By Clifford Ashdown,
Author of "The Adventures of Romney Pringle."
How I Helped to Lay a Ghost.
A Complete Story.
"Well, Jarvis, anything the matter at the stable?" I asked, as the coachman entered rather breathlessly.
"No, sir; it's at the bank."
"The bank!" I echoed. "Why, they closed long ago, didn't they?"
"Yes, sir; that is, not altogether, sir. As I passed there, coming back from tea, I saw Mr. Major, the constable, who asked me to run and fetch you at once, as someone was hurt."
I was at Ashtreecroft, in West Berks, a little north of the Hants border, and I have seen few prettier spots even in that region of picturesque villages. I had heard of the practice from the agent as one that was growing rather beyond the single-handed powers of Sayfield, its owner; and as I had always had the idea of a partnership as the most satisfactory way of purchasing a practice, I agreed to take charge for a month to learn the best and the worst it had to offer. The fact is, I was beginning to chafe at my perpetual packing up and moving on—one month here, another there, for all the world like a strolling player; and now that Miss Innes had become such an important factor in my life, I pined more than ever for a settled habitation. Nothing calling for particular notice occurred during the greater part of the first month—indeed, had it not been for the special interest I took in what I began to regard as my own practice, the work might have seemed monotonous, and it was not until the third week of my stay that the event I am about to relate took place. It was now the third Wednesday—a date I remember for this reason: the business at Ashtreecroft being small, the bank, which was but a branch of a larger establishment at Reading, only opened on the Wednesday market-day. The office was on the ground floor of a little house in what, had the village been of more importance, would, I suppose, have attained the rank of the High Street; but as the only thoroughfare of the place it had no name, and the word "Bank" on the window was all that guided customers to what seemed in other respects a private residence.
"Mr. Major is waiting for you in the yard, doctor," said the policeman standing at the door, which he carefully shut behind me, and then led the way to a cobble-paved yard at the back, which opened into an alley running parallel with the High Street, as I had better call it. Here I found the senior constable endeavouring by threats and entreaties to clear the premises of a little group of villagers, unwilling to be deprived of a spectacle about as interesting in their dull lives as a travelling circus. The centre of attraction was the prostrate body of a young man, lying, apparently lifeless, by the back door of the bank.
