nd into
the waste-paper basket and producing a bottle with the celerity of a
conjuring trick. "Let's have a drink!"

I held up my hand as a mute appeal against such a proceeding so early
in the day; but on lowering it again I found that I had almost
involuntarily closed my fingers round the tumbler which my adviser had
pressed upon me. I drank the contents hastily off, lest anyone should
come in upon us and set me down as a toper. After all there was
something very amusing about the young fellow's eccentricities.

"Not spirits," I explained smilingly; "an apparition--a ghost. If such
a thing is to be had, I should be very willing to negotiate."

"A ghost for Goresthorpe Grange?" inquired Mr. Brocket, with as much
coolness as if I had asked for a drawing-room suite.

"Quite so," I answered.

"Easiest thing in the world," said my companion, filling up my glass
again in spite of my remonstrance. "Let us see!" Here he took down a
large red notebook, with all the letters of the alphabet in a fringe
down the edge. "A ghost you said, didn't you? That's G.
G--gems--gimlets--gaspipes--gauntlets--guns--galleys. Ah, here we are.
Ghosts. Volume nine, section six, page forty-one. Excuse me!" And Jack
ran up a ladder and began rummaging among a pile of ledgers on a high
shelf. I felt half inclined to empty my glass into the spittoon when
his back was turned; but on second thoughts I disposed of it in a
legitimate way.

"Here it is!" cried my London agent, jumping off the ladder with a
crash, and depositing an enormous volume of manuscript upon the table.
"I have all these things tabulated, so that I may lay my hands upon
them in a moment. It's all right--it's quite weak" (here he filled our
glasses again). "What were we looking up, again?"

"Ghosts," I suggested.

"Of course; page 41. Here we are. 'J. H. Fowler & Son, Dunkel Street,
suppliers of mediums to the nobility and gentry; charms
sold--love-philtres--mummies--horoscopes cast.' Nothing in your line
there, I suppose?"

I shook my head despondingly.

"Frederick Tabb," continued my wife's cousin, "solo channel of
communication between the living and dead. Proprietor of the spirits of
Byron, Kirke White, Grimaldi, Tom Cribb, and Inigo Jones. That's about
the figure!"

"Nothing romantic enough there," I objected. "Good heavens! Fancy a
ghost with a black eye and a handkerchief tied round its waist, or
turning summersaults, and saying, 'How are you to-morrow?'" The ve