Dan stood powerless.  But for the gate behind him he would have turned and ran; to scramble back over that, his limbs utterly refused.  The delay caused him, in spite of his fear, to discern the very obvious fact, that the shadowy figure was not that of a woman habited in white—­as the orthodox ghost of Rachel ought to have been—­but a man’s, wearing dark clothes.  There flashed into Dan’s remembrance the frequent nightly visits of Robin Frost to the pond, bringing with it a ray of relief.

Robin had been looked upon as little better than a lunatic since the misfortune; but, to Dan Duff, he appeared in that moment worth his weight in gold.  Robin’s companionship was as good as anybody’s to ward off the ghostly fears, and Dan set off, full speed, towards him.  To go right up to the pond would take him a few yards out of his way to Bill Hook’s.  What of that?  To exchange words with a human tongue, Dan, in that moment of superstitious fright, would have gone as many miles.

He had run more than half the intervening distance, when he brought himself to a halt.  It had become evident to Dan’s sight that it was not Robin Frost.  Whoever it might be, he was a head and shoulders taller than Robin; and Dan moved up more quietly, his eyes strained forward in the moonlight.  A suspicion came over him that it might be Mr. Verner; Dan could not, at the moment, remember anybody else so tall, unless it was Mr. Jan.  The figure stood now with its back to him; apparently gazing into the pool.  Dan advanced with slow steps; if it was Mr. Verner, he would not presume to intrude upon him; but when he came nearly close, he saw that it bore no resemblance to the figure of Mr. Verner.  Slowly, glidingly, the figure turned round; turned its face right upon Dan, full in the rays of the bright moon; and the most awful yell you ever heard went forth upon the still night air.

It came from Dan Duff.  What could have been its meaning?  Did he think he saw the ghost, which he had been looking out for the last half-hour—­poor Rachel’s?—­saw it beyond this figure which had turned upon him?  Dan alone knew.  That he had fallen into the most appalling terror, was certain.  His eyes were starting, the drops of perspiration poured off him, and his hair rose up on end.  The figure—­just as if it had possessed neither sight nor hearing, neither sense nor sympathy for human sound—­glided noiselessly away; and Dan went yelling on.

Towards home now.  All thought of Bill Hook and the gray ferret was gone.  Away he tore, the nearest way, which took him past the pound.  He never saw the white cow:  had the cow been a veritable ghost, Dan had not seen it then.  The yells subsiding into moans, and the perspiration into fever heat, he gained his mother’s, and broke the window, as you have heard, in passing in.

Such were the particulars; but as yet they were not known.  The first person to elicit them was Roy the bailiff.