s a body, it isn't a ghost!"

The two old men were silent. Halsey was lost in a hopeless confusion of
ideas, and Betts was determined not to give his pal away.

But here--say what you like!--was a strange man, seen, on the road, which
had been used, according to village tradition, on several previous
occasions, by the authentic ghost of Watson; his course was marked by
traces of blood, just as Watson's path of pain had been marked on the
night of the murder; and on reaching the spot where Watson had breathed
his last, the apparition, whatever it was, had vanished. Perplexity,
superstition, and common sense fought each other. Halsey who knew much of
his Bible by heart was inwardly comparing texts. "A spirit hath not flesh
and blood"--True--but on the other hand what about the "bodies of the
saints"--that "arose"? While, perhaps, the strongest motive of all in the
old man's mind was the obstinate desire to prove himself right, and so to
confound young scoffers like Dempsey.

Dempsey, however, having as he thought disposed of Halsey's foolish tale
was determined to tell his own, which had already made a great impression
in certain quarters of the village, and ranked indeed as the chief
sensation of the day. To be able to listen to the story of a murder told
by the grandson of the murderer, to whom the criminal himself had
confessed it, and that without any fear of unpleasant consequences to any
one, was a treat that Ipscombe had seldom enjoyed, especially as the
village was still rich in kinsfolk of both murdered and murderer.

Dempsey had already repeated the story so often that it was by now
perfect in every detail, and it produced the same effect in this lamplit
kitchen as in other. Halsey, forgetting his secret ill-humour, was
presently listening open-mouthed. Mrs. Halsey laid down her knitting, and
stared at the speaker over the top of her spectacles; while across
Betts's gnome-like countenance smiles went out and in, especially at the
more gruesome points of the tale. The light sparkled on the young
Canadian's belt, the Maple Leaf in the khaki hat which lay across his
knees, on the badge of the Forestry Corps on his shoulder. The old
English cottage, with its Tudor brick-work, and its overhanging beams,
the old English labourers with the stains of English soil upon them, made
the setting; and in the midst, sat the "new man," from the New World,
holding the stage, just as Ellesborough the New Englander was accustome