“All right, Governors Both,” returned the ghost, carefully closing the room door; “ ’tickler business.”

Mortimer lighted the candles. They showed the visitor to be an ill-looking visitor with a squinting leer, who, as he spoke, fumbled at an old sodden fur cap, formless and mangey, that looked like a furry animal, dog or cat, puppy or kitten, drowned and decaying.

“Now,” said Mortimer, “what is it?”

“Governors Both,” returned the man, in what he meant to be a wheedling tone, “which on you might be Lawyer Lightwood?”

“I am.”

“Lawyer Lightwood,” ducking at him with a servile air, “I am a man as gets my living, and as seeks to get my living, by the sweat of my brow. Not to risk being done out of the sweat of my brow, by any chances, I should wish afore going further to be swore in.”

“I am not a swearer in of people, man.”