“We must see,” Dominey said quietly, “that she is not allowed to get possession of any weapon.”

“Aye!  Make sure of that,” Middleton scoffed, “with Mother Unthank by her side!  Her ladyship’s mad because of the horror of that night, but Mother Unthank is mad with hate, and there isn’t a week passes,” the old man went on, his voice dropping lower and his eyes burning, “that Roger Unthank’s spirit don’t come and howl for your blood beneath their window.  If you stay here this night, Squire, come over and sleep in the little room they’ve got ready for you on the other side of the house.”

Mr. Mangan had lost his smooth, after-dinner appearance.  His face was rumpled, and his coffee was growing cold.  This was a very different thing from the vague letters and rumours which had reached him from time to time and which he had put out of his mind with all the contempt of the materialist.

“It is very good of you to warn me, Middleton,” Dominey said, “but I can lock my door, can I not?”

“Lock the door of the oak room!” was the scornful reply.  “And what good would that do?  You know well enough that the wall’s double on three sides, and there are more secret entrances than even I know of.  The oak room’s not for you this night, Squire.  It’s hoping to get you there that’s keeping them quiet.”

“Tell us what you mean, Middleton,” the lawyer asked, with ill-assumed indifference, “when you spoke of the howling of Roger Unthank’s spirit?”

The old man turned patiently around.

“Just that, sir,” he replied.  “It’s round the house most weeks.  Except for me odd nights, and Mrs. Unthank, there’s been scarcely a servant would sleep in the Hall for years.  Some of the maids they do come up from the village, but back they go before nightfall, and until morning there isn’t a living soul would cross the path—­no, not for a hundred pounds.”

“A howl, you call it?” Mr. Mangan observed.

“That’s mostly like a dog that’s hurt itself,” Middleton explained equably, “like a dog, that is, with a touch of human in its throat, as we’ve all heard in our time, sir.  You’ll hear it yourself, sir, maybe to-night or to-morrow night.”

“You’ve heard it then, Middleton?” his master asked.

“Why, surely, sir,” the old man replied in surprise.  “Most weeks for the last ten years.”

“Haven’t you ever got up and gone out to see what it was?”

The old man shook his head.

“But I knew right well what that was, sir,” he said, “and I’m not one for looking on spirits.  Spirits there are that walk this world, as we well know, and the spirit of Roger Unthank walks from between the Black Wood and those windows, come every week of the year.  But I’m not for looking at him.  There’s evil comes of that.  I turn over in my bed, and I stop my ears, but I’ve never yet raised a blind.”

“Tell me, Middleton,” Dominey asked, “is Lady Dominey terrified at these—­er—­visitations?”