Bates went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered back
from the kitchen. He was received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrow
than in anger, a pose on their part which he blandly disregarded. He
helped himself to the remains of the decanter of port.
"The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by
such evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was," he said. "I
presume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has passed
over, as the spiritists say."
"Sit down!" cried Furneaux savagely.
Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe.
"You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it," he said,
apparently by way of a chatty remark. "The crack of the pistol-shot and
the supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off her
balance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such a
ghost, who would hesitate?"
When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French.
_"Nom d'un bon petit homme gris!"_ he almost squealed, "why did you whip
out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything! Have you
no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big enough to
hold brains, not soap-bubbles.
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