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“At th’ end o’ the month th’ old Rector discovered he had business takin’ him to Bristol. He said his farewells very lovin’ly, promised to come back as soon as he could, but warned the poor lady against setting foot outside the doors. The gardens an’ fields (he said) swarmed with field-mice, an’ he knew she had a terror of mice of all sorts. So off he rode, an’ by an’ by came back by night with a second young lady: and Oliver showed ’em up to the nor’-east tower for the honeymoon.

“A week later my gentleman had a call to post down to Penzance. He warned his second wife that it was a terrible year for adders an’ the ground swarmin’ with ’em, for he knew she had a horror o’ snakes. Inside of a fortnight he brought home a third–“

“Bill,” said Mr. Jope, sitting up sharply, “what noise was that?”

“I didn’t hear it,” answered Mr. Adams, who was turning up his trousers uneasily. “Adders, maybe.”

“Seemed to me it sounded from somewheres in the cellar. Maybe you wouldn’t mind steppin’ down, seein’ as you don’t take no interest in what Mr. Coyne’s tellin’.”

“I’m beginning to.”

“The cellar’s the worst place of all,” said Mr. Coyne, blinking. “It’s there that the bodies were found.”

“Bodies?”

“Bodies. Four of ’em. I was goin’ to tell you how he brought home another, havin’ kept the third poor lady to her rooms with some tale about a mad dog starvin’ to death in his shrubberies–he didn’t know where–“

“If you don’t mind,” Mr. Jope interposed, “I’ve a notion to hear the rest o’ the story some other evenin’. It’s–it’s agreeable enough to bear spinnin’ out, an’ I understand you’re a fixture in this neighbourhood.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Coyne, rising. “But wot about you?“

“I’ll tell you to-morrow.”

Mr. Jope gripped the arms of his chair, having uttered the bravest speech of his life. He sat for a while, the sound of his own voice echoing strangely in his ears, even when Mr. Coyne rose to take his leave.

“Well, I can’t help admirin’ you,” said Mr. Coyne handsomely. “By the way the rent’s by the quarter, an’ in advance–fours into forty is ten; I mention it as a matter of business, and in case we don’t meet again.”

Mr. Jope counted out the money.

When Mr. Coyne had taken his departure the pair sat a long while in silence, their solitary candle flickering an the table between them.

“You spoke out very bold,” said Mr. Adams at length.

“Did I?” said Mr. Jope. “I didn’t feel it.”

“What cuts me to the quick is the thought o’ them adders outside.”

“Ye dolt! There ain’t no real adders outside. They’re what the chap invented to frighten the women.”

“Sure? Then,” mused Mr. Adams, after a pause, “maybe there ain’t no real ghosts neither, but he invented the whole thing.”

“Maybe. What d’ye say to steppin’ down an’ fetchin’ up another mugful o’ liquor?”

“I say,” answered Mr. Adams slowly, “as how I won’t.”

“Toss for it,” suggested Mr. Jope. “You refuse? Very well, then, I must go. Only I thought better of ye, Bill–I did indeed.”

“I can’t help what ye thought,” Mr. Adams began sulkily; and then, as his friend rose with the face of a man who goes to meet the worst, he sprang up quaking. “Lord’s sake, Ben Jope! You ain’t a-goin’ to take the candle an’ leave me!”

“Bill Adams,” said Mr. Jope with fine solemnity, “if I was to put a name on your besettin’ sin, it would be cowardice–an’ you can just sit here in the dark an’ think it over.”

“When I was on the p’int of offering to go with ye!”

“Ho! Was you? Very well, then, I accept the offer, an’ you can walk first.”

“But I don’t see–“

“Another word,” announced Mr. Jope firmly, “an’ you won’t! For I’ll blow out the candle.”