"By St. George and his Dragon!" ejaculated the master of Harrowby,
wringing his hands. "It is guineas to hot-cross buns that next Christmas
there's an occupant of the spare room, or I spend the night in a
bath-tub."

But the master of Harrowby would have lost his wager had there been any
one there to take him up, for when Christmas Eve came again he was in his
grave, never having recovered from the cold contracted that awful night.
Harrowby Hall was closed, and the heir to the estate was in London, where
to him in his chambers came the same experience that his father had gone
through, saving only that, being younger and stronger, he survived the
shock. Everything in his rooms was ruined--his clocks were rusted in the
works; a fine collection of water-color drawings was entirely obliterated
by the onslaught of the water ghost; and what was worse, the apartments
below his were drenched with the water soaking through the floors, a
damage for which he was compelled to pay, and which resulted in his being
requested by his landlady to vacate the premises immediately.

The story of the visitation inflicted upon his family had gone abroad, and
no one could be got to invite him out to any function save afternoon teas
and receptions. Fathers of daughters declined to permit him to remain in
their houses later than eight o'clock at night, not knowing but that some
emergency might arise in the supernatural world which would require the
unexpected appearance of the water ghost in this on nights other than
Christmas Eve, and before the mystic hour when weary churchyards, ignoring
the rules which are supposed to govern polite society, begin to yawn. Nor
would the maids themselves have aught to do with him, fearing the
destruction by the sudden incursion of aqueous femininity of the costumes
which they held most dear.