He blew, drank up the rest of his whisky spasmodically, stood up

suddenly and buttoned his jacket, staring closely and critically

at the cheap oleographs beside the mantel meanwhile. The little

black notebook in which he recorded the orders of his daily round

projected stiffly from his breast pocket. When all the buttons were

quite done, he patted his chest and turned on me suddenly. "Well,"

he said, "I must be going."



There was something in his eyes and manner that was too difficult

for him to express in words. "One gets talking," he said at last

at the door, and smiled wanly, and so vanished from my eyes.

And that is the tale of Mr. Skelmersdale in Fairyland just as

he told it to me.





6. THE STORY OF THE INEXPERIENCED GHOST



The scene amidst which Clayton told his last story comes back very

vividly to my mind. There he sat, for the greater part of the time,

in the corner of the authentic settle by the spacious open fire, and

Sanderson sat beside him smoking the Broseley clay that bore his name.

There was Evans, and that marvel among actors, Wish, who is also a

modest man. We had all come down to the Mermaid Club that Saturday

morning, except Clayton, who had slept there overnight--which indeed

gave him the opening of his story. We had golfed until golfing was

invisible; we had dined, and we were in that mood of tranquil

kindliness when men will suffer a story. When Clayton began to tell

one, we naturally supposed he was lying. It may be that indeed he was

lying--of that the reader will speedily be able to judge as well as I.

He began, it is true, with an air of matter-of-fact anecdote, but

that we thought was only the incurable artifice of the man.



"I say!" he remarked, after a long consideration of the upward

rain of sparks from the log that Sanderson had thumped, "you know

I was alone here last night?"



"Except for the domestics," said Wish.



"Who sleep in the other wing," said Clayton. "Yes. Well--" He pulled

at his cigar for some little time as though he still hesitated about

his confidence. Then he said, quite quietly, "I caught a ghost!"



"Caught a ghost, did you?" said Sanderson. "Where is it?"



And Evans, who admires Clayton immensely and has been four weeks

in America, shouted, "CAUGHT a ghost, did you, Clayton? I'm glad

of it! Tell us all about it right now."



Clayton said he would in a minute, and asked him to shut the door.



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