village. It occurred to me, then, that Lilian
avoided all highroads, all places, even the
humblest, where men congregated together. But
where could she have passed the night? Not to
fatigue the reader with the fruitless result of
frequent inquiries, I will but say that at the end
of the second day I had succeeded in ascertaining
that I was still on her track; and though I
had ridden to and fro nearly double the distance—
coming back again to places I had left behind—
it was at the distance of forty miles from L—
that I last heard of her that second day. She
had been seen sitting alone by a little brook only
an hour before. I was led to the very spot by a
woodman,—it was at the hour of twilight when
he beheld her—she was leaning her face on her
hand, and seemed weary. He spoke to her; she
did not answer, but rose, and resumed her way
along the banks of the streamlet. That night I
put up at no inn: I followed the course of the
brook for miles, then struck into every path that
I could conceive her to have taken—in vain.
Thus I consumed the night on foot, tying my
horse to a tree, for he was tired out, and returning
to him at sunrise. At noon, the third day, I
again heard of her, and in a remote savage part
of the country. The features of the landscape
were changed; there was little foliage and little
culture, but the ground was broken into mounds
and hollows, and covered with patches of heath
and stunted brushwood. She had been seen by
a shepherd, and he made the same observation
as the first who had guided me on her track, she
looked to him " like some one walking in her
sleep." An hour or two later, in a dell, amongst
the furze-bushes, I chanced on a knot of ribbon.
I recognised the colour Lilian habitually wore;
I felt certain that the ribbon was hers.
Calculating the utmost speed I could ascribe to her,
she could not be far off, yet still I failed to
discover. The scene now was as solitary as a desert;
I met no one on my way. At length, a little
after sunset, I found myself in view of the sea.
A small town nestled below the cliffs, on which
I was guiding my weary horse. I entered the
town and while my horse was baiting went in
search of the resident policeman. The information
I had directed to be sent round the country
had reached him; he had acted on it, but without
result. I was surprised to hear him address
me by name, and looking at him more narrowly
I recognised him for the policeman Waby. This
young man had always expressed so grateful a
sense of my attendance on his sister, and had,
indeed, so notably evinced his gratitude in
prosecuting with Margrave the inquiries which
terminated in the discovery of Sir Philip Derval's
murderer, that I confided to him the name of the
wanderer of which he had not been previously
informed; but which it would be, indeed,
impossible to conceal from him should the search in
which his aid was asked prove successful,—as he
knew Miss Ashleigh by sight. His face
immediately became thoughtful. He paused a minute
or two, and then, said:

"I think I have it, but I do not like to say;
I may pain you, sir."

"Not by confidence; you pain me by concealment."

The man hesitated still; I encouraged him,
and then he spoke out frankly.

"Sir, did you never think it strange that Mr.
Margrave should move from his handsome rooms
in the hotel to a somewhat uncomfortable lodging,
from the window of which he could look down
on Mrs. Ashleigh' s garden? I have seen him at
night in the balcony of that window, and when
I noticed him going so frequently into Mrs.
Ashleigh's house during your unjust detention,
I own, sir, I felt for you—"

"Nonsense; Mr. Margrave went to Mrs.
Ashleigh's house as my friend. He has left L—
weeks ago. What has all this to do with—"

"Patience, sir; hear me out. I was sent from
L— to this station (on promotion, sir), a
fortnight since last Friday for there has been a
good deal of crime hereabouts, it is a bad
neighbourhood, and full of smugglers;—some days ago,
in watching quietly near a lonely house, of which
the owner is a suspicious character, down in my
books, I saw, to my amazement, Mr. Margrave
come out of that house—come out of a private
door in it, which belongs to a part of the building
not inhabited by the owner, but which used
formerly, when the house was a sort of inn, to be
let to night lodgers of the humblest description.
I followed him; he went down to the sea-shore,
walked about, singing to himself, then returned
to the house, and re-entered by the same door.
I soon learned that he lodged in the house, had
lodged there for several days. The next morning,
a fine yacht arrived at a tolerably convenient
creek about a mile from the house, and there
anchored. Sailors came ashore, rambling down
to this town. The yacht belonged to Mr.
Margrave, he had purchased it by commission in
London. It is stored for a long voyage. He
had directed it to come to him in this out-of-
the-way place, where no gentleman's yacht ever
put in before, though the creek, or bay, is handy
enough for such craft. Well, sir, is it not
strange that a rich young gentleman should
come to this unfrequented sea-shore, put up
with accommodation that must be of the rudest
kind in the house of a man known as a desperate
smuggler, suspected to be worse? Order a
yacht to meet him here; is not all this strange?
But would it be strange if he were waiting for a
young lady? And if a young lady has fled at
night from her home, and has come secretly along
by-paths, which must have been very fully
explained to her beforehand, and is now near that
young gentleman's lodging, if not actually in
it, if this be so, why, the affair is not so very
strange after all. And now do you forgive me,
sir?"

"Where is this house? Lead me to it."

"You can hardly get to it except on foot;
rough walking, sir, and about seven miles off by
the shortest cut."