The Argosy — page 337: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

316 The Ghost of ‘‘ Ours.” of an hour, and was only wrong once. No, /e was safe to make no mistake; and he got into such a queer state that he dare not be alone fora moment. I felt utterly savage with myself the other night at mess, when I started up and sang out, for, as I did so, I recollected Van doing the very same thing the night before we left for India. He never would sit facing those windows if he could help it. Acci- dental likeness ! Why, he had detectives down from London scouring the place to find anyone likely to indulge in such a hoax—and ¢hey gave up the business in despair.” I still looked incredulous. Loxdale went on more and more im- pressively. ‘“‘ Believe me or not, as you like. It was &z//zmg Vandeleur. He looked another man when we got to India, and everybody forgot the story. We were sent to Secunderabad in the course of a year or two, and one night he was sitting with me on the steps of the verandah of my bungalow—I don’t know what had brought him on that occasion, for we didn’t care to see much of one another usually—but there he was. It was moonlight, clear enough to show every leaf on the rose trees in the compound, and still enough, except for the hideous row of the jackals now and then, to hear a tread on the path had there been one. We were both smoking in silence when I heard Ormsby’s voice, ‘ Loxdale, I say, Loxdale!’ close behind me, and Vandeleur jumped up and stood all white and shaking. ‘There he is!’ he said, pointing over my shoulder, but not a creature could I see. Vandeleur couldn’t stand it, and sold out soon after.” I thanked Loxdale and departed, puzzled but unconvinced, in search of other ghost seers. As usual, I came across any number of men who knew the man who had seen it; and one ghost story is very like another when details are required. Ormsby’s servant had met him at the door of his room “ dead and dripping ” the very night he was drowned, and had incontinently thrown down a can of hot water and fled. ‘Two other men had seen him, always at night, and under circumstances unfavourable to recognition ; half a dozen others had “heard tell of him.” Altogether I had but a meagre report to take with me to Miss Dacre. Penderell Court is a mouldy, melancholy old place, smothered in ivy up to the chimney-pots, and its mistress looked unspeakably for- lorn sitting at one end of a dark, panelled room, and a long bare table down the middle, and rows of chairs at each side. She recetved me very graciously and sweetly. Her companion, a deaf old lady, was sitting knitting in a basket-chair by the window, and, after the first few words of introduction, made no attempt to join in the conversation. I told my story. Miss Dacre listened sadly, great tears gathering in her eyes when I produced her cousin’s last few words. ‘If he would but have trusted me!” she sighed. Her attention grew keener and keener as I went on, a pretty pink Gomicbooks (E(o)