“Not half a bad yarn,” remarked Reynolds, as Lewis finished the thrilling ghost story he had been narrating. “Only the worst of all these sort of lies, to my mind, is the finale. You get something beautifully weird and thrilling, then comes the explanation — tame and unconvincing — and spoils the lot. “What’s your opinion, John?”
Thatcher, who had been gazing dreamily into the fire, stretched himself out full length in his chair and blew a big cloud of smoke ceilingwards.
“My opinion,” said he, brusquely, “is that it’s easy to sit and scoff surrounded by lights and friends. But I fancy that a night passed in a certain room I know of would be likely to make you modify your views on these things.”
“Where is this room?”
“In the suburbs. I lodged there in my younger days— for one night only.”
“Did you see anything?” asked Reynolds.
“No,” replied Thatcher, slowly.
“But there was something in that room— ”
“Well,” put in Reynolds, “show me this room, and I’m game to spend a night alone in it.”
Thatcher merely glanced at his watch, and said:
“Very good. We’ll start at once then.”
“All right,” replied Reynolds, coolly, although he was somewhat taken aback at this sudden acceptance of his offer.
“I’m ready.” Continue reading