itself in the tapering perspective of bare lines: it looked a
mere blot of deeper gray in the grayness, and for an instant, as
it moved toward her, her heart thumped to the thought, "It's the
ghost!"

She had time, in that long instant, to feel suddenly that the man
of whom, two months earlier, she had a brief distant vision from
the roof was now, at his predestined hour, about to reveal
himself as NOT having been Peters; and her spirit sank under the
impending fear of the disclosure. But almost with the next tick
of the clock the ambiguous figure, gaining substance and
character, showed itself even to her weak sight as her husband's;
and she turned away to meet him, as he entered, with the
confession of her folly.

"It's really too absurd," she laughed out from the threshold,
"but I never CAN remember!"

"Remember what?" Boyne questioned as they drew together.

"That when one sees the Lyng ghost one never knows it."

Her hand was on his sleeve, and he kept it there, but with no
response in his gesture or in the lines of his fagged,
preoccupied face.

"Did you think you'd seen it?" he asked, after an appreciable
interval.

"Why, I actually took YOU for it, my dear, in my mad