The problems of my profession had never led me into any consideration of the supernatural, and the rather evanescent business of hunting down a ha'nt came as a welcome contrast to the very material details of my recent forgery case.

I had found what Terry would call a counter-irritant.
It was still early, and neither the Colonel nor Radnor had appeared; but Solomon was sweeping off the portico steps and I addressed myself to him.

He was rather coy at first about discussing the matter of the ha'nt, as he scented my scepticism, but in the end he volunteered: "Some says de ha'nt's a woman dat one o' de Gaylords long time ago, should o' married an' didn't, an' dat pined away an' died.

An' some says it's a black man one o' dem whupped to deaf." "Which do you think it is ?" I inquired.
"Bress yuh, Marse Arnold, I ain't thinkin' nuffen.

Like es not hit's bofe.