until Meg, burning to say all she knew, began, with her eyes fixed on the door: 

 "Well, it's because of the private box." 

 "What private box?" 

 "The ghost's box!" 

 "Has the ghost a box? Oh, do tell us, do tell us!" 

 "Not so loud!" said Meg.  "It's Box Five, you know, the box on the grand tier, next to the stage-box, on the left." 

 "Oh, nonsense!" 

 "I tell you it is. Mother has charge of it. But you swear you won't say a word?" 

 "Of course, of course." 

 "Well, that's the ghost's box. No one has had it for over a month, except the ghost, and orders have been given at the box-office that it must never be sold." 

 "And does the ghost really come there?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Then somebody does come?" 

 "Why, no! The ghost comes, but there is nobody there." 

 The little ballet-girls exchanged glances. If the ghost came to the box, he must be seen, because he wore a dress-coat and a death's head. This was what they tried to make Meg understand, but she replied: 

 "That's just it! The ghost is not seen. And he has no dress-coat and no head! All that talk about his death's head and his head of fire is nonsense! There's nothing in it. You only hear him when he is in the box. Mother has never seen him, but she has heard him. Mother knows, because she gives him his program." 

 Sorelli interfered. 

 "Giry, child, you're getting at us!" 

 Thereupon little Giry began to cry. 

 "I ought to have held my tongue—if mother ever came to know! But I was quite right, 

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