but, of course, it had all the usual ingredients of a ghost story. Somebody had died a nasty, sticky death, and not having had an Aunt Agatha to instil nice conventional copy-book maxims into it, had been creating a dreadful fuss about it ever since, and making it just as disagreeable for other people as it could. I shivered as I looked out into the pitchy darkness. Only a horrible patch of white where the dâk bungalow loomed up out of the surrounding gloom scarce a hundred yards away broke the blackness of the night.
Berengaria, having finished the ghost story to her own infinite satisfaction and my discomfiture, closed the window and prepared to depart.
'Now I really must say good night. I do hope you will sleep well,' she said cheerfully. 'There's a "chowkidar" in the veranda, so you will be quite safe.'
'A "chowkidar",' I asked eagerly, clinging to a last hope, 'what's that?'
'A "chowkidar",' said Berengaria slowly, as if she were repeating a lesson as she stood in one of the eighteen doorways, 'a "chowkidar " is the foundation-stone on which the whole British Constitution in India rests. I got that from John, so it must be true.' She nodded smilingly. 'And if you come just here you can distinctly hear him snoring.'
Whether it was the foundation-stone of the British Constitution in India or John that I should hear snoring didn't seem quite clear. Anyway, I went over and stood by Berengaria. It was quite
