"But I've leased the place for five years," said Terwilliger, in despair;
"and I've paid the rent in advance."

"Carn't 'elp it," returned the ghost. "Hif you did that, hit's your own
fault."

"I wouldn't have done it, except to advertise my shoe business," said
Terwilliger, ruefully. "The items in the papers at home that arise from my
occupancy of this house, together with the social cinch it gives me, are
worth the money; but I'm hanged if it's worth my while to pay back
salaries to every grasping apparition that chooses to rise up out of the
moat and dip his or her clammy hand into my surplus. The shoe trade is a
blooming big thing, but the profits aren't big enough to divide with tramp
ghosts."

"Your tone is very 'aughty, 'Ankinson J. Terwilliger, but it don't haffeck
me. H'I don't care 'oo pys the money, an' h'I 'aven't got you into this
scripe. You've done that yourself. Hon the other 'and, sir, h'I've showed
you 'ow to get out of it."

"Well, perhaps you're right," returned Hankinson. "I can't say I blame you
for not perjuring yourself, particularly since you've been dead long
enough to have discovered what the probable consequences would be. But I
do wish there was some other way out of it. _I_ couldn't pay you all that
money without losing a controlling interest in the shoe company, and
that's hardly worth my while, now is it?"

"No, Mr. Terwilliger; hit is not."

"I have a scheme," said Hankinson, after a moment or two of deep thought.