alternately scuffling across the floor and falling
prostrate over unseen furniture. The Baron felt for his
host, and realized that this was the escaping Gallosh.

"Tulliwuddle! Speak!" a hollow voice muttered
out of the smoke.

The Baron has never ceased to exult over the hardihood
he displayed in this unnerving crisis. Rising to
his feet and drawing his claymore, he actually managed
to stammer out--

"Who--who are you?"

The Being (he could now perceive dimly that it was
clad in tartan) answered in the same deep, measured
voice--

"Your senses to confound and fuddle,
Behold the Wraith of Tulliwuddle!"


This was sufficiently terrifying, one would think, to
excuse the Baron for following the example of his host.
But, though he found afterwards that he must have
perspired freely, he courageously stood his ground.

"Vy have you gomed here?" he demanded in a voice
nearly as hollow as the Wraith'