“What on earth are you staring at?” Mrs. Burton demanded, with some acerbity. “A silly little place like that would be no use to us. I don’t know what the people who’ve been living there could have been thinking about, to let the garden get into such a state. Fancy a nasty dark tree like that, too, keeping all the sun away from the house! I’d have it cut down if it were mine. What on earth are you looking at, Alfred Burton?”
He turned towards her, heavy-eyed.
“Somewhere under that cedar tree,” he said, “a man’s soul was buried. I was wondering if its ghost ever walked!”
Mrs. Burton lifted the speaking-tube to her lips.
“You can take the next turning home, John,” she ordered.
The man’s hand was mechanically raised to his hat. Mrs. Burton leaned back once more among the cushions.
“You and your ghosts!” she exclaimed. “If you want to sit there, thinking like an owl, you’d better try and think of some of your funny stories for to-night. You’ll have to sit next that stuck-up Mrs. Bomford, and she takes a bit of amusing.”