“Mr. Menteith, I believe I saw a man peering in at that window.”

“It wasna a man—­it was a speerit,” moaned Malcolm.  “My lord’s wraith, for sure.”

“I don’t think so, Malcolm; for it was a tall, thin figure that moved about lightly and airily—­was come and gone in a moment.  Not very like my wraith, unless wraith of myself as I might have been.”

The little party were silent till Helen said,

“What do you think it was, then?”

“Certainly a man, made of honest flesh and blood, though not much of either, for he was excessively thin and sickly-looking.  He just ‘keerkit in,’ as Malcolm says, and disappeared.”

“What an odd circumstance!” said Mr. Menteith.

“Not a robber, I trust.  I am much more afraid of robbers than of ghosts.”

“We never rob at Cairnforth; we are very honest people here.  No, I think it is far likelier to be one of those stray tourists who are brought here by the steamers.  They sometimes take great liberties, wandering into the Castle grounds, and perhaps one of them thought he might as well come and stare in at my windows.”

“I hope he was English; I should not like a Scotsman to do such a rude thing,” cried Helen, indignantly.

Lord Cairnforth laughed at her impulsiveness.  There was much of the child nature mingled in Helen’s gravity and wisdom, and she sometimes did both speak and act from impulse—­especially generous and kindly impulse—­as hastily and unthinkingly as a child.

“Well, Malcolm, the only way to settle this difficulty is to search the house and grounds.  Take a good thick stick and a lantern, and whatever you find—­be it tourist or burglar, man or spirit—­bring him at once to me.”

And then the little group waited, laughing among themselves, but still not quite at ease.  Lord Cairnforth would not allow Mr. Cardross and Helen to walk home; the carriage was ordered to be made ready.

Presently, Malcolm appeared, somewhat crestfallen.

“It is a man, my lord, and no speerit.  But he wadna come ben.  He says he’ll wait your lordship’s will, and that’s his name,” laying a card before the earl, who looked at it and started with surprise.

“Mr. Menteith, just see—­’Captain Ernest Henry Bruce.’  What an odd coincidence!”

“Coincidence, indeed!” repeated the lawyer, skeptically.  “Let me see the card.”

“Earnest Henry! was that the name of the young man whom you sent out to India?”

“How should I remember?  It was ten or fifteen years ago.  Very annoying!  However, since he is a Bruce, or says he is, I suppose your lordship must just see him.”

“Certainly,” replied, in his quiet, determined tone, the Earl of Cairnforth.

Helen, who looked exceedingly surprised, offered to retire, but the earl would not hear of it.

“No, no; you are a wise woman, and an acute one too.  I would like you to see and judge of this cousin of mine—­a faraway cousin, who would like well enough, Mr. Menteith guesses, to be my heir.  But we will not judge him harshly, and especially we will not prejudge him.  His father was nothing to boast of, but this may be a very honest man for all we know.  Sit by me, Helen and take a good look at him.”