"Several."
The deep lines in Alden's face tightened.
"Don't think," he managed to get out, "that I'm a coward. I'll stay. My contracts will be carried through."
"No," Garth answered, "you're not that kind of a coward, but there's something else. Don't deny, Mr. Alden. You're more than sick. You're afraid. What is it?"
Alden shuddered.
"A—a coward."
The words stumbled out of his mouth.
"But I don't know what it is. You're to tell me, Mr. Garth, if it's anything."
"This rot about the woods and the spirits of dead soldiers?" Garth asked.
Alden stirred. He nodded in the direction of the rear casement windows.
"Just across the lawn."
"You haven't seen?" Garth asked sharply.
"But," Alden said, "the servants—"
This, then, Garth decided, must be the source of the fear the other's appearance recorded.
"Nonsense, Mr. Alden. That's one of the commonest superstitions the world over, that soldiers come back to the battlefields where they have died, and in time of war—"
"If there's nothing in it," Alden whispered, "why is it so common? Why did my servants swear they had seen? And the fog! We've had too much
