"Then you ain't heard nor seen nothing toward the hour o'

midnight--footsteps, say?"

"Footsteps! O Lud--where?"

"Anywhere! You never have?"

"Never!"

"P'r'aps you don't believe in ghostes, mam, spectres, or say--apparations?"

"I--I don't know. Why?"

"You've never happened to see a pale shape a-fluttering and a-flitting by light o' moon?"

"Gracious me--no, Sergeant! You make me all of a shiver! Have you?"

"No, mam!"

"O cruel, to fright one so!"

"But hope an' expect to observe same to-night towards the hour o'

midnight or thereabouts and if so, shall immediately try what cold steel can do agin it."

"Gracious goodness, Sergeant, what d'you mean?"

"I mean as I'm a-going to find out what it is as walks o' nights."

"But ghosts don't walk, they glide."

"Maybe so, mam, but this ghost or apparation ain't a glider 'tis a walker, same being observed to leave footmarks. Also Roger Bent the second gardener as lives nigh the old mill has seen it twice--says same haunts the old mill o' moony nights, says--but there's Roger now, he shall tell you!" The Sergeant whistled, beckoned and the second gardener, a young-old, shock-headed man, approached, knuckling his forehead to Mrs. Agatha.

"Roger," said the Sergeant, "tell us what ye saw last night."

"A gobling!" said Roger, "a grimly gobling an' that's what."

"Bless us!" exclaimed Mrs. Agatha, "what was it like?"

"Why," answered Rog er, ruffling his shock of hair with a claw-like right hand, "'twere rayther like a phamtom, mam--very much so, that's what!"

"O--where was it?"

"'Twas a-quaking i' the ruin o' the owd mill, mam, dithering and dathering glowersome like."

Mrs. Agatha gasped, noting which, Roger shook his head gloomily.

"Always know'd th' owd mill was haunted but never seed nowt afore. I do 'ope as my hens aren't witched from laying, that's what."

"And then you followed it, Roger?"

"Aye, I did so, Sergeant, me 'aving a dried hare's-foot 'ung round my neck d'ye see which same do be a powerful charm, give me by old Betty the witch, a spell as no gobling nor speckiter can abide."

"And where did it go?"

"Along by the spinney, Sergeant, then along the back lane and I see it vanish it-self through th' orchard wall and that's what!"

"And there was its footmarks in the earth this morning, mam, sure enough. All right, Roger."

Hereupon Roger knuckled again to Mrs. Agatha and betook himself back to his duties.

"'Tis dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Agatha, clasping her pretty hands.

"'Tis queer, mam, queer--but 'twill be queerer if I don't find out all about it 'twixt now and to-morrow morning."

"Sergeant Zebedee--Zebedee, don't!"

"Mam, I must."

"For--my sake."

"Mam, I--'tis become a matter o' dooty with me."

"Have you any charm to ward off evil, Sergeant?"

"Why no, mam."

"Then I'll give you one," and speaking, she took a ribbon from her white neck, a blue ribbon whereon a small gold cross dangled. "You shall wear this!" said she, blushing a little. "Come, stoop your head!"

"Why, Mrs. Agatha I--I----"

"O pray stoop your head!"

The Sergeant obeyed and it naturally followed that the Sergeant's neat wig was very near Mrs. Agatha's pretty mob-cap, so near, indeed that a tress of her glossy hair tickled his bronzed, smooth-shaven chin; the Sergeant saw her eyes, grave and intent, the oval of a soft cheek, the curve of two lips--full, soft lips, ripely delicious and tempting and so near that he had but to turn his head----

The Sergeant turned his head and for a long, breathless moment lips met lips then:

"Why, Sergeant!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "O Sergeant--Zebedee--Tring!" And turning, she sped away into the house.

Left alone the Sergeant picked up his hammer, stared at it and put it carefully into his pocket; having done which, he laughed, grew solemn, and sighed.

"Well," said he at last, "all I says is----"

But for once he could find no words for it in English, French or Dutch.

CHAPTER XV

WHEREIN IS MUCH TALK BUT LITTLE ACTION