ks is a coarse, burly,
matter-of-fact fellow whom I only happen to know through the accidental
circumstance of his fields adjoining my demesne. Yet this man, though
utterly devoid of all appreciation of archaeological unities, is in
possession of a well-authenticated and undeniable spectre. Its
existence only dates back, I believe, to the reign of the Second
George, when a young lady cut her throat upon hearing of the death of
her lover at the battle of Dettingen. Still, even that gives the house
an air of respectability, especially when coupled with blood-stains
upon the floor. Jorrocks is densely unconscious of his good fortune;
and his language, when he reverts to the apparition, is painful to
listen to. He little dreams how I covet every one of those moans and
nocturnal wails which he describes with unnecessary objurgation.
Things are indeed coming to a pretty pass when democratic spectres are
allowed to desert the landed proprietors and annul every social
distinction by taking refuge in the houses of the great unrecognized.

I have a large amount of perseverance. Nothing else could have raised
me into my rightful sphere, considering the uncongenial atmosphere in
which I spent the earlier part of my life. I felt now that a ghost
must be secured, but how to set about securing one was more than either
Mrs. D'Odd or myself was able to determine. My reading taught me that
such phenomena are usually the outcome of crime. What crime was to be
done, then, and who was to do it? A wild idea entered my mind that
Watkins, the house-steward, might be prevailed upon--for a
consideration--to immolate himself or some one else in the interests of
the establishment. I put the matter to him in a half-jesting manner;
but it did not seem to strike him in a favorable light. The other
servants sympathized with him in his opinion--at least, I can not
account in any other way for their having left the house in a body the
same afternoon.

"My dear," Mrs. D'Odd remarked to me one day after dinner, as I sat
moodily sipping a cup of sack--I love the good old names--"my dear,
that odious ghost of Jorrocks' has been gibbering again."

"Let it gibber!" I answered, recklessly.

Mrs. D'Odd struck a few chords on her virginal and looked thoughtfully
into the fire.

"I tell you what it is, Argentine," she said at last, using the pet
name which we usually substitute for Silas, "we must have a ghost sent
down from London."

"How can