He let out his breath in a long sigh. There had been no ghost—any more than there was a Comtesse or a Comte. It was that wretched scullery maid, no better than she should be, tricking the whole of the ton on the arm of her accomplice, and both of them financed by the late Duchess’s jewels. His first impulse was to rush straight to his master and tell him the whole story. But the present Duke, now that he had seen no more of his ghostly ancestor, had become quite proud of the visitation, although he told no one the contents of the ghost’s harangue. Also, there was still a little nagging doubt at the back of Mr. Bessant’s mind.

He could, just could, be wrong. He needed help. But who?

Then he remembered the conversation between Webb and Mr. Russell. He would tell them—and make sure that Lord Harold Webb paid for the information.

So while the ghost immersed himself in his memoirs again in the secret room, Mr. Bessant arranged a meeting with Webb and Mr. Russell for two in the morning when he could be sure all the other guests were in bed. Harold Webb had admittedly stared at him very haughtily, but when he heard that Bessant could supply him with a sure means of revenging himself on that Frenchie pair, he became more cordial and agreed to the interview.

Webb was regretting his decision by two in the morning. His head felt fuzzy with the amount of wine he had drunk and he was a true aristocrat in that he had all those twinges in his bones—inherited from a long line of ancestors—that told him he was about to be asked for money.

He had ungraciously allowed Harry to come along with him since neither of them could really settle on who had hit whom first.

“Damme, if there ain’t a creepy air about this place,” commented Webb sourly as they made their way out into the grounds. They were to meet Mr. Bessant in a rotunda situated on a small knoll above the ornamental lake.

“It’s your liver,” said his friend sourly. “Take rhubarb pills. ’Fore you know it you’ll be seeing folks going through walls again.”

Webb stopped abruptly and turned majestically to stare down at his friend. “You ain’t my friend any longer,” he said grandly. “Go!”

“Shan’t,” said Mr. Russell indifferently. “’Sides, without me you ain’t got any friends. Nobody else can stand you.”

“They are all jealous,” retorted Harold Webb, but nonetheless allowed his friend to follow behind.

Mr. Bessant was already there and waiting for them.

Webb soon found that his bones had not played him false.

“Before I begin,” said Bessant, his cadaverous face oddly lit by a lantern placed on the floor of the rotunda, “I want to make one thing clear, my lord, I wish to be paid for this information.”