"Do you mean to say the house has a ghost?" Mrs. Coyle almost shrieked. "You brought me here without telling me?"
"Didn't I mention it after my other visit?"
"Not a word. You only talked about Miss Wingrave."
"Oh, I was full of the story—you have simply forgotten."
"Then you should have reminded me!"
"If I had thought of it I would have held my peace, for you wouldn't have come."
"I wish, indeed, I hadn't!" cried Mrs. Coyle. "What is the story?"
"Oh, a deed of violence that took place here ages ago. I think it was in George the First's time. Colonel Wingrave, one of their ancestors, struck in a fit of passion one of his children, a lad just growing up, a blow on the head, of which the unhappy child died. The matter was hushed up for the hour—some other explanation was put about. The poor boy was laid out in one of those rooms on the other side of the house, and amid strange, smothered rumors the funeral was hurried on. The next morning, when
