Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (121 page)

"There?"
Lithway
drew
his
finger
down
the
place. "Yes.
How
did
you
know?
I
don't
feel
it
now." "Look
at
yourself."

He
handed
me
a
mirror.
The
slash
was
indicated
clearly
by
a white
line,
but
there
was
no
abrasion.

"That
is
very
interesting,"
I
managed
to
say;
but
I
really
did
not half
like
it.

Lithway
looked
at
me
incredulously.
"She
has
never
had
a
weapon before,"
he
murmured. "She?
This
was
a
man."

"Oh,
no!"
he
contradicted.
"That's
impossible."

"He
was
a
hairy
brute
and
full-bearded
besides,"
I
calmly
insisted.

Lithway
jumped
up.
"My
God!
there's
some
one
in
the
house."
He caught
up
a
revolver.
"Let
us
go
and
look.
He'll
have
made
off
with the
silver."

"Look
here,
Lithway,"
I
protested.
"I
tell
you
this
man
wasn't real.
He
vanished
into
thin
air—like
any
other
ghost."

"But
the
ghost
is
a
woman."
He
was
as
stupid
as
a
child
about
it.

"Then
there
are
two."
I
didn't
really
believe
it,
but
it
seemed
clear that
we
could
never
settle
the
dispute.
Each
at
least
would
have
to pretend
to
believe
the
other
for
the
sake
of
peace.

"Suppose
you
tell
me
about
your
ghost,"
I
suggested
soothingly. But
Lithway
was
dogged,
and
we
had
to
spend
an
hour
exploring the
house
and
counting
up
Lithway's
valuables.
Needless
to
say, there
was
no
sign
of
invasion
anywhere.
At
the
end
of
the
hour
I repeated
my
demand.
The
scar
was
beginning
to
fade,
I
noted
in
the mirror,
though
still
clearly
visible.

"Suppose
you
tell
me
about
your
ghost.
You
never
have,
you
know."

"I've
only
seen
her
a
few
times."

"Where?"

"Leaning
over
the
banisters
in
the
third-floor
hall." "What
is
she
like?"

"A
slip
of
a
girl.
Rather
fair
and
drooping,
but
a
strange
look
in her
eyes.
Dressed
in
white,
with
a
blue
sash.
That's
all." "Does
she
speak?"

"No;
but
she
waves
a
folded
paper
at
me." "What
time
of
day
have
you
seen
her?" "About
eleven
in
the
morning." The
clocks
were
then
striking
twelve.

"Well,"
I
ventured,
"that's
clearly
the
ghost's
hour.
But
the
two of
them
couldn't
be
more
different."

He
made
me
describe
the
savage
again.
The
extraordinary
part
of it
was
that,
in
spite
of
his
baffling
blackness,
I
could
do
so
perfectly. He
was
as
individual
to
me
as
a
white
man—more
than
that,
as
a friend.
He
had
personality,
that
ghost.

"What
race
should
you
say
he
was?"

I
thought.
"Some
race
I
don't
know;
Zulu,
perhaps.
A
well-built beggar."