It was the evening of the same day.

A clock somewhere struck five, and Darkham suddenly heard it. It seemed to wake him from his frightful dream—a dream in which he had been walking—walking always—he did not know where.

Now as he looked up he knew. He stood at the gate of General Montgomery's avenue.

He opened the gate and went in. The place was familiar to him. How often he had been here attending on the old man until this Dillwyn came! He went slowly onwards into the deeper twilight of the trees. How cool it was—how green, how quiet! He took off his hat and let his forehead bathe itself in the dewy stillness.

When he came close to the house he stopped short. Masons were hurrying in and out of one of the side doors, and a ladder lay against a wall that led to an upper window. He had heard that some improvements were being made in the house which was a hideous structure, but he had imagined they would have been put back by the General's illness. That ladder—why, up there was the room in which the old man used to sleep.

Presently a mason came out of the house and towards the spot where he was standing. Darkham, who was quite himself again, felt a little ashamed of being discovered here without any purpose. Going quickly forward, he met the man half-way.

"Surely you are not working here, when the General is so ill?" he said, in a tone of polite surprise.

"No, sir. We've just got our orders to do no more for some days. We're collecting out tools, that's all, and are off to another job."

"I see."

"The General's main bad, I'm told. The doctor's just come and gone. He—you know him: Dr. Dillwyn—is sleeping here to-night, it seems, if you can call it sleeping when he only gets two hours."

"How two hours?"

"Well, I don't know, sir. But that's how it is. I head the servants talking. And mighty poor rest it seems to me for a man that's toiling all day. I suppose he'll be up with the old gent the rest of the night. He wouldn't have another thing done to that window, either"—pointing to the window against which the ladder lay—"although he is sleeping in that room, and the lower sash is out, as you can see. Seems he always sleeps with the window open."

Darkham nodded to him as a dismissal, and he moved away. Just as he was turning the corner, however, Darkham called to him.

"You are leaving your ladder?"

"Yes, sir. Hope to be back shortly, and the ladder'll do no harm."

"No, of course not, unless the doctor objects—he's sleeping in that room, you say."

"Why, bless you! the ladder can't harm him."

"True. Especially when he has only got two hours to endure it." Darkham laughed pleasantly. "I hope they will be early ones, at all events."

"Twelve to two, Maria says. Not so early, either."

Darkham nodded again, and, when the mason was out of sight, turned and went home. As he walked he thought. And ever his thoughts grew clearer, more concentrated.

He put his hand inside his coat, and brought out a letter. It was the "little, diplomatic, friendly line" that Mrs. Greatorex had sent him. He read it through again, although he knew it by heart, and when he had finished it his face was not good to look upon.

For the past few weeks he had lived largely on Mrs. Greatorex's promises to help him. He had believed in her promises about the coercion of Agatha. To-day he knew what her promises were worth. The moment fortune flung itself at his rival's feet, she had gone over to that rival's side! Suddenly the despised Dillwyn had become eligible and there was an end to all her professions of friendship.

He was at this moment a far richer man than Dillwyn, but Mrs. Greatorex had put all that aside as if it were not to be considered. She preferred that her niece should marry a gentleman with three thousand a year, rather than a nobody with five. She had not so much as hinted at it, yet she had managed to convey her meaning all the same. The little delicately-written, perfumed missive was full of it!

The oath he had sworn was dear to him. He had told Agatha that rather than see her married to Dillwyn he would destroy him. Well!

He began to walk again, and more rapidly. He could not take his mind off that ladder; with his eyes open, he seemed to see it. It went along the road before him, now here, now there, with the sashless window at the top of it.

He turned in the direction of the Red House. He hated going home. But it would be necessary to put in an appearance there. He feared lest, with what lay before him, his absence at dinner to-day might be noticed by the servants.

Afterwards, when the household was quiet, he could slip out through the library window. He told himself he must be careful to upset the bedclothes on his return—perhaps, however, it would be better to do so before starting.

He laid his plans very carefully. It would take, first so long to get from here to The Cedars, to mount the ladder, to enter the open window, to—It would not take long to do that—and then so much time to get back again, to see to his clothes—the spots, the stains.

It seemed quite feasible, quite safe.

It was all so comfortably arranged for him. He felt he owed Dillwyn a debt of gratitude for the ladder and the open window. What a truly Christian trust in Providence he showed, sleeping thus at the mercy of all men! He shook anew with his horrible merriment. What a gay bridegroom he would look to-morrow. The early morning light would touch up his face.