Читать «Лучшие мистические истории на английском / The Stories of Mystery» онлайн - страница 12

‘Now, in some natures, these holes are comparatively large, and are constantly coming into opposition. Clairvoyants, mediums are like that. But, as far as I knew, I had no clairvoyant or mediumistic powers at all. I therefore am the sort of person who long ago made up his mind that he never would see a ghost. It was, so to speak, an incalculable chance that my minute spy-hole should come into opposition with the other. But it did: and it knocked me out of time.’

I had heard some such theory before, and though Hugh put it rather picturesquely, there was nothing in the least convincing or practical about it. It might be so, or again it might not.

‘I hope your ghost was more original than your theory,’ said I, in order to bring him to the point.

‘Yes, I think it was. You shall judge.’

I put on more coal and poked up the fire. Hugh has got, so I have always considered, a great talent for telling stories, and that sense of drama which is so necessary for the narrator. Indeed, before now, I have suggested to him that he should take this up as a profession, sit by the fountain in Piccadilly Circus, when times are, as usual, bad, and tell stories to the passers-by in the street, Arabian fashion, for reward. The most part of mankind, I am aware, do not like long stories, but to the few, among whom I number myself, who really like to listen to lengthy accounts of experiences, Hugh is an ideal narrator. I do not care for his theories, or for his similes, but when it comes to facts, to things that happened, I like him to be lengthy.

‘Go on, please, and slowly,’ I said. ‘Brevity may be the soul of wit, but it is the ruin of story-telling. I want to hear when and where and how it all was, and what you had for lunch and where you had dined and what —’

Hugh began:

‘It was the 24th of June, just eighteen months ago,’ he said. ‘I had let my flat, you may remember, and came up from the country to stay with you for a week. We had dined alone here – ’

I could not help interrupting.

‘Did you see the ghost here?’ I asked. ‘In this square little box of a house in a modern street?’

‘I was in the house when I saw it.’

I hugged myself in silence.

‘We had dined alone here in Graeme Street,’ he said, ‘and after dinner I went out to some party, and you stopped at home. At dinner your man did not wait, and when I asked where he was, you told me he was ill, and, I thought, changed the subject rather abruptly. You gave me your latch-key when I went out, and on coming back, I found you had gone to bed. There were, however, several letters for me, which required answers. I wrote them there and then, and posted them at the pillar-box opposite. So I suppose it was rather late when I went upstairs.