It had grown darker as they talked, and the wind was sawing and the sawdust was whirling outside paler windows. The underlying churchyard was already settling into deep dim shade, and the shade was creeping up to the housetops among which they sat. “As if,” said Eugene, “as if the churchyard ghosts were rising.”
He had walked to the window with his cigar in his mouth, to exalt its flavour by comparing the fireside with the outside, when he stopped midway on his return to his armchair, and said:
“Apparently one of the ghosts has lost its way, and dropped in to be directed. Look at this phantom!”
Lightwood, whose back was towards the door, turned his head, and there, in the darkness of the entry, stood a something in the likeness of a man: to whom he addressed the not irrelevant inquiry, “Who the devil are you?”
“I ask your pardons, Governors,” replied the ghost, in a hoarse double-barrelled whisper, “but might either on you be Lawyer Lightwood?”
“What do you mean by not knocking at the door?” demanded Mortimer.
“I ask your pardons, Governors,” replied the ghost, as before, “but probable you was not aware your door stood open.”
“What do you want?”
Hereunto the ghost again hoarsely replied, in its double-barrelled manner, “I ask your pardons, Governors, but might one on you be Lawyer Lightwood?”