He stepped aside, and Granny Tunks, lean and weird-looking, appeared at the door. She had a white cloak over her fantastic dress, and looked more witchlike than ever. Mrs. Vand stared at the woman in surprise. “Why have you left your grandson?” she asked, and glancing at Henry.
“He’s sound asleep, deary, the fit having passed. A gal o’ mine, of the true Romany breed, looking after him. Your sweet husband here”—she waved a skinny hand towards Vand—“asked me to come and see what I could do to lay this unquiet spirit who walks.”
“Rubbish! rubbish!” said Mrs. Vand, now feeling more confident in cornpany.
“It’s not rubbish, deary,” said Mrs. Tunks, mysteriously; “the dead walk.”
“The dead?”
“Your poor brother, as is uneasy at having been pitched out of life so cruel. He’s walking,” and she
