But by evening, exciting gossip had filtered down from the upper chambers and it seemed as if the servants’ hall was in a fever of excitement. The Duchess had threatened to divorce the Duke. The ladies of the house party had all been throwing the Duke amorous glances, and it had come out in one splendid row that the Duke had managed to pleasure all four of the younger married ones during the watches of the night.

Alice, huddled in the scullery over the pots, suddenly thought she knew who was responsible for this seduction of the married ladies of the party. She felt sure it was the wicked ghost masquerading as the present Duke. But it had been a dream. Hadn’t it? She resolved to go to the banqueting hall, just one more time, and if he was there, she would give him a piece of her mind.

The butler was in a furious temper because two bottles of his best claret and one bottle of French brandy were found to be missing. Also, a fine raised pie had been stolen from the larder. One accused the other and eventually the blame fell on the small knife boy who was sorely beaten. Since he had laughed maliciously when Alice had received her beating, she found it hard to have any sympathy for him.

The house party was due to leave in the morning to make the long journey to London, and so the servants were being allowed to go to bed early. Alice was just finishing her work when a shadow fell across the pots. She turned around and found herself staring up at the cadaverous face of the Groom of the Chambers.

He moistened his lips and stared down at her and his hand slid around her waist.

“Alice! Alice! Where is that good-for-nothing!” cried the angry voice of the Cook, and Alice, with a sob of relief, made her escape.

She could hardly wait for the servants to go to bed, sitting hiding in the shadows so that no one would notice her. At last they were all abed and the great house was quiet.

Alice slipped quietly upstairs, through the great hall and up the stone stairs. Sending up a little prayer, she pushed open the door of the banqueting hall.

Empty.

She gave a disappointed sob and sat down at the table, tired and frightened. A ghost might be a poor sort of friend, but she had felt somehow that they could be friends, as if the grave had removed the vast social gulf which lay between them. She arose and walked slowly and miserably through the patches of moonlight to the portrait which hung between the windows.

“Please come back,” she urged, staring upward. “Don’t let it be a dream!”

“Odd’s Fish! Can’t you leave me alone?” said a cross voice directly behind her.