We laughed, and Clayton looked aggrieved. "I know," he said, with
the flicker of a smile, "but the fact is it really WAS a ghost,
and I'm as sure of it as I am that I am talking to you now. I'm not
joking. I mean what I say."
Sanderson drew deeply at his pipe, with one reddish eye on Clayton,
and then emitted a thin jet of smoke more eloquent than many words.
Clayton ignored the comment. "It is the strangest thing that has
ever happened in my life. You know, I never believed in ghosts
or anything of the sort, before, ever; and then, you know, I bag
one in a corner; and the whole business is in my hands."
He meditated still more profoundly, and produced and began to pierce
a second cigar with a curious little stabber he affected.
"You talked to it?" asked Wish.
"For the space, probably, of an hour."
"Chatty?" I said, joining the party of the sceptics.
"The poor devil was in trouble," said Clayton, bowed over his cigar-end
and with the very faintest note of reproof.
"Sobbing?" some one asked.
Clayton heaved a realistic sigh at the memory. "Good Lord!" he said;
"yes." And then, "Poor fellow! yes.
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