"As a matter of fact, it was a rather pretty young man with curly blond hair, pink cheeks, very red lips, and beautiful blue eyes. He spoke with an American accent which was almost smothered by a pronounced lisp, as I recall."

"How was he dressed?" inquires The Great Detective.

"Strange that you should ask that, for he was oddly dressed indeed. He wore a bright orange sweater, an orange bow tie with white polka-dots, and pink knickers. There were letters of some sort on his sweater -- UT I believe. From a few polite questions we learned that he was an American college student vacationing in England. He had been cycling to Slopshire when darkness overtook him and he had tumbled into the moat, having mistaken our garden path for the Slopshire-Digby highway. Fortunately for our self respect, china is uninflammable and we still had a pinch of orange pekoe left, so that we were able to offer him a cup of tea. When he lifted it to his lips a remarkable thing happened. He took on a sip, screamed a few words, and dropped dead."

"What did he say?"

"I can still hear that agonized shriek. He said, 'They make it better than we do at Shu Fli Pi!' Then he fell. It was terrible."

"Go on," urges The Great Detective.

"Well, it was only a few days later that we learned that this strange incident had been the salvation of the family. Castle Blassington, which had been barren for eight hundred years, was haunted!"

"You opened it to the public at once, no doubt."

"Dashed right we did. We charged two shillings, sixpence a head and got it too. Imagine, gentlemen, the only haunted castle in England with an American ghost. We couldn't keep those tourists away."

"It must have been a gold mine, but now--?"

"Gentlemen, the ghost vanished two days ago!"

"I see," muses The Great Detective.

"It was always regular as clockwork before. Morning, noon and night it might be seen from the battlements to the dungeon, sometimes screaming, sometimes giggling, sometimes shrieking imprecations in Greek, but always there. Now it is there no longer."

"Sir Humphrey, is it not correct that your closest neighbor at the castle is a Mr. G. Ruesom?"

"It is."

"And is it not also correct that Mr. Ruesom is an expert on supernatural matters?"

"He is, but I consulted him, and he declares himself helpless."

"Is it not also true that Mr. Ruesom did not take part in the foxhunt?"

"Right-ho."

"Then, Sir Humphrey, I will undertake to aid you in regaining your ghost for 5,000 pounds sterling."

"Done, and God bless you!"

"Your ghost, Sir Humphrey, was lured from the castle by means of some bait, probably a package of Parliament cigarettes or a bottle of creme de menth, by Ruesom who wished to study it at closer quarters than those provided by the castle.

"If you will wait here a moment--"

The Great Detective leaves the room for a few moments and returns carrying a package wrapped in brown paper.

"If you will be so good as to throw this through Ruesom's window some night, I feel sure your ghost will be frightened into returning to your castle where he has found safety for so many years."

Sir Humphrey left without a word but with a smile of thanks on his face.

"But--but what is in package?" asks The Poor Stooge.

"A military shoulder patch, a pair of boots, the severed horn of a steer, and--"

"And what, for God's sake!"

"And a copy of a magazine called The Commentator," replies The Great Detective with a mysterious smile.