Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/188

176 I saw that ghost there in front of me, as plainly as though it had been a real man, a man of flesh and blood. And it was the ghost of Bud Griswold not the old Bud as I had known him, but a sunken-eyed and spectral and shadow-like vision of him.

For one brief moment, as he passed under a street-lamp, those sunken eyes looked at me hesitatingly, accusingly, even reproachfully. And that was about all I remembered.

For I knew, then, that that somewhat busy night had been a little too much for me. I found myself shying off across the pooled asphalt of the open street, without knowing I was doing it, the same as a frightened colt shies at a shadow.

"I'm getting 'em!" I gasped out loud. "I'm seeing things!"

I tried to laugh. But my throat was too tight. So I did the next best thing. I began to run.

I don't think I'd gone fifty feet before I woke up to the fact that one of my suede shoes was missing. It had fitted none too well. And even a two-legged colt, in a panic, can sometimes cast a shoe.

I turned back, to see where that shoe was. As I stood there blinking through the rain, a closed car shuddered to a stop beside me.