"Well! I don't consider it well at all. Here am I, a man returning to his native country--and a beastly country it is!--after nearly thirty years' absence, and the first transaction upon which I engage proves a swindle. Yes, a swindle, Mr. Patterson. I went to you in all good faith, took that house at your own rent, thought I had got a desirable home, and believed I was dealing with respectable people, and now I find I was utterly deceived, both as regards the place and your probity. You knew the house was uninhabitable, and yet you let it to me."
"I give you my word," I said, "that we really do not know yet in what way the house is uninhabitable. It is a good house, as you know; it is well furnished; the drainage is perfect; so far as we are concerned, we do not believe a fault can be found with the place. Still, it has been a fact that tenants will not stay in it, and we were therefore glad to let it to a gentleman like yourself, who would, we expected, prove above subscribing to that which can only be a vulgar prejudice."
"The idea that River Hall is haunted," I replied.
"River Hall is haunted, young man," he said, solemnly.
"By some one who cannot rest in his grave," was the answer.
"Colonel Morris," I said, "some one _must_ be playing tricks in the house."
"If so, that some one does not belong to this world," he remarked.
"Do you mean really and seriously to tell me you believe in ghosts?" I asked, perhaps a little scornfully.
"I do, and if you had lived in River Hall, you would believe in them too," he replied. "I will tell you," he went on, "what I saw in the house myself. You know the library?"
I nodded in assent. We did know the library. There our trouble seemed to have taken up its abode.
"Are you aware lights have frequently been reflected from that room, when no light has actually been in it?"
I could only admit this had occasionally proved a ground of what we considered unreasonable complaint.
"One evening," went on the Colonel, "I determined to test the matter for myself. Long before dusk I entered the room and examined it thoroughly--saw to the fastenings of the windows, drew up the blinds, locked the door, and put the key in my pocket. After dinner I took a cigar and walked up and down the grass path beside the river, until dark. There was no light--not a sign of light of any kind, as I turned once more and walked up the path again; but as I was retracing my steps I saw that the room was brilliantly illuminated. I rushed to the nearest window and looked in. The gas was all ablaze, the door of the strong room open, the table strewed with papers, while in an office-chair drawn close up to the largest drawer, a man was seated counting over bank-notes. He had a pile of them before him, and I distinctly saw that he wetted his fingers in order to separate them."
