Wynne sat in the seat of honour on Merriton's right. The rest sorted
themselves out as they wished, and made a good deal of noise and fun
about it, too. Down the length of the long, exquisitely decorated table
Merriton looked at his guests and thought it wasn't going to be so dismal
after all.

Champagne ran like water and spirits ran high. They joyfully toasted
Wynne, and later on the news that Merriton imparted to them. In vain
Dacre Wynne's low spirits were apparent. He must get over his grouch,
that was all. Then once again the spirit of evil descended upon the
gathering and it was Stark who precipitated its flight. "By the way,
Nigel," he asked suddenly, "isn't there some ghost story or other
pertaining to your district? Give us a recital of it, old boy. Walnuts
and wine and ghost stories, you know, are just the right sort of thing
after a dinner like this. Tony, switch off the lights. This old house of
yours is the very place for ghosts. Now let us have it."

"Hold on," Nigel remonstrated. "Give me a chance to digest my dinner,
and--dash it all, the thing's so deuced uncanny that it doesn't bear too
much laughing at either!"

"Come along!" Six voices echoed the cry. "We're waiting, Nigel."

So Merriton had forthwith to oblige them. He, too, had had enough to
drink--though drinking too heavily was not one of his vices--and his
flushed face showed the excitement that burned within him.

"Come over here by the window and see the thing for yourselves, and then
you shall hear the story," he began enigmatically.