The magnificent turn of
its short upper lip, and the soft voluptuous line of its under lip;
its sportive dimples and ripe red colour; its even rows of dazzling,
pearly teeth were adorable; but they appealed to the senses, and in no
sense or shape to the soul. Her brows, slightly irregular in outline,
met over the nose; her eyelashes were of great length, and her
eyes--slightly, ever so slightly, obliquely set, and larger than those
of living human beings--were black, black as her hair; and the pupils
sparkled and shone with the most damnable expression of satanical
hatred and glee. The whole thing, the face and the light that emanated
from it, was so entirely awful and devilish, that Captain Smythe sat
like one turned to stone, and it was not until long after it had
vanished that he groped his way to the door, and in Adam's costume,
for he dared not stay to put on his clothes, fled down the passage to
his bedroom. From his wife he got little sympathy; her sarcasm was too deep for
words, and she merely ordered her husband on no account to breathe a
word of his "silliness" before either the children or the servants. The injunction, however, which was naturally carried out to the
letter, was futile as a precaution, for, on running into the bathroom
one morning when every one else was downstairs, the eldest boy,
Ronald, saw, floating in the bath, the body of a hoary-headed old man. It was bloated and purplish blue, and had big, glassy eyes that stared
at him in such a hideous, meaningless manner that he uttered a scream
of terror and fled. Alarmed at the noise, most of the household ran to
see what had happened. Only the Captain remained behind. He knew only
too well, and he hid, letting his wife and the servants go upstairs
alone. They entered the bathroom--there was nothing in the bath, not
even water, but, as they were leaving, they ran into a dark, handsome,
evil-eyed woman, clad in the most costly of dresses, and sparkling
with jewellery. She glided past them with sly, silent footsteps, and
vanished by the cupboard. Cured of scepticism, and throwing dignity to
the wind, the Captain's wife raced downstairs, and, bursting into the
drawing-room, flung herself on the sofa in hysterics. Within a week the house was once again empty, and the rumour getting
about that it was haunted, the landlord threatened the Smythes with an
action for slander of title. But I do not think the case was taken to
court, the Smythes agreeing to contradict the report they had
originated. Astute inquiries, however, eventually led them to discover
that a lady, answering to the description of the ghost they had seen,
had once lived at ---- House. Of Spanish descent, she was young,
beautiful, and gay; and was married to a man, an extremely wealthy man
(people remembered how rich he was after he died), old enough to be
her grandfather. They had nothing in common, the husband only wanting
to be quiet, the wife to flirt and be admired. Their neighbours often
heard them quarrel, and it was declared that the wife possessed the
temper of a fiend. The man was eventually found dead in his bath, and
there being no indications of violence, it was generally supposed that
he had fainted, (his wife having been previously heard to declare that
he often had fainting fits), and had thus been accidentally drowned. The beautiful young widow, who inherited all his money, left the house
immediately and went abroad, and the neighbours, when questioned by
the Smythes as to whether anything had been seen of her since, shook
their heads dubiously, but refused to commit themselves. CASE XI

    THE CHOKING GHOST OF "---- HOUSE," NEAR
      SANDYFORD PLACE, GLASGOW


The last time I was passing through Glasgow, I put up for the night at
an hotel near Sandyford Place, and met there an old theatrical
acquaintance named Browne, Hely Browne. Not having seen him since I
gave up acting, which is now, alas! a good many years, we had much to
discuss--touring days, lodgings, managers, crowds, and a dozen other
subjects, all included in the vulgar term "shop." We spent the whole
of one evening debating thus, in the smoke-room; whilst the following
night we went to an entertainment given by that charming reciter and
raconteur, Miss Lilian North, who, apart from her talent, which, in my
opinion, places her in the first rank of her profession, is the
possessor of extraordinary personal attractions, not the least
remarkable of which are her hands. Indeed, it was through my attention
being called to the latter, that I am indirectly indebted for this
story. Miss North has typically psychic hands--exquisitely white and
narrow, and her long, tapering fingers and filbert nails (which, by
the way, are always trimly manicured) are the most perfect I have ever
seen. I was alluding to them, on our way back to the hotel after her
performance, when Hely Browne interrupted me. "Talking about psychic things, O'Donnell," he said, "do you know there
is a haunted house near where we are staying? You don't? Very well,
then, if I tell you what I know and you write about it, will you
promise not to allude to the house by its right number? If you do,
there will be the dickens to pay--simply call it '---- House,' near
Sandyford Place. You promise? Good! Let us take a little stroll before
we turn in--I feel I want a breath of fresh air--and I will tell you
the experience I once had there. It is exactly two years ago, and I
was on tour here in _The Green Bushes_. All the usual theatrical
'diggings' had been snapped up long before I arrived, and, not
knowing where else to go, I went to No.--Sandyford Place, which I saw
advertised in one of the local papers as a first-class private hotel
with very moderate charges. A wild bit of extravagance, eh? But then
one does do foolish things sometimes, and, to tell the truth, I wanted
a change badly. I had 'digged' for a long time with a fellow called
Charlie Grosvenor. Not at all a bad chap, but rather apt to get on
one's nerves after a while--and he had got on mine--horribly. Consequently, I was not at all sorry for an excuse to get away from
him for a bit, even though I had to pay dearly for it. A private hotel
in a neighbourhood like that of Sandyford Place is a big order for an
ordinary comedian. I forget exactly what the terms were, but I know I
pulled rather a long face when I was told. Still, being, as I say,
tired of the usual 'digs,' I determined to try it, and accordingly
found myself landed in a nice-sized bedroom on the second floor. The
first three nights passed, and nothing happened, saving that I had the
most diabolical nightmares--a very unusual thing for me. 'It was the
cheese,' I said to myself, when I got out of bed the first morning; 'I
will take very good care I don't touch cheese to-night.' I kept this
resolution, but I had the nightmare again, and even, if anything,
worse than before.