slightly disappointing. It seemed that after I left on Friday night, a light was seen flitting fitfully through the empty house next door. Euphemia had seen it first and called Mrs. Klopton. Together they had watched it breathlessly until it disappeared on the lower floor.
"You should have been a writer of ghost stories," I said, giving my pillows a thump. "And so it was fitting fitfully!"
"That's what it was doing," she reiterated. "Fitting flitfully—I mean flitting fitfully—how you do throw one out, Mr. Lawrence! And what's more, it came again!"
"Oh, come now, Mrs. Klopton," I objected, "ghosts are like lightning; they never strike twice in the same night. That is only worth half a cup of beef tea."
"You may ask Euphemia," she retorted with dignity. "Not more than an hour after, there was a light there again. We saw it through the chinks of the shutters. Only—this time it began at the lower floor and climbed!"
"You oughtn't to tell ghost stories at night," came McKnight's voice from the doorway.
