Then,  after what  appeared to  be  some  consideration,  he said  in a businesslike voice, 'The doors are locked. The windows are  barred. The dogs do not appear to  have  woken  up.  The squeaky  floorboards haven't.  Other little  arrangements  which  I will not specify seem to  have been bypassed. That severely limits the possibilities. I really doubt that  you are a ghost and gods generally do not  announce themselves so politely.  You  could,  of course, be  Death,  but I don't believe he bothers with such  niceties  and, besides, I am feeling quite well. Hmm!'

     Something hovered in the air in front of his desk.

     'My  teeth are in fine condition  so you  are  unlikely to be the Tooth Fairy. I've always found that  a stiff brandy before bedtime quite does away with the need  for the  Sandman. And, since I can carry a tune quite well, I suspect I'm not likely to attract the attention of Old Man Trouble. Hmm.'

     The figure drifted a little nearer.

     'I suppose a  gnome could  get  through a  mousehole, but I  have traps down,' Downey went on. 'Bogeymen can  walk through  walls but  would be very loath to reveal themselves. Really, you have me at a loss. Hmm?'

     And then he looked up.

     A grey robe hung in the air. It appeared to be occupied, in that it had a shape, although the occupant was not visible.

     The  prickly  feeling  crept  over  Downey  that  the  occupant  wasn't invisible, merely not, in any physical sense, there at all.

     'Good evening,' he said.

     The robe said, Good evening, Lord Downey.

     His brain registered the words. His ears swore they hadn't heard them.

     But you did not become head  of  the Assassins' Guild by  taking fright easily. Besides,  the  thing  wasn't frightening.  It  was,  thought Downey, astonishingly dull. If monotonous drabness could take on a shape, this would be the shape it would choose.