She had scarcely uttered the words when the candlestick fell from her
extended hand, and she stood rooted to the gravel pathway--a statue of
fear.

Exactly opposite to her, slowly advancing towards the open door of the
scullery, she saw an awful figure--whose description was too familiar
to her.

There it was. The ghost--the shadowy image of the man who had destroyed
himself in that house. A tall, spectral figure, robed in a long garment
of grey serge; a scarlet handkerchief twisted round the head rendered
the white face whiter by contrast with it.

As this awful figure approached, Susan Trott stepped backwards on the
grass, leaving the pathway clear for the dreadful visitant.

The ghostly form stalked on with slow and solemn steps, and entered the
house by the scullery door. For some minutes Susan remained standing on
the grass, horror-struck, powerless to move. Then all at once feminine
curiosity got the better even of terror, and she followed the phantom
figure into the house.

From the kitchen doorway she beheld the figure standing on the hearth,
his arms stretched above the fireplace, as if groping for something in
the chimney.

Doubtless this had been the miser's hiding-place for his hoarded gold,
and the ghost returned to the spot where the living man had been
accustomed to conceal his treasures.