Of late years the increase of interest taken in things psychical, particularly among the more educated classes, the classes that were at one time incorrigibly sceptical, has been enormous. I believe this to be mainly due to the fact that people are no longer satisfied with the scriptural declaration of another world. They want proof of it—that is to say, absolutely authentic and corroborative evidence that it exists—and they feel that they can only obtain such evidence by witnessing superphysical manifestations themselves. Psychical Research Societies, perhaps, convince them even less than the Bible. And naturally, for the scientist, even though he be titled, can hardly hope to accomplish in one generation what theologians, of an equal if not superior intelligence, have attempted and failed to accomplish throughout the ages. Hence, I am of the opinion that one can learn more from one spontaneous ghostly manifestation in a haunted house than from a thousand lectures, or a thousand books. Experience is the only medium of conviction, and so long as people are without a personal experience relating to another world, they can never really believe. The boy in rags and tatters may be far more conversant with—may know far more about—a future life than the more learned Professor at the University. But no one can logically claim to be an absolute authority on the Unknown; the most any of us can do—even those of us who have actually seen and heard spirit manifestations—the rest do not count—is to speculate. When we attempt to do more, we label ourselves fools.

Of all the professions, none, I believe, is more interested in this question of another world than the theatrical. I have a great many friends amongst actors and actresses, and I find them not only keenly interested in my work, but always ready—even when working hard themselves—to share my vigils in a haunted house.

Only the other day, at a concert given by the Irish Literary Society in Hanover Square, I was introduced to Miss Odette Goimbault, who recently delighted London audiences by her impersonation of the child “Doris” in “On Trial” at the Lyric Theatre. Odette Goimbault is unquestionably pretty—but there is much in her looks besides mere prettiness. She has eyes that are extraordinarily spiritual, eyes that seem to look right into the soul of things and see things that are not generally seen by ordinary mortals.

When a very small child, Odette Goimbault lived with her mother in a house at Thornton Heath. A lady died of consumption in the flat immediately beneath Mrs. Goimbault’s, and after the burial, Odette, though previously very fond of staying up late, used, every night, precisely at seven o’clock, to beg her mother to take her upstairs to bed, declaring, in a great state of terror and with tears in her eyes, that she saw an old man with only one leg standing in a corner of the room shaking his stick at her. When once she was taken out of the room her fears subsided.

In my opinion she is an ideal young actress for the pourtrayal of soul, for the transmittal of a sense of soul to the audience, and I think there is no one, either on the stage or off it, who looks more in touch with the spiritual world than Odette Goimbault.

But stronger even than its hold upon the theatrical profession is the stand that psychism has taken with regard to the present war.

Ever since the fighting began I have heard speculations raised as to whether our soldiers at the Front have been witnessing ghostly manifestations or not. So far, I must own that I have elicited very little reliable evidence on this point, but the circumstances have established at least one interesting fact, and that is, that to the man in the street the question of another world has at last become a matter of some importance.

The wife of a very eminent official at the War Office told me a few weeks ago that officers who took part in the Dardanelles Expedition assured her that figures believed to be ghosts were on several occasions seen gliding over the ground after an engagement, especially where the dead bodies of the Turks lay thickest. The same lady also told me that when a certain regiment formed up after a brilliant charge, in which it had suffered very severe casualties, some of the gaps in the ranks were observed to be filled by shadowy forms—forms which disappeared the moment anyone attempted to touch them.

Neither my informant nor any of the soldiers from the Front that I have met have been able to give me any information as to the alleged superphysical demonstrations in the sky during the retreat from Mons. But I should like to record here, in connection with the war, a case I heard in Paris. I published an account of it in the November, 1915, number of “The Occult Review,” and now reproduce it through the courtesy of Mr. Ralph Shirley:

“The mention of Ferdinand of Bulgaria brings vividly back to my memory two stories I heard about him, when I was dining one evening in June, 1914, at the renowned Henriette’s Restaurant in Montparnasse. Two men were seated at a table close beside me, and I eventually got into conversation with them. They informed me they were journalists, and that their names were Guilgaut and Bonivon respectively.

“‘You would laugh, if you knew where I spent last night,’ I observed. ‘I was in an alleged haunted flat in Montrouge. I don’t suppose either of you believes in ghosts?’

“‘I do,’ Guilgaut said. ‘I have had more than one experience with an apparition in my life, and so has my friend.’

“‘Yes,’ chimed in Bonivon, ‘we have good cause to remember ghosts, since we stayed six weeks in a haunted hotel in Bucharest, and never had such an infernally uncomfortable time either before or since. We never saw the ghost ourselves, but one of the other lodgers declared he did, and used to wake us every other night by the most unholy screams.’

“They then talked a lot about their adventures in the Balkans, and finally alluded to Ferdinand of Bulgaria. ‘If ever a man is haunted, he is,’ Guilgaut remarked. ‘I believe he never leaves his room at night without the shadow of Stambuloff, whose death he brought about in 1895. It simply steps out from the wall and follows him.’

“‘That is a lot of exaggeration,’ Bonivon said with a laugh. ‘But, quite seriously, we heard on very excellent authority that on more than one occasion a figure has been seen accompanying Ferdinand sometimes when dining and sometimes when walking, and that it has been recognised by the spectators as Stambuloff, the dead Minister. Once, we were told, Ferdinand visited a certain Princess, and it was remarked that Her Royal Highness appeared strangely embarrassed and perturbed. At last someone ventured to enquire of the lady-in-waiting, who also appeared to be greatly perturbed, what was the matter. “It’s that man,” was the whispered reply, “that man who persists in standing beside His Majesty. He never takes his eyes from our faces, and he looks just like a corpse.” Her interrogator asked her to describe the figure, which he said was quite invisible to him.

“‘She did so, and the description tallied exactly with that of Stambuloff.’

“‘Tell him about Ferdinand and the fortune-teller,’ Guilgaut said.

“‘Yes, that happened when we were staying close to his Kohary estates,’ Bonivon responded. ‘Ferdinand is notoriously sly and mean, and one day, as he was passing through the village where we were staying, he chanced to encounter a charming Hungarian maiden, who eked out a very precarious livelihood hawking ribbons and telling fortunes. Ferdinand had his hand read, and, thinking to trap the girl, disguised himself and went to her again the following evening. To his astonishment, although the make-up was skilful, for Ferdinand is a born actor in more senses than one, the girl recognised him at once as the gentleman who had been to her the previous evening. “I was expecting you,” she said. “Expecting me?” Ferdinand stammered. “How is that? I’ve told no one.” “Oh, fie!” the girl remonstrated, shaking her finger at him. “The gentleman who accompanied you last night came here himself an hour ago and told me you were coming.” “What was he like?” Ferdinand asked, shaking all over. “Like,” the girl retorted pertly. “Why, you know as well as I do,” and she rattled off a description of the man, which tallied exactly with that of the dead Stambuloff, whom, by-the-way, Guilgaut and I had seen many scores of times in the early eighties. “Your friend,” the girl continued, “left a message for you. He said—tell him when he comes that he will perish in very much the same manner as I have done; and he showed me his hand.” “And what did you see?” Ferdinand asked. “I saw the same ending to the life line in his hand as I see in yours,” the girl replied. “Why, there is your friend! He is beckoning to you. You had better go to him.” And, to her astonishment, Ferdinand walked off in the opposite direction.

“‘We had the story first hand. She told it us two or three days afterwards, and expressed great anxiety as to the identity of the two men who had behaved so strangely to her.’”

Only one case of haunting at the actual Front has been related to me. I will state it in my own words.

It happened during the retreat from N——.

The O——’s had suffered heavily, and, in the scramble to get out of the deadly fire zone, small parties of them, owing to the nature of the country, had got isolated from the main body and left behind. This was the case with a dozen or so men of B Company, who, after racing across a field amid a hail of shrapnel, had clambered over a formidable barrier of barbed wire into a dense wood.

Under cover of a thick cluster of trees they sat down and doctored their wounds. There was not a sound man amongst them. Sergeant Mackay had been struck in three places in his right leg; Corporal MacIntyre had had a good square inch of flesh taken off his thigh; Private Findlay had lost three of his fingers; and Bugler Scott—an ear; while, in addition to these slight inconveniences, they were all ravenously hungry and parched with thirst.

“I suggest,” said Sergeant Mackay, after a brief lull in their conversation, “that we push on again and see if we can find some sort of habitation where we can get a mouthful.”

“Aye, mon!” Corporal MacIntyre replied, for during such “sauve qui peuts” all formality of rank is dropped, “It’s the wee drappie I’m thinking after, and unless we get some of it pretty soon there’ll not be any of us left to need it. I’m bleeding like a pig, and so are a good many more of us.”

“Very well, then,” Sergeant Mackay observed, rising with difficulty, and wincing in spite of his efforts to appear comfortable. “Let us press on.”

The men were all absolutely ignorant of their surroundings. They had seen nothing of the country save from the train, and during a few hours’ tramp from the railway depot to the lines they had just evacuated. Consequently, for all they knew to the contrary, the wood that lay in front of them might stretch for miles, or might be inhabited by anything from grizly bears to hyÆnas—for the knowledge of the British “Tommy” with regard to the fauna and flora of Belgium is extremely limited.

Threading their way through the thick undergrowth, they stole stealthily forward, the roar of artillery still sounding faintly in their ears, till at length they emerged into a wide clearing, at the far extremity of which stood a neatly thatched white cottage. It was so home-like with its small plot of flower-bedecked garden, its walls covered with clematis and honeysuckle, and its tiny spiral column of smoke curling heavenwards, that the bleeding and exhausted men gave deep sighs of relief.

“Reminds me of Scotland,” Private Findlay whispered.

“It’s as like my mother’s cottage as two peas,” Private Callum retorted.

They halted, and were looking at Sergeant Mackay to see what he would do—for bold as the O——’s are in battle, they are often among the most bashful of His Majesty’s troops in time of peace—when suddenly the door of the cottage opened and an old woman appeared on the threshold, armed with a blunderbuss. Glaring fiercely and shouting, she put the weapon to her hip and fired. There was a loud bang, and one or two of the men uttered ejaculations of pain.

“God save us!” Sergeant Mackay cried. “The gude wife takes us for Germans.” Then addressing the woman, who was pouring another handful of shot into the muzzle of her infernal piece of antiquity, he called out, “Are ye daft or glaikit? Dinna ken that we are Scots. Anglais.”

It was the only word of French the Highlander knew, and, on shouting it three times in rapid succession, and with increased emphasis, it had effect. The old woman lowered her weapon, and shading her eyes with a lean, brown, and knotted hand, exclaimed. “Ah, moi dieu, les Anglais! On me dit que les Anglais sont les amis des Belgiques. Et je vous aurai tuÉ! Pardonnez-moi messieurs.”

This speech was of course lost upon the Highlanders, who would have laughed—so comic was the picture of this old woman with the ancient gun—had they not been faint from exhaustion.

Now, as she beckoned to them to approach, they doffed their caps and filed in at her gate, Sergeant Mackay leading the way.

The interior of the house was as they had expected—scrupulously neat and clean.

“Wipe your boots, boys,” Sergeant Mackay whispered. “We mustn’t put the old lady out more than we can help.”

They all trooped in. As soon as they were seated the old woman vanished through a low doorway, reappearing a few seconds later laden with bread and cheese and wine, which she watched them eat and drink with perfect satisfaction, and when they had finished, conducted them to a loft at the back of the cottage, where she made them understand by signs they could lie as long as they pleased.

“I kinna think,” Sergeant Mackay said, as soon as their hostess had retired, “where the Germans are. It’s passing strange they have not put in an appearance here.”

“Maybe they’ve gone by and missed this spot. It’s nae sae handy,” Private Findlay said. “Anyhow, I’m for sleeping—for it’s ten days since I shut my eyes.”

“It’s the same with me,” ejaculated Private McCallum. “I hae not slept a wink since we left Plymouth.”

Apparently they were all of the same opinion—namely, that they needed rest; and, without further ado, every man selected a place in the hay, stretched himself out at full length, and was soon fast asleep. The afternoon wore away, the sun set, and one by one the stars made their appearance, but still the men slept.

The gloom of the forest thickened, and with the long and waving shadows of the elms and beeches crept forth forms of a more tangible and sinister nature. Sergeant Mackay awoke with a start, and, springing to his feet, strained his ears and listened.

“Nightmare!” he said. “I made certain the Germans had got hold of me. Weel, weel, it’s nowt but a dream. I will go and see what the gude wife is about, and, perhaps, if she hae not gone to bed, she will gie us some hot tea or milk—that red wine of hers hae made me uncommon thirsty.” He scrambled down on to the ground, and, leaving the rest of the men still asleep, crossed the yard and pushed open the door leading to the kitchen. He was about to enter, when there came a half-choking cry and the front of the house filled with soldiers. Sergeant Mackay knew them at once—they were Germans! Shrinking back into the shadow of the doorway he stood and listened. Though he could not understand their jargon, he soon formed an idea of what was taking place. They had caught the old woman by surprise and were discussing what they should do with her. Had the O——s been armed, Sergeant Mackay would not have hesitated—he would have staked anything on a win against odds at six to one, but in their hasty flight the men had left their rifles behind them, and it would be sheer suicide for them to attack the Germans with their bare fists. Therefore it at once entered his mind to slip out quietly and warn his comrades, so that they could escape without their presence being detected. A cry of pain, however, made him hesitate.

Two Germans had hold of the old woman’s arms and were twisting them round.

The difficulty of his position was not lost on Sergeant Mackay. If he played the knight errant and helped the old woman, he would not be able to give his comrades the necessary warning, and they would all be taken prisoners—perhaps shot. On the other hand this gude wife had been extremely kind to them, and was proving her loyalty by maintaining an absolute silence as to their presence in the cottage. Could he stand by and see her abused? He could not. There was too much of the Gael in him for that, and as the old woman gave another gurgle, he stepped out from his hiding place, and picking up a kitchen chair, rushed at her captors, both of whom he stunned. He was, of course, eventually borne down by numbers, and dragged to the ground.

“What shall we do with him?” one of the men who were holding him asked. “The dog! He has broken Fritz’s head, and more than half killed Hans. He has arms like a bullock.”

“Hang him,” the sergeant in charge of the men replied. “Tie him and the old woman together and hang them from this beam.” And he pointed to a great, white rafter running across the ceiling.

Sergeant Mackay’s uniform should, of course, have protected him, but, then, as the German sergeant put it, this cottage was well hidden in the woods, the English were evacuating the country, and no one was likely to come across the bodies, saving Belgian peasants who dare not say anything, and German soldiers who would not say anything. So Sergeant Mackay was dragged up from the floor, beaten and bruised till there was very little of him left, bound tightly to the old gude wife, and hanged with her. The Germans then ransacked the house, and were preparing to explore the outer premises, when a bugle rang out, and they hurriedly left the cottage. Ten minutes later, when all was quiet, into the house, on tip-toe, stole the rest of the O——s.

“God save us!” ejaculated Private Findlay, starting back and pointing to the grim figures swaying gently from the ceiling. “God save us! Sae what the deils hae done!”

......

“Halt!” The word of the Colonel, transmitted by his adjutant to the head of the column, brought the O——s to a dead stop.

For this they were not altogether sorry, as they had been footing it for eight or nine hours on end—and every little respite was welcome. But the Colonel in this instance, at least, was not intentionally a good Samaritan. He had halted, not for the purpose of resting his men, but because he was fogged as to his whereabouts. The night was inky black, the country difficult—all hills, deep depressions and thick woods—and the Colonel, relying implicitly on the guidance of his intelligence officer, whom he supposed had made himself thoroughly familiar with the locality, found himself obviously going astray. He should now be at a railway bridge, which was six miles from the village of Etigny, the last landmark. But no such bridge, as far as he could judge, was anywhere near, and Lambert, the intelligence officer, on being questioned, admitted he did not exactly know where they were. That is why the Colonel had halted. His object was to make a flank attack on the German outposts, who were supposed to be in hiding in a wood, some three miles to the south of T——, where the extreme right of their main army lay, and obviously it was of no use advancing any further until he had ascertained the direction in which he must steer.

In this wood was a cottage, that had been enlarged and fortified, and hitherto used as a place of internment and hospital for English prisoners, until they could be transported to Potsdam. Reports had reached the English C.O. that the Germans intended killing all their prisoners, if compelled to evacuate T——, and so the O——s were to endeavour to rescue these prisoners, whilst at the same time outflanking and cutting off the German outposts. The movement had, of course, to be in the nature of an entire surprise, and the hospital to be rushed, if possible, without any firing. According to Lambert, the wood was about one mile due east of the railway bridge, and there was a tiny path near a mill, on the outskirts of it, that led to the rear of the cottage. To miss this path would be dangerous, as the wood elsewhere was covered with morass and full of quarries.

“Well, Lambert,” the Colonel said, “you have led us into a deuced rotten hole, and you must get us out of it somehow. Surely you have some idea of our whereabouts.”

Lambert peered again into the darkness and shook his head. “On a night like this,” he argued, “it is easy to make mistakes. We must have come much further to the west than I intended.”

“Well, then, we had better veer round and make for the extreme east,” the Colonel said tartly.

“Would it not be as well to return to Etigny, sir,” the Adjutant suggested.

“What, six miles—lose all that time—and with our men already pretty well exhausted!” the Colonel retorted angrily. “No, that is utterly out of the question. Lambert has brought us here, and, egad, he must take us on to our destination.”

Lambert took a few paces into the darkness, and was again peering round, when a young lieutenant approached the Colonel and saluted.

“If you please, sir,” he said, “a man has just arrived who says he will act as our guide.”

“A man! A German, I suppose you mean? What language does he speak?”

“English. At least in part. He is a Scot. Shall I bring him to you?”

The Colonel gave a gruff assent, and in a few minutes the subaltern returned, followed by a tall figure enveloped in a long black cloak. With one accord the Colonel, the Adjutant and Lambert all swung round and eyed him curiously.

“Who and what are you?” demanded the Colonel.

“I’m an inhabitant of these parts,” the stranger answered, “and I have come to offer you my services as guide.”

“You’re in the pay of the Germans, of course,” the Colonel retorted sharply. “How did you know we wanted a guide?”

“I overheard your conversation.”

“What!” the Colonel cried furiously. “You have been listening to what we were saying. Take him away, Anderson, and have him shot at once.”

No one moved. A sort of spell stole over Lambert, the Adjutant, and Anderson, and held them rooted to the ground. The Colonel repeated his order, and was about to lay hands on the stranger himself, when the latter waved him back.

“In an emergency like this, Colonel R——,” he said, “you must take what Providence sends you. I am no more a German spy than is your son, Alec, who is, probably, at the present moment returning from an afternoon’s march out with the O.T.C. at Cheltenham.”

“Great Heavens,” the Colonel gasped, “how do you know I have a son Alec, and that he is at Cheltenham. Who are you, sir? A renegade?”

“No, Colonel, I’m not,” came the reply. “I’m someone in whom you can place perfect confidence. Trust yourself to me and I will conduct you at once to the cottage in the wood.”

“It’s very extraordinary. I don’t for the life of me know what to make of it,” the Colonel muttered, turning to the group of officers by his side. “What do you advise, Lambert?”

“Under the circumstances, sir,” Lambert replied slowly, “I should trust him. You can have him shot if he leads us wrong.”

“That’s true,” the Colonel murmured, and turning to the stranger, “Did you hear what Major Lambert said? I can have you shot, if you lead us astray. And, by Jove, I will. Take your position at the head of the column. If we are successful, I will see that you are adequately rewarded; if you betray us—you die. Do you understand?”

“I do, Colonel,” the stranger replied, “and I accept your conditions willingly.”

He stepped back, and, at a signal from the Colonel, followed Lieutenant Anderson to the head of the column. A sergeant and a corporal—two old and tried veterans—took up their positions a pace or two behind him, and, at a word from the Colonel, the whole battalion was once more on the move. On and on they went. A dull tramp, tramp, tramp, but in a completely different direction from the one in which they had previously been going. It was all so pitch dark that the corporal and the sergeant had to keep very close to the stranger to see him.

“He marches just like one of us,” the Sergeant whispered, “and yet I kenna hear the sound of his feet. What do you make of him?”

“I don’t know,” the Corporal replied. “I seem to know him, and yet I haven’t seen a feature of his face. Something about him reminds me of the night I escaped from N——. It strikes me, Sergeant, that the cottage the Colonel is after is the very one in which we took shelter.”

“Then you know the way?”

“Nae,” Corporal Findlay replied. “I was too rushed and scared that night to remember much. The only thing I can remember seeing plainly is those two corpses swinging from the beam—Sergeant Mackay’s and the gude wife’s—and the scene comes back to me vividly now as I look at this guide of ours. Why, I dinna ken.”

“Be ready to shoot him, mon, the instant there’s treachery,” the Sergeant whispered.

“Aye, Aye!” Corporal Findlay replied, tapping the barrel of his rifle knowingly. “He’ll nae want a second dose.”

On and on they tramped, till presently they forsook the highway for a field, and then, plunging down and down, eventually found themselves upon level ground facing some trees. “This is the wood,” the guide observed, “and here is the path. After we have travelled along it in Indian file, and on tiptoe, for two miles, we shall emerge into a small clearing, where a low mud wall, overtopped by a machine gun, will confront us. The soldiers supposed to be on duty there have been drinking red wine all day, and are now sleeping. If you approach noiselessly you will be able to climb the wall and take them by surprise. The cottage is then yours.”

“But there are sentries in the wood.”

“One! He will be leaning on his rifle dozing. You must creep up to him and settle him before he has time to make a sound. I will tell you when we approach him.”

The guide advanced, and the whole battalion of O——s stalked along behind him.

“I shall be gay glad when this job is over,” Corporal Findlay murmured. “I would as soon spend the night in a kirkyard.”

However, although every now and then a rustling of leaves that heralded a rabbit made them start, and the ominous screech of an owl caused the hair on the scalp of more than one superstitious Celt to bristle, so far there was no real cause for alarm, and on and on the battalion stole. At last their guide halted, and every man behind him instantly followed suit. He whispered to Corporal Findlay and the Sergeant, and, making way to let them pass, kept close to their heels, guiding them by what appeared to be a minute bull’s-eye lantern.

On turning a sharp bend in the path, Corporal Findlay and the Sergeant saw the sentry, as their guide had described him, asleep, and, before he had time to awake, Corporal Findlay had dashed him to the ground with a swinging blow from the butt-end of his rifle. Three minutes later, and the head of the column found itself facing the mud wall and the machine-gun. This was the critical moment. If their guide meant mischief, now was his opportunity. Following closely at his heels, their rifle and revolver at his head, the Sergeant and Corporal crept up to the wall, and, one by one, the rest of the O——s filed into the open space after them. Holding their breath the Highlanders laid hold of the top of the wall, then with a sudden stoop, they swung themselves upwards. The sleeping sentinels awoke, but only to feel one short, sharp thrust—and the pangs of death. The outer position won, the Highlanders next turned their attention to the cottage and the enclosed space in front of it. There, a strong body of German infantry were stationed, and, as they came rushing out to meet the intruders, they shared the same fate as their companions. In ten minutes there was not a German left alive, and the O——s, their bayonets dripping with blood, were busy liberating the English prisoners. When it was all over, and the Colonel and his staff were sitting down in the front parlour of the cottage enjoying some refreshment, Colonel R—— suddenly remembered the guide. “Anderson,” he said, “fetch that fellow—our guide—in here. It’s not very gracious behaviour on our part to leave him outside, for, egad, if it had not been for him we should not be where we are. Moreover, I want to see him—I’ve an idea he’s someone I know.”

The subaltern departed, and after an interval of some minutes returned, followed only by Corporal Findlay.

“Hulloa!” exclaimed the Colonel, looking up sharply from his meal. “This is not the man I wanted. Where is he?”

“If you please, sir,” the subaltern said, in a voice full of suppressed excitement, “Corporal Findlay can tell you all about it—he was the last to see him.”

“The last to see him,” growled the Colonel. “Why, what the deuce do you mean. Where is he?”

“I can’t say, sir,” Corporal Findlay began. “After the fight was over I followed him into this cottage, right into this room. And he halted just where you are sitting, under that beam,” and he pointed to the great, white rafter immediately over the Colonel’s head. “He then turned round, sir, and drawing aside the cloak, that had hitherto hidden his face, showed himself to me!”

“Good God, man, you needn’t look so frightened!” the Colonel cried. “He wasn’t the devil, was he?”

“No, sir, he wasn’t the devil,” Corporal Findlay responded. “He was Sergeant Mackay of the first battalion—and the last time I had set eyes on him was in this room on the night of the retreat from N——, when I and several others of the O——s found him hanging from that rafter—dead.”

“And then,” said the Colonel, after a long pause, “and then what happened?”

“Why, sir,” Corporal Findlay replied, “he smiled, as if something had pleased him mightily, and waving his hand—disappeared.”

“And you expect me to believe such a cock and bull story as that,” the Colonel said slowly.

“It’s the truth, sir,” Corporal Findlay said slowly. “Sergeant Scott can corroborate it, for he was with me all the time.”

“There’s no need to do that,” the Colonel answered, “for I know you have spoken the truth. This is by no means my first experience with ghosts—only—for goodness sake do you and Sergeant Scott say nothing about it to the other men. If you do there won’t be an ounce of nerves left among them by the morning. Germans are one thing, but ghosts another! It was a splendid revenge for Sergeant Mackay!”

......

The stories I have just narrated must be taken for what they are worth. Though I believe they were told me in good faith, I cannot vouch for them.