The country
folk say it's haunted."
"I beg your pardon, Tony, but what were you telling me?"
"My poor ass," said Anthony, edging nearer the better to peer into my
face, "I have been endeavouring to give you a brief description of
Raydon Manor--the house peeping amid the trees yonder."
We were climbing a hill and from this eminence could behold a fair
sweep of landscape, a rolling, richly wooded countryside very pleasant
to behold, and, following the direction pointed by Anthony's whip, I
descried the gables of a great, grey house bowered in dense-growing
trees that seemed to shut the building in on every side, the whole
further enclosed by a lofty wall.
"Ah, a haunted house, Anthony," said I, glancing at the place with
perfunctory interest.
"So the yokels say hereabouts, Perry, but if half what I hear is true,
it is haunted by things far worse--more evil than ghosts."
"Meaning what?" I questioned.
"Well, it is owned by a person of the name of Trenchard who seems to
be a rich mixture of gentlemanly ruffian, Turkish bashaw and the
devil. Anyhow, the place has a demned unsavoury reputation and abuts
on my land."
"Indeed!" said I, stifling a yawn. "And what manner of neighbour is
he--to look at?"
"Don't know--never clapped eyes on the fellow--nobody ever sees him.
Fellow rarely stirs abroad and when he does, always in closed
carriage--muffled to the eyes--queer fish and demned unpleasant, by
all accounts.
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