You three keep on talking."
"Thanks," said Hart.
Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.
"Mr. Grant has often spoken of you," she said. "You talk, and
we'll listen."
"Not so, divinity," came the retort. "I may be a parrot, but I don't want
my neck wrung when you've gone."
"Don't encourage him, Doris," said Grant, "or you'll be here till
midnight."
"If that's the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me,"
laughed Hart.
Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The
casement window was open--he had noted that fact while in the garden. He
peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian
on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer
cautiously through the small window. The detective's blood ran cold. What
if Hart discovered yet another ghost?
"Robinson--go home!" he said, in sepulchral tones.
The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror.
He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.
"Go home!" hissed Furneaux, leaning out.
Then the other looked up.
"Oh, it's you, sir!" he gasped, sighing with relief.
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