped short and twirled his hat again.

       'Till what?' cried Morton, eagerly. 'What is it?'

       'Well, sir,' replied the gardener, 'if you wouldn't mind coming to see for yourself. I know I'd never a' believed it.'

       'Come along, Darsie, quick,' said Morton. 'You lead the way, Williams, to where you saw — whatever it is.'

       'Kühleborn,' I gasped out to Morton as we ran at top speed to the cascade, and again he replied, "We shall see.'

       We did see. There most unmistakably was a distinct though constantly shifting face — a face as distinct, that is, as can be made by falling water — in the very centre of the cascade, the face of an old, old man, with long hair and beard; and though the features were, of course, somewhat blurred, there was no doubt that what passed for the mouth seemed curled in innumerable varieties of derision; indeed, as the gardener had said, made 'shapes' at us continually, while the clatter and echo of the falling water sounded like broken conscienceless laughter. We looked at each other in silence, a silence broken by the low piercing sound of the whistle we had heard in Peregrine's rooms. This strange sound overpowered for the moment all others, and even as it was heard the face in the water seemed to vanish into fantastic but meaningless jets and bubbles. I thought, indeed, that I saw the expression change rapidly to fury, and then to fear, but that may have been fancy.

       'I don't think you'll have any more trouble, Williams,' said Morton, and we walked away.

       'Explicit de Kühleborn,' I observed.

       'Yes,' replied Morton. 'Poor old chap!'

       There remained but one more task that we knew of for our honoured but mysterious and practically unseen guest, and that was accomplished with dexterity, skill, and much more than punctuality — for she had had a full week allowed to her — on Friday night. Morton and I were sitting in his study late at night, deep in argument, when suddenly Bruno, who was lying on the rug, gave a low growl. With the same impulse we both looked at the door, which this time of course was not locked. It slowly opened inwards, and the more it opened the more Bruno growled uneasily. When the door had opened about half-way it very slowly and as if unwillingly swung back again. Bruno rose to his feet, and as the door suddenly clapped to with a bang he lolloped towards it, barking with delight. Morton and I ran to the door before him, flung it open outwards, and rushed into the passage just in time to see a green skirt disappearing round the corner.

       The next day we met the Green Lady. She was standing at the top of the stairs as we came up them, a tall commanding presence in an old-fashioned green silk dress with a fur tippet round her neck. Mindful of Peregrine's warning, we passed on as if unmindful of her being there, and whether we walked through her or whether she vanished exactly as we approached her, I do not know. Anyhow she was there one moment and not there the next. We turned to compare notes as to her appearance and entirely agreed, but neither of us could speak a word as to her features. After this, for the three weeks that we stayed in the house, Morton, his sister, and I saw her frequently, but we never exchanged any sign of recognition. Whether the servants — the missing places were soon filled now that the house was quiet — whether the servants saw her or not I do not know. The Incomparable One had undertaken to keep them quiet if they did. Morton of course wrote to thank Peregrine. So, save for her fitful appearances, to which we were accustomed, life went on just as it might in any other country house of the same kind as Grey Towers; and of course before the month was up Morton was tired of it and we went up to London with an intention on his part to get rid of the remainder of his term if he could. The day after our departure he and I met at the club, and he proposed to call on Peregrine, to which I at once assented. We found him, as before, ensconced in his luxurious office, and he welcomed us even more warmly than before.

       'I was on the very point of writing to you,' he said.

       'Nothing wrong, I hope?' said Morton, answering his tone rather than his words.

       'Well — no — not now at least, I hope. You see, the fact is the Green Lady took such a liking to you or to the house, or both, that I began to fear she never would come back. Now that you have deserted the Towers I shall probably see her very soon. She does not like solitude, and of course she couldn't ask any of the old lot back. Her loss would have been very great to me. She is a most invaluable — a — person.'

       I saw Morton was getting more and more eager in curiosity, and so struck in with, 'You promised, Peregrine, that you would exp—–'

       'So I will,' he interrupted. 'It is really quite simple. Those — a — people who worried you were in wonderful luck to find such a refuge as Grey Towers when they were turned out of their own places. Wonderful luck — and a fine time they must have had of it. But they're wanting in judgment and sense. Now, the Green Lady has both to a remarkable degree, is of the very oldest — a - descent, and knows a great deal more than all of them put together. A mixed lot those — a common lot (barring Kühleborn), but nasty to tackle. I knew she would make a clean sweep of them. But I really don't know a single other — a — person who could have dealt with such a crew so neatly and so quickly. When her own place fell to pieces some time ago she was glad enough to come to me: I had only just started the agency then. I have never known her take such a fancy to a place before. To be sure it's the best and oldest house she has been sent to yet, to say nothing of other attractions. But, upon my word, I was getting quite alarmed-quite alarmed. Ah! there she is!' he said with a pleased smile as the peculiar whistle came up the speaking-tube. 'All's well that ends well. Now you won't think me rude, but I shouldn't like her to know that you're here, so I'll say good-bye. You understand it all now.'

       'There is no room for misapprehension,' said Morton. And we went away.

WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.