“No, I wouldn’t say he was exactly⁠ ⁠… but there was something queer⁠ ⁠… there was something uncanny about him. I’ll tell you my opinion.⁠ ⁠…”

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery.

“I have my own theory about it,” he said. “I think it was one of those⁠ ⁠… peculiar cases.⁠ ⁠… But it’s hard to say.⁠ ⁠…”

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me:

“Well, so your old friend is gone, you’ll be sorry to hear.”

“Who?” said I.

“Father Flynn.”