nothing more before he
had plunged into the shadow of the laurels.

CHAPTER IV

THE HA'NT GROWS MYSTERIOUS

I waked early and hurried through with my dressing, eager to get down
stairs and report my last night's finding in regard to Mose. My first
impulse had been to rouse the house, but on soberer second thoughts I
had decided to wait till morning. I was glad now that I had; for with
the sunlight streaming in through the eastern windows, with the fresh
breeze bringing the sound of twittering birds, life seemed a more
cheerful affair than it had the night before, and the whole aspect of
the ha'nt took on a distinctly humorous tone.

A ghost who wafted roast chickens through the air and out of doors on a
breeze of its own constructing, appealed to me as having an original
mind. Since my midnight discovery I felt pretty certain that I could
identify the ghost; and as I recalled the masterly way in which Mose
had led and directed the hunt, I decided that he was cleverer than Rad
had given him credit for. I went down stairs with my eyes and ears wide
open prepared for further revelations. The problems of my profession had
never led me into any consideration of the supernatural, and the rather
evanescent business of hunting down a ha'nt came as a welcome contrast
to the very material details of my recent forgery case. I had found what
Terry would call a counter-irritant.

It was still early, and neither the Colonel nor Radnor had appeared; but
Solomon was sweeping off the portico steps and I addressed myself to
him. He was rather coy at first about discussing the matter of the
ha'nt, as he scented my scepticism, but in the end he volunteered:

"Some says de ha'nt's a woman dat one o' de Gaylords long time ago,
should o' married an' didn't, an' dat pined away an' died. An' some says
it's a black man one o' dem whupped to deaf."

"Which do you think it is?" I inquired.

"Bress yuh, Marse Arnold, I ain't thinkin' nuffen. Like es not hit's
bofe. When one sperrit gits oneasy 'pears like he stir up all de odders.
Dey gets so lonely like lyin' all by dereselves in de grave dat dey're
'most crazy for company. An' when dey cayn't get each odder dey'll take
humans. De human what's consorted wid a gohs, Marse Arnold, he's nebber
hisself no moah. He's sort uh half-minded like Mose."

"Is that what's the matter with Mose?" I pursued tentatively. "Does he
consort with ghosts?"

"Mose was bawn dat way, but I reckon mayb