“It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Drewitt, coldly, “but I don’t think that my uncle wants any more furniture; the room is pretty full now.”

“I was thinking of it for your room,” said Mr. Tredgold.

“Thank you, but my room is full,” said the girl, sharply.

“It would go in that odd little recess by the fireplace,” continued the unmoved Mr. Tredgold.  “We tried to get a small table for it before you came, but we couldn’t see anything we fancied.  I promised the captain I’d keep my eyes open for something.”

Miss Drewitt looked at him with growing indignation, and wondered whether Mr. Chalk had added her to his list of the victims of Mr. Tredgold’s blandishments.

“Why not buy it for yourself?” she demanded.

“No money,” said Mr. Tredgold, shaking his head.  “You forget that I lost two pounds to Chalk the other day, owing to your efforts.”

“Well, I don’t wish for it,” said Miss Drewitt, firmly.  “Please don’t say anything to my uncle about it.”

Mr. Tredgold looked disappointed.  “As you please, of course,” he remarked.

“Old things always seem a little bit musty,” said the girl, softening a little.  “I, should think that I saw the ghosts of dead and gone players sitting round the table.  I remember reading a story about that once.”

“Well, what about the other things?” said Mr. Tredgold.  “Look at those old chairs, full of ghosts sitting piled up in each other’s laps—­there’s no reason why you should only see one sitter at a time.  Think of that beautifully-carved four-poster.”

“My uncle bought that,” said Miss Drewitt, somewhat irrelevantly.

“Yes, but I got it for him,” said Mr. Tredgold.  “You can’t pick up a thing like that at a moment’s notice—­I had my eye on it for years; all the time old Brown was bedridden, in fact.  I used to go and see him and take him tobacco, and he promised me that I should have it when he had done with it.”

“Done with it?” repeated the girl, in a startled voice.  “Did—­did he get another one, then?”

[Illustration:  “‘Done with it?’ repeated the girl, in a startled voice.”]

Mr. Tredgold, roused from the pleasurable reminiscences of a collector, remembered himself suddenly.  “Oh, yes, he got another one,” he said, soothingly.

“Is—­is he bedridden now?” inquired the girl.

“I haven’t seen him for some time,” said Mr. Tredgold, truthfully.  “He gave up smoking and—­and then I didn’t go to see him, you know.”

“He’s dead,” said Miss Drewitt, shivering.  “He died in——­ Oh, you are horrible!”

“That carving—­” began Mr. Tredgold.

“Don’t talk about it, please,” said the indignant Miss Drewitt.  “I can’t understand why my uncle should have listened to your advice at all; you must have forced it on him.  I’m sure he didn’t know how you got it.”

“Yes, he did,” said the other.  “In fact, it was intended for his room at first.  He was quite pleased with it.”