Miss North has typically psychic hands--exquisitely white and
narrow, and her long, tapering fingers and filbert nails (which, by
the way, are always trimly manicured) are the most perfect I have ever
seen. I was alluding to them, on our way back to the hotel after her
performance, when Hely Browne interrupted me.
"Talking about psychic things, O'Donnell," he said, "do you know there
is a haunted house near where we are staying? You don't? Very well,
then, if I tell you what I know and you write about it, will you
promise not to allude to the house by its right number? If you do,
there will be the dickens to pay--simply call it '---- House,' near
Sandyford Place. You promise? Good! Let us take a little stroll before
we turn in--I feel I want a breath of fresh air--and I will tell you
the experience I once had there. It is exactly two years ago, and I
was on tour here in _The Green Bushes_. All the usual theatrical
'diggings' had been snapped up long before I arrived, and, not
knowing where else to go, I went to No.--Sandyford Place, which I saw
advertised in one of the local papers as a first-class private hotel
with very moderate charges. A wild bit of extravagance, eh? But then
one does do foolish things sometimes, and, to tell the truth, I wanted
a change badly. I had 'digged' for a long time with a fellow called
Charlie Grosvenor. Not at all a bad chap, but rather apt to get on
one's nerves after a while--and he had got on mine--horribly.
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