The
seat was empty. Propped up against the hedge was a notice board: "This
House to Let."
"What on earth are you staring at?" Mrs. Burton demanded, with some
acerbity. "A silly little place like that would be no use to us. I
don't know what the people who've been living there could have been
thinking about, to let the garden get into such a state. Fancy a nasty
dark tree like that, too, keeping all the sun away from the house! I'd
have it cut down if it were mine. What on earth are you looking at,
Alfred Burton?"
He turned towards her, heavy-eyed.
"Somewhere under that cedar tree," he said, "a man's soul was buried. I
was wondering if its ghost ever walked!"
Mrs. Burton lifted the speaking-tube to her lips.
"You can take the next turning home, John," she ordered.
The man's hand was mechanically raised to his hat. Mrs. Burton leaned
back once more among the cushions.
"You and your ghosts!" she exclaimed. "If you want to sit there,
thinking like an owl, you'd better try and think of some of your funny
stories for to-night. You'll have to sit next that stuck-up Mrs.
Bomford, and she takes a bit of amusing."
THE END.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Double Life Of Mr.
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