The rush of night air came through a small pantry opening off the hall.  The window in it was wide open, and there was no sign of Punch.  He and the ghost had evidently gone through that way.  Graeme and the boot followed.

It was a dark night between moons.  The velvet-black vault was brilliant with stars, but the earth was full of shadows.  The fleshy leaves of the eucalyptus trees showed pale against the darkness.  The night wind set them rustling eerily.  From somewhere beyond them, past the dark hedge, there came a sound of subdued strife.  Graeme clutched his boot and sped towards it, drenched with dew from every disturbed branch.

The sounds led him into the potato patch in the lower garden, and in the dimness he became aware that Punch was standing on something that struggled to get up and was held down by the great brown paws and body.

No ghost, evidently.  Graeme dropped his boot and stooped and laid hold of the struggler, and knew in a moment, in spite of his own disturbance of mind, that this ghost at all events had materialised into the bodily form of Master Johnnie Vautrin, and he wondered how many more might have done the same if they had been followed up as closely.

He lifted the squirming small boy who had not spoken a word.

“So this is what Sark ghosts are made of, is it, Master Johnnie?” he asked, giving him a shake.  “You little scamp!  For once you shall have what you jolly well deserve,” and he carried him, kicking and wriggling, back to the house, shoved him through the window, and held him with one hand while he got through himself.  Punch followed with an easy bound, and they all went upstairs.  Graeme found his candle, and lit it and looked at his prisoner.

Johnnie was covered with mould from the potato patch, but his black eyes gleamed through it as brightly as ever, and, as far as Graeme could distinguish through its masking, his face showed no sign of confusion.

“Do you know what we do with naughty little ghosts in England, Johnnie?”

Johnnie’s eyes glittered like a snake’s.

“We spank ’em, Johnnie.  I’m going to spank you—­hard.”

Then Johnnie spoke.

“I’ll put tha evil eye on you.”

“Two if you like, my son,—­or twenty if you’ve got ’em handy.  Evil eyes rather tickle me.  We’ll see which makes most impression—­my hand or your eye,” and he laid the black-magic man across his knee, and gave him such a genuine motherly quilting as he had never experienced in his life before.  Hot blows he was accustomed to, but this cool, relentless, tingling flagellation, all on the one spot, and continued till every particle of blood in his body seemed to leap to meet each stroke, was new to him, and it made a great and lasting impression.

He did not cry, but tried to bite and scratch the operator, and Punch stood looking on with a grave smile on his face and a slowly swinging tail expressive of the greatest satisfaction.