I am very fond indeed of Christmas time. There has been little snow this season. I think it has forgotten how to snow in these days. Still, I always feel Christmassy. I think of the good old coaching days, when there was really snow, of Washington, Irving, and good old Dickens and Scott, of the yule log and the family gatherings and re-unions, of the wassail bowl, of frumenty and plum porridge, and mince pies, plum puddings, and holly and mistletoe and big dances in the servants’ hall, of good old ancestral ghosts and hearty good cheer.

I am sitting to-day in a cosy armchair (of the old school, no modern fake) talking to my old friend, Theophilus Greenbracket. Filus, as I call him, is a clever man of many parts; he is a great traveller and sportsman, and takes a deep interest in every mortal thing. There is nothing of the kill joy or fossil about Greenbracket; he is up-to-date and true blue.

He is sitting opposite me smoking a gigantic cigar and imbibing rum punch, and talking hard; he always talks hard, but is never a bore, and never palls on one in the slightest degree. He has an enormous dog at his feet, with a fierce, vindictive expression, which belies its real nature, as it is gentle with everything and everybody, except cats and rats. Greenbracket is, among many other things, a great spiritualist and visionary, and possesses all kinds of mediumistic appliances, such as pythos, planchettes and ouijas, which he works with his old butler, Amos Bradleigh, who is another spirit hunter.

“By the bye,” said Greenbracket, “I am at present taking lessons in music with Mr Easeboy.” He says this so suddenly that he makes me jump, as we were talking about sea serpents[71] and the probability of their existence.

“Are you indeed, old chap,” I said.

“Yes, thorough bass, and consecutive fifths and harmony and all that sort of thing, you know. He has a pupil, Macbeth Churchtimber, who has just written a thundering pretty waltz called ‘Eleanor Wynne.’”

“I thought Churchtimber,” I mildly suggested, “only played severe classical stuff.”

“Oh, yes,” replied my friend, “but he occasionally touches on a lighter theme, and has even written a comic song, called, ‘I lay beside a milestone with a sunflower on my brow.’”

“I must try it someday,” I said, “but how about your ghosts? Have you seen any lately?”

“There was one here a few minutes ago,” said Greenbracket, “a tall man in armour sitting in that corner over there.”

“What rubbish,” I said, quite crossly, “you dream things, or drink, or eat too much.”

“No I don’t,” said Greenbracket, “do you really mean to tell that you felt no sensation just now, no pricking or tingling feeling, or a chilly sensation down your back?”

“Certainly not, nothing of the kind,” I replied.

“Well, that is queer,” he said, “I know you don’t see these things, but I fancied you would have felt a strange presence in some way. I don’t know who the man in armour was. I have not seen him before, but my butler has, at all events. It was not Sir Roger de Wanklyn.”

“Who the ? is he?” I queried.

“Oh,” said my host, “he is the earth-bound spirit of an architect who lived in St Andrews at the time that James the Fifth married Mary of Lorraine in the Cathedral; he says he was present at the ceremony and can describe it all. A gay pageant it was and much revelry.”

“If you can get all this sort of curious information, which I don’t exactly credit, why on earth can’t you find out something practical and useful, for instance, where the secret underground hiding place is, and where all the tons of valuable ornaments, papers, and vestments are concealed?”

“My dear friend,” said Greenbracket solemnly, “these[72] people won’t be pumped; they only tell you what they choose to, or are permitted to reveal.”

“If they really do turn up and talk to you as you say they do, why on earth can’t you get them to talk some useful sense?”

“I really can’t force their confidence,” said Greenbracket, “all they do tell me voluntarily is most interesting and absorbing. This Sir Rodger planned numerous very important structural alterations in the Cathedral and elsewhere.”

“It is all very odd to me,” I said, “one meets people with strange ideas. I met a man years ago at Aberystwith who was a firm believer in the transmigration of sou............