servants are full of it, and I cannot keep it long
concealed from Lilian. I was in hopes that you
would have broken it to her."

I rose impatiently; I could not bear to talk
thus of an event the tragedy of which was
associated in my mind with circumstances so
mysterious. I became agitated and even angry
when Mrs. Ashleigh persisted in rambling
woman-like inquiries— "Who was suspected of
the deed? Who did I think had committed it?
What sort of a man was Sir Philip? What was
that strange story about a casket?" Breaking
from such interrogations, to which I could give
but abrupt and evasive answers, I seized my hat,
and took my departure.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

LETTER FROM ALLEN FENWICK TO LILIAN
ASHLEIGH.

"I have promised to go to Derval Court
today, and shall not return till to-morrow. I
cannot bear the thought that so many hours
should pass away with one feeling less kind
than usual resting like a cloud upon you and me.
Lilian, if I offended you, forgive me? Send me
one line to say so?—one line which I can place
next to my heart and cover with grateful kisses
till we meet again?"

REPLY.

"I scarcely know what you mean, nor do I
quite understand my own state of mind at this
moment. It cannot be that I love you less—and
yet—but I will not write more now. I feel glad
that we shall not meet for the next day or so, and
then I hope to be quite recovered. I am not
well at this moment. Do not ask me to forgive
you—but if it is I who am in fault—forgive me,
oh, forgive me, Allen."

And with this unsatisfactory note—not worn
next my heart, not covered with kisses, but
thrust crumpled into my desk like a creditor's
unwelcome bill—I flung myself on my horse
and rode to Derval Court. I was naturally
proud; my pride came now to my aid. I felt
bitterly indignant against Lilian, so indignant
that I resolved on my return to say to her, " If
in those words, 'And yet,' you implied a doubt
whether you loved me less, I cancel your vows, I
give you back your freedom." And I could
have passed from her threshold with a firm foot,
though with the certainty that I should never
smile again.

Does her note seem to you who may read these
pages to justify such resentment? Perhaps not.
But there is an atmosphere in the letters of the
one we love, which we alone—we who love—
can feel, and in the atmosphere of that letter I
felt the chill of the coming winter.

I reached the park lodge of Derval Court late
in the day. I had occasion to visit some patients
whose houses lay scattered many miles apart, and
for that reason, as well as from the desire for
some quick bodily exercise which is so natural
an effect of irritable perturbation of mind, I had
made the journey on horseback instead of using
a carriage, that I could not have got through
the lanes and field-paths by which alone the work
set to myself could be accomplished in time.

Just as I entered the park, an uneasy thought
seized hold of me with the strength which is
ascribed to presentiments. I had passed through
my study (which has been so elaborately
described) to my stables, as I generally did when I
wanted my saddle-horse, and, in so doing, had,
doubtless, left open the gate to the iron palisade,
and, probably, the window of the study itself. I
had been in this careless habit for several years,
without ever once having cause for self-reproach.
As I before said, there was nothing in my study
to tempt a thief; the study shut out from the body
of the house, and the servant sure at nightfall
both to close the window and lock the gate;—yet
now, for the first time, I felt an impulse, urgent,
keen, and disquieting, to ride back to the town
and see those precautions taken. I could not
guess why, but something whispered to me that
my neglect had exposed me to some great danger.
I even checked my horse and looked at my watch;
too late!—already just on the stroke of Strahan's
dinner-hour as fixed in his note; my horse, too,
was fatigued and spent; besides, what folly!
what bearded man can believe in the warnings of
a "presentiment." I pushed on, and soon halted
before the old-fashioned flight of stairs that led
up to the hall. Here I was accosted by the old
steward; he had just descended the stairs, and,
as I dismounted, he thrust his arm into mine
unceremoniously, and drew me a little aside.

"Doctor, I was right; it was his ghost that I
saw by the iron door of the mausoleum. I saw
it again at the same place last night, but I had
no fit then. Justice on his murderer! Blood
for blood!"

"Ay!" said I, sternly; for if I suspected
Margrave before, I felt convinced now that the
inexpiable deed was his. Wherefore convinced?
Simply because I now hated him more, and hate
is so easily convinced! "Lilian! Lilian!" I
murmured to myself that name; the flame of my
hate was fed by my jealousy. "Ay!" said I,
sternly, "murder will out."

"What are the police about?" said the old
man, querulously; "days pass on days, and no
nearer the truth. But what does the new owner
care? He has the rents and acres; what does
he care for the dead? I will never serve another
master. I have just told Mr. Strahan so. How
do I know whether he did not do the deed? Who
else had an interest in it?"

"Hush, hush!" I cried; "you do not know
what you say so wildly."

The old man stared at me, shook his head,
released my arm, and strode away.

A labouring man came out of the garden, and
having unbuckled the saddle-bags, which
contained the few things required for so short a
visit, I consigned my horse to his care, and
ascended the perron. The old housekeeper met me