Mr. Penrose paused, sipped port wine, and resumed.

"And so, no doubt, he did, building the Tower for that purpose. By bribes
and threats he got two men to work for him. One was the uncle of my
informant. But though he built that Tower, and inside it dug his grave,
he never lay there, being, as things turned out, carried off by the
Devil. Oh, yes, there was no doubt! He went home one night, a Saturday,
very drunk, as usual. On the Sunday night a belated wayfarer, possibly
also drunk, heard wild shrieks and saw a strange red glow through the
window of the Tower, now, by the way, boarded up. And no doubt he'd have
smelt brimstone if the wind hadn't set the wrong way! Anyhow Captain
Duggle was never seen again by mortal eyes, at Inkston, at all events.
After a time the landlord of the cottage screwed up his courage to resume
possession; the Captain had only a lease of it, though he built the Tower
at his own charges, and, I believe, without any permission, the landlord
being much too frightened to interfere with him. He found everything in a
sad mess in the house, while in the Tower itself every blessed stick had
been burnt up. So the story looks pretty plausible."

"And the grave?" This question came eagerly from at least three of
the company.

"In front of the fireplace there was a big oblong hole--six feet by
three, by four--planks at the bottom, the sides roughly lined with brick.
Captain Duggle's grave; but he wasn't in it!"

"But what really became of him, Mr. Penrose?" cried Cynthia.

"The Rising Generation is very skeptical," said old Naylor. "You, of