What was I to say? How was I to refute his calumnies?
"Gentlemen, you will understand what sort of character this person is when I tell you that he informs me he's a ghost."
"A ghost!"
The exclamation came from Burchell, I was sure.
"Yes, a ghost He tells me that he is Francis Farmer."
"Not Francis Farmer." The stranger touched me on the arm.
"You said that you were Francis Farmer."
"But Francis Farmer's ghost. The difference is essential. You will do me the favour to admit that I stated that I was Francis Farmer's ghost. I was prepared to show you where the rope was passed about my throat and the exact spot where the knife was thrust into my breast."
Was he in jest? His manner was all the time so calm that it was difficult to tell if he was in jest or earnest.
"If you're not a ghost then you're a raving lunatic."
"If I'm not a ghost."
He stood close in front of me, wagging his forefinger in my face. There was silence. For my part, I knew neither what to do nor say. At last, taking out my handkerchief, with it I wiped the perspiration from my brow.
"I think I'm going mad."
As I uttered these words in a tone which, I do not doubt, sufficiently suggested the confusion which was paralysing my mental faculties, there came a sound very like a titter from the other end of the carriage.
