"Can you find Blunker's room, young man?" asked Mrs.

Sharker.

"It's the last door on the left hand of the passage leading to the offices. I'd show you, only I don't like to leave the doctor."

"Go to Blunker!" again grunted Dr. Crayfoot. Winthrop nodded his head, and left the room. His footsteps were heard a few seconds on the uncarpeted passage outside, and then there was a silence, only broken by the snoring of the doctor, who had abruptly dropped asleep. Mrs. Sharker took a pretty good sip of the doctor's brandy and water, and then prepared to lock up the wine and spirits.

She had just begun to unlock the door of the sideboard, when she heard a trampling of feet in the room overhead, followed, or rather accompanied, by a piercing shriek. Now shrieks, as the reader will have learnt, were not wholly unknown in this establishment, but then the apartment above was unoccupied-had been unoccupied for months—was in fact the apartment already described as that in which the foreign lady had breathed her last. Mrs. Sharker was puzzled, but she had no time for reflection. The instant afterwards another shriek broke upon her ear, so loud that it seemed to be almost outside the window of the very room where she was standing. Then a dark object, like the figure of a man, whirled past the window and descended upon the ground with a heavy dull crash. There were no more shrieks. Only, in the room above, a shrill ringing burst of laughter, as if a particularly good joke had that moment been perpetrated.

To explain this we must for a few moments follow Winthrop after quitting the doctor's room. Recollecting that he had left an overcoat given him by the doctor in the room where he had slept, he went upstairs to fetch it before going for the key of the front door. As he passed the room formerly occupied by the foreign lady, he noticed that the door was ajar. Winthrop was seized with an irresistible impulse to push it open and look in. It was the sort of yearning we sometimes feel to look at a painful object, such as a corpse or what not.

Now the passage, and indeed all that part of the house, was unusually quiet. An old clock was ticking on the stairs, and a low, confused murmur now and then reached the ear from the other end of the building. The passage was badly lighted, and what with the gloom and stillness, and painful thoughts of

the past weighing on his mind, Winthrop felt restless and excited. He approached the door, opened it gently, and gazed upon the deserted chamber.

"Pos

He noticed an old wardrobe at the end of the room. sibly," said he to himself, "there is something of the poor Signora's there, a book or a stray article of dress, that may help to prove the boy's identity." He stepped into the room and approached the wardrobe. No sooner, however, was he fairly inside, than a robed figure moved swiftly out from behind the door he had just thrown open. In the dim light— for though the window was open the shutters were partially closed-Winthrop could only distinguish that the dress the figure wore was blue. It was a favourite colour of the Signora's. It was the colour of the identical dress she wore on that dismal night when Winthrop introduced her within those walls from whence she was never to issue alive. Excited and nervous as he was, Winthrop dared not face that figure. He sprang to the window, intending to let himself down by hanging by his arms from the sill. He was half way out of the window when his throat was clutched with fierce convulsive energy, by the thin fingers of a woman's hand. He gave a yell, and, falling forward into the air, thought he was a dead man. There was

a great shock and all was dark.

Meantime, in the room below, Mrs. Sharker rushed to the window, looked out, screamed, and, running to the bell, rang a loud peal. She then shook the doctor, and tried to wake him, but all she could elicit was-"Go to Blunker!” So, making for the door, she called for help until half a dozen male and female attendants rushed to the spot, bringing with them strait-waistcoats and leathern straps. Mrs. Sharker could only point with her finger to some object outside the window. There was a general exclamation of horror. The men hastened round to the garden, and were presently heard coming slowly along the passage bearing a heavy weight. It was the senseless body of George Winthrop.

"Is he dead?" asked Sharker, trembling all over, and afraid to look at him.

"Next door to 't, mum," was the rejoinder. ugly cut on the head, but he don't bleed."

"He have an

"Oh dear! oh dear !" cried Mrs. Sharker-" and the doctor's muddled with drink, and no more use than a baby! Here, some of you take the body upstairs to the spare bedroomthe Signora's as was. And, Spottle, put the doctor under the

shower-bath. "Twill do him a world of good, and, maybe, afterwards he'll be able to help the poor young man.

They laid the motionless body of Winthrop on the bed in the spare room. On entering, the first thing noticed was a light blue dress thrown carelessly on the floor. Apparently it had been taken out of the wardrobe, for on examining the shelves the clothes stored away there seemed to have been tossed about. It was conjectured that one of the female patients had found her way to the room, opened the wardrobe, dressed herself up in some strange fashion, and then waylaid and terrified the unfortunate man, who now lay in a state of perfect insensibility on the bed once occupied by the Signora Bianchi.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE RIDE IN CHALLICOMBE LANE.

THE summer sun was shining full upon the latticed windows of the Manor Farm, and casting broken flickering rays through the leafy branches of the walnut-trees on the lawn, streaking the smooth grass with soft gleams of light. But under the shadow of the huge Scotch fir, all was dusky twi-, light, for no ray penetrated its thickly woven, spiky foliage. Under it sat Gertrude, on her favourite garden-seat, and perhaps it was the dimness of the light which made her countenance, once tinted with so pure a crimson, seem now so delicately pale. She had on her lap a volume of Tennyson, but her eyes were not on the page before her. She was gazing on vacancy, though occasionally her lips moved faintly as if she were murmuring her thoughts aloud.

So absorbed was she that she did not hear Nugent's footstep as he advanced towards her from the farther end of the lawn, and it was not until his hand was gently placed on her shoulder that she recognized his presence.

Why did so sudden a flush suffuse her uplifted face? Was it pleasurable surprise? Was it mere nervous sensitiveness at the sudden interruption? Was it that her thoughts were such as she felt might not be entirely pleasing to her husband?

My love," said Nugent, "here is a note from your mo

ther. She is trying to make up a riding party for the young people, and wishes you to chaperon them. Will you go, dear? Clinton has come down again to Beaumont House, and will be one of the party."

Gertrude paused, and when we pause before we reply to an agreeable request, the result is not difficult to foresee.

"Agatha and Jessie, no doubt, want me to go with them. But will not you come too? We are going to Challicombe

Lane."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I have just promised to give Edward Harrill a lesson in land-surveying. Besides, there is a man coming about the wool at two o'clock. So, you see, my hands are tied."

Gertrude closed her book, and, rising from her chair, whilst her eyes lit up with a transient excitement, said— Well, dear, then I think I will go. Please tell Edward to order the bay mare at two o'clock. I will run in and answer

66

the note."

"I will go to the stable myself," answered Nugent. "I must see if the mare's off-foot is all right."

They parted, one to scribble a few lines in the drawingroom, the other to the stable. Here, attended by Edward, now his constant companion, Nugent examined the bay mare's off-foot, and learnedly discussed its sanitary prospects with the groom.

It must here be remarked, that a considerable change had sprung up in Nugent's feelings towards Sir Reginald Clinton. Cold suspicion and undue caution had to a great extent given way to cordial interest and regard. And this not on account of anything Sir Reginald had done for Nugent, but exactly the reverse. Nugent had saved Sir Reginald's life on the night of the inundation of the river's mouth. Consequently, as is often the case, Nugent felt kindly disposed towards one whom he had so signally served. We often like those whom we have put under an obligation. They become, as it were, a part of ourselves, remind us of our merits, and are regarded as friends, because the chances are that they are gratefully disposed towards us. Nugent's generous nature warmed towards Clinton. He had done Clinton one good service. Why not another? Providence had thrown them together. Ought not Nugent to avail himself of the opportunity almost forced upon him against his will? Might he not in some degree, however small, shake Clinton's religious delusions, and bring

to bear upon him the light of Protestant truth, as yet, perhaps, never properly revealed to him?

Still Nugent, though he frequently met Clinton, and did not object to Gertrude's meeting him in company with others, drew the line broadly enough. He did not invite him to his house. It was chiefly at Lady Maud's, or at houses in the neighbourhood, that they came together.

Clinton for the most part avoided theological discussion, and led the conversation to the milder regions of literature, politics, or science. Nevertheless, Nugent was able, so he believed, to throw in now and then a word which might suggest useful trains of reflection, or open a vista of inquiry likely to do good. Clinton, then, was on good terms with Nugent, but the latter never advanced beyond a certain point. He did not penetrate the recesses of the other's mind, or only penetrated far enough to discern, that there lurked within it some unknown care or grief which Clinton did not choose to reveal to him.

Let us follow Gertrude to the green and shady lane, Challicombe by name, along which the riding party Lady Maud had busied herself to arrange was proceeding at a leisurely pace. The company had broken off into pairs. First rode Sir Eliot Prichard with Jessie Usherwood; then followed Miss Eliot Prichard, a lady with a hook nose and a sparkling eye, who having passed the heyday of her youth, thought it necessary to exhibit extraordinary activity, both physical and mental, by way of proving she was not sinking into decrepitude. She dragged in her train Colonel Clair, who liked her because she saved him the trouble of talking. Moreover, having known her from a lad, when she was considered the belle of Rentworth, he imagined her to be so still, and was not a little proud of being selected as her preux chevalier, and he too a married man. Then followed a shy young man, Mr. Edgar Clair, on a skittish horse which everybody was afraid of. Consequently poor Edgar Clair kept aloof out of deference to the public sentiment, very red in the face from the exertion of holding in his brute of a horse, which pulled incessantly during the whole of the ride. At a respectful distance followed Agatha, and by her side Lovell, who, by the merest accident of course, was riding home from a clerical breakfast, and met the party at the corner of the lane. Lastly, followed Gertrude and Sir Reginald Clinton.

Sir Eliot was arguing with Jessie on the abstract nature of