The windows were thrown open to the bright morning air; the late autumn birds were singing, the trees were gently waving; even the gloomy pine-walk opposite had a ray of sunlight on it. Little thought I as I stood in the oak-parlour with my great happiness, little thought the servants as they went about their work, that some one lay dead in the west wing.

Breakfast waited on the table; the postman came with the letters; Hickens looked in to see if he might bring the urn. He waited on us far more than the rest did, although he was butler, knowing that Mr. Chandos liked it.

A stir in the hall at last: Mrs. Penn's voice speaking to Lizzy Dene. The tones were low, but they reached my ear.

"I cannot think you delivered that letter last evening, Lizzy. I ought to have received an answer long before this."

"Not deliver it, ma'am!" returned Lizzy, with every sound of surprise. "I gave it in to the young man at the door."

"Wait a moment, Lizzy: what a hurry you are in! Are you sure Mr. Edwin Barley was at home?"

"Of course I am not sure," returned Lizzy: and I pictured Mrs. Penn to myself at that moment: her cheeks flushing red, her eyes flashing fire.

"You deceitful woman! You told me last night Mr. Edwin Barley was at home!"

"Ma'am, I told you the young man said he was at home. I can't stay here a minute longer: if Hill finds me gossiping here, she'll be fit to pull my ears for me."

A slight rustling in the portico. I looked from the window and saw Mrs. Penn go flying away as speedily as a middle-aged, portly women can fly. Mr. Chandos came into the room at the same time.

"How is your brother, Mr. Chandos?"

"Better, I trust, than he has been for many years in this life. It is over, Anne. He died at twelve last night."

The words struck on me as a great shock. Over! Dead!

"He was sensible to the last moment. It was a happy death," continued Mr. Chandos, in a low, solemn tone. "Truly may it be said that he has 'come out of great tribulation.' God receive and bless him!"

I sat down. Mr. Chandos turned over the letters in an abstracted kind of manner, but did not really look at them. When I thought I might venture to speak, I mentioned Mrs. Penn's reproach to Lizzy Dene, and her running off after (there was no doubt) to Mr. Edwin Barley.

"Ay, I saw her go," he replied. "The answer she has been waiting for were the police, on their mission to arrest my brother George. They may come now. And presently will do so," he added, "for I have sent for them."

"For the police again! What for?"

He made no answer. Emily came in, looking as he did, rather subdued. She spoke civilly to me: with death in a house people keep down their temper. Mr. Chandos rang the bell for breakfast, and then we all stood at the window.

"Where's Dr. Laken?" asked Emily.

"Gone out," replied Mr. Chandos. "He breakfasted early."

"How unfortunate it is that I should have arrived just now!" she exclaimed, after a pause, during which we were all silent. "The carriages must not go out, I suppose, for the next few days."

"Ill doing is sure to bring its own punishment, Emily," Mr. Chandos said to her, jestingly, with a sad smile. "You should not have run away."

"We shall have Alfred over after me, I expect. His gastric fever will politely vanish when it is necessary that his wife should be looked up. But I am glad that I was here, Harry, after all," she added, her voice changing to one of deep feeling, "for it enabled me to see the last of him."

"I am glad that he was here," observed Mr. Chandos, "for it afforded the opportunity of his receiving comforts and attendance in his illness that he could not have had abroad. Now that the awful dread of his being discovered has passed away, I see how certainly all things were for the best."

"He stayed here a long while this time."

"He was too ill to leave. We could not urge it. The final end seemed rapidly and surely approaching."

"Do you call his illness consumption?"

"Not the consumption that attacks most people. If ever man died of a broken heart, George has."

"Did he come home to die? I mean, knowing that he was soon about to die?"

"No. He was weak and emaciated when he came, worn to a shadow; but he did not become really ill, dangerously ill, until afterwards."

"Do the servants know of it?" she asked, lowering her voice. "Will they be told of it?"

"Certainly not. We hope to keep it private to the end."

"But there must be——"

"Yes, yes," he hastily interrupted, seeing she would have alluded to the funeral. "Laken manages all that. What a bright morning it is!"

Mr. Chandos leaned from the window as if to turn the conversation. Emily, easily swayed, plucked a piece of mignonette.

"I suppose mamma will come downstairs to-day. Well, it's time she did."

"It is," asserted Mr. Chandos.

"For more reasons than one," she tartly added, which was a lance-shaft at me.

Hickens came in with the urn. Seeing the letters lying there untouched, he spoke with the familiarity of a privileged servant.

"The Indian mail is in, sir."

Mr. Chandos turned quickly to the table. "I see it is, Hickens." But I don't think he had seen it until then.

"I suppose there's nothing for me from Alfred," said Madame de Mellissie, languidly looking round. "I'm not anxious to read it if there is: it would only be full of groans and scolding. Or from Tom, either? He never writes to me."

Mr. Chandos shook his head. "There's only one from Tom, and that is to me."

"But I see another Indian letter," she said, slowly approaching the table. "It has a black seal."

"Not from Thomas: it is in a strange handwriting. It is addressed to my mother."

"Any letters for my lady, sir?" asked Hill, entering the parlour.

"Two. One of them from India, tell her; but not from Sir Thomas."

Hill retreated with the letters. Emily placed herself in my seat at the head of the table, and we began breakfast. It was a poor meal for all of us that morning. Mr. Chandos drank his coffee at a draught, and opened his brother's letter.

"They were on the eve of action, Emily," he presently said. "Just going into it when Thomas wrote this. Some local engagement."

"Is it well over?"

"I hope so. But he closed this letter at once. Here is what he says in conclusion: 'I shall drop this into the post now, and if I come out of the turmoil safely, give you a second note to say so. That is, if the post should not have gone: if it has, you must wait another fortnight.' Where's the evening paper?" added Mr. Chandos, seeking out a newspaper which had come with the letters, and tearing it open. "News of this action, however unimportant it was, ought to have come by telegraph."

He had scarcely said this when Hill came in, speaking and looking like one in alarm. I thought of the police; I fancy Mr. Chandos did.

"Sir—Mr. Harry—my lady wishes you to come to her instantly."

He appeared aroused by the tone—or the looks—and went out at once, opening the sheets of the newspaper as he did so. Madame de Mellissie demanded of Hill what he was wanted for.

"I hardly know what, ma'am. Something very sad, I fear, has happened."

Emily started to her feet. "Hill, that letter never contained bad news from India?—from Sir Thomas?"

"It has got bad news of some sort in it, for certain," was Hill's rejoinder. "My lady gave a great scream before she had read three lines, and said some confused words about her 'darling son Thomas.' The fear upon me, ma'am, is, that he has been hurt in battle."

Worse than that! worse than that! It came upon me with a prevision as I thought of the black seal and the strange handwriting. Emily, impulsive in all she did, went running up to the west wing. While I waited alone for them to return with some news, good or bad, I heard Mrs. Penn come in and accost Lizzy Dene, who was rubbing the brasses in the hall.

"Where is the letter I gave you last night?" she curtly demanded, her tone very sharp.

"Why, ma'am, what's the use of asking me?" returned the undaunted Lizzy, after a faint pause. "Mr. Edwin Barley's people must know more about that."

"The letter you delivered was not my letter."

"Not your letter!" repeated Lizzy Dene, evidently affecting the most genuine surprise. "I don't know what you mean, ma'am."

"The letter you left at Mr. Edwin Barley's, instead of being the one I handed to you, was some rubbishing circular of the fashions. How dared you do such a thing?"

"My goodness me!" exclaimed Lizzy. "To think of that! But, Mrs. Penn, it's not possible."

"Don't talk to me about its not being possible! You have been wilfully careless. I must have my letter produced."

"I declare to goodness I don't know where it is, or what has become of it, if—as you say, ma'am, it was not the one I gave in to the young man," spoke Lizzy, this time with real earnestness. I had a letter of fashions in my basket; but it's odd I could make such a mistake!

"You did make it," Mrs. Penn angrily rejoined. "Where is the letter now?"

"Ma'am, I can't imagine. It must have been spirited away."

"Don't talk nonsense to me about 'spirited.' If you gave in the one for the other, you must still have had my letter left in your basket. What did you do with it?"

"If you offered me a thousand pounds to tell, I couldn't," was Lizzy's answer. "Looking upon it as nothing but a letter of the fashions, I thought it was of no moment, else I remember opening my basket after leaving Mr. Barley's, and seeing there was nothing in it. I wondered then what could have gone with the fashions. I'm sure, ma'am, I am verry sorry."

Mrs. Penn went upstairs. It was apparently a profitless inquiry. Lizzy Dene rubbed away again at her brass, and I waited and waited. The servants began to stand about in groups, coming perpetually into the hall; the rumour that something was wrong in India had spread. By-and-by the truth was brought down by Hill, with great tears upon her face. Sir Thomas Chandos was dead.

It was not a false report, as had once come, of his death. Ah, no. He had fallen in battle, gallantly leading his men to the charge. The Commander-in-Chief in India had written to Lady Chandos with his own hand: he said how much her son was regretted—that all the officers who could be spared attended the funeral. A shot had struck him in the breast. He had but time to say a few words, and died, his mother's name being the last upon his lips.

Hickens entered the oak-parlour and drew down the white blinds. While talking of Sir Thomas he burst into tears. It all proved to me how much Thomas Chandos had been liked by those about him.

The breakfast things were taken away; an hour passed, and the morning was growing weary, when Mr. Chandos came down, traces of emotion on his face. Alas! he was no longer "Mr." but Sir Harry Chandos.

The first person I heard give him his title was Dr. Laken. How strange it was!—had the news arrived only on the previous morning, the title must have remained in abeyance. Poor, banned, dying George had been the heir to it by right of birth but I suppose the law would not have given it to him. Dr. Laken called Mr. Chandos "Sir Harry" three or four times in the presence of the servants very pointedly. I thought he wanted to impress tacitly upon them the fact that there was no intervening heir. It was very strange; all: those blinds that they had not dared to draw down for George, the grief they had not liked to show, the mourning they might have been doubtful whether to assume; all did duty for both brothers now, and might be open and legitimate.

"I think the shadow of death had fallen upon Thomas when he wrote," said Mr. Chandos, in a low tone. And Dr. Laken echoed the words questioningly.

"The shadow of death?"

"I mean the prevision of it. Throughout his letter to me a vein of sadness runs; and he concludes it, 'Farewell, Harry; God bless you!' He never so wrote before. You shall read the letter, Laken: my mother has it now."

Lady Chandos had been coming down that day, they said; but the news had stopped it, and she would not now be seen until the morrow. The morning went on. Two official-looking people came, gentlemen, and were taken by Dr. Laken to the west wing. I gathered that it had something to do with identification, in case there should be any doubt afterwards of the death: both of them had known George Heneage in the days gone by.

The blinds were down throughout the house. Every room was dull. Madame de Mellissie evidently found it so, and came in listlessly to the oak-parlour. She seemed very cross: perhaps at seeing her brother there; but he had only come to it a minute before.

"Harry, I suppose Chandos will be looking up again, and taking its part in county gaieties after awhile—as it never has done yet?"

"Yes," he answered; "after a while."

"It would not be a bad plan for me to reside here occasionally as its mistress. Mamma goes back to the old Heneage homestead: she always intended to do so, if this crisis came in poor George's life, leaving you here to manage the estate for Thomas. And now it is yours, to manage for yourself. What changes!"

"Changes indeed! I wish I could be the manager for him still."

"You will want a mistress for it; and I shall be glad to escape at times from home. I get sick and tired of Paris."

"Many thanks, Emily, but the future mistress of Chandos is already bespoken."

Her fair face flushed; and there was a very tart ring in her voice when she spoke again.

"Do you forget that your position is changed? When you gave me that hint last evening, you were, comparatively speaking, an obscure individual; now you are Sir Harry Chandos, a powerful and very wealthy baronet."

What he answered, I know not. There was a smile on his face as I left the room and strolled outside. The sound of approaching footsteps caused me to look down the avenue, and the look sent me running in again. Two of the police who had been there before were approaching on foot.

"I have been waiting for them," said Mr. Chandos, quietly. I cannot get quite at once into the way of calling him anything else. "Emily, will you oblige me by going up to Mrs. Chandos, and make some excuse for taking her into the west wing at once. You can stay here, or go to another room, as you like, Anne."

I went up to my chamber. Madame de Mellissie was already passing along the gallery, her arm linked within that of Mrs. Chandos. Mrs. Penn advanced to the well of the staircase and saw the police. A glow of triumph overspread her whole face.

"Sooner here than I thought for!" she exclaimed. "You will see something now, Anne Hereford."

They came up the stairs, Mr. Chandos with them. Mrs. Penn retreated to the door of the east wing, but she could not resist the temptation of standing at it to look. They went towards her.

"Not here," she said, waving her hand in the direction of the west wing. "The person for whom your visit is intended is there."

"Pardon me, madam," interposed Mr. Chandos; "the visit of these officers is to you."

"To me! What do you mean?" she asked, after a pause, her voice rising to a shriek.

Never did I see a change so great come over a human countenance. They all retreated into the east wing, and the door was closed. What took place I learnt later.

In the most courteous manner possible, consistent with the circumstances, Mr. Chandos explained to Mrs. Penn why the police had come for her. He had reason to believe she was the person who had been disturbing the tranquillity of Chandos, he said. When she had offered her boxes for search before, he had declined to permit them to be touched: he must, much as he regretted the necessity, order them to be searched now. All this we heard later. Mrs. Penn was taken to. What she said, never transpired: resistance would have been simply foolish; and she made up for it by insolence. The police quietly did their duty; and found ample proof: a few skeleton keys, that would open any lock in the house, the chief. Her own lace was was there; Mr. Chandos's memorandum-book. She had came into the house to spy; feverishly hoping to find out the abiding place of George Heneage.

Her bitter animosity against him had but grown with years. An accidental circumstance had brought to her a suspicion that George Heneage's hiding-place was in England; and she had laid her plans and entered Chandos in the full intention of discovering it. My presence there had somewhat baffled her: she could not go peeping about in my sight; she took Mr. Chandos's private book from his desk in the hope that it might help her to the discovery she had at heart, and then invented the story of losing her lace to divert the scent from herself. Later, she conceived another scheme—that of getting me out of the house; and she stole the money to put it into my box; and arranged the supposed opening of her reticule in my room, and the reading of her sealed letter; and abstracted the letter I had put on the hall-table, hoping Mr. Chandos would fall into the trap and send me from Chandos. Now could be understood her former anxiety that the police should search her boxes and mine; hers were ready for the inspection, mine had the money in them; and, at that time (as I knew later) also the memorandum-book. Something else was found in her boxes besides skeleton keys—a grey cloak. Putting one thing with another, Mr. Chandos thought he had little need of further speculation as to who had stopped his horse in the avenue that night, and caused his fall from it. And the reason may as well be mentioned here, though it is anticipating our knowledge of it. She had lingered about the private groves of Chandos until dusk that afternoon, hoping to see Mr. Edwin Barley, whose house she was forbidden; in going forth at length, openly, having put her cloak on because she was cold—and how it was Hill had not seen it on her arm when talking with her in the portico, was a mystery, for she had brought it to Chandos, left it in the hall there, and taken it upon her departure—in going down the avenue she met Mr. Chandos riding up it. She had never before seen him, and she took him in the dusk for his brother. She actually thought she was encountering George Heneage; and the noise with which she approached the horse and flung up her arms, was not made to frighten the animal, but simply to express execration, in her great surprise. At the same moment, even as it escaped her, she discovered her mistake, and that it was not George Heneage.

"Now, madam," said Mr. Chandos, the search over, the proofs in the officers' hands, "what have you to urge why I should not give you into custody? You have been living in my mother's house under false colours; you have been rifling locks; you have taken my money; you have been writing anonymous letters, and carrying tales to Mr. Edwin Barley."

"All that I have done, I was justified in doing," she answered, braving it out. "I was at work in your house, Harry Chandos, as a detective: my acts bore but one aim—the discovery of your brother, the murderer. And I have succeeded. In an hour's time from this, perhaps, the tables will be turned. As to your money, Mr. Chandos, it is wrapped in paper and directed to you. I don't steal money."

"What palliation have you to offer for your conduct? what excuse against my giving you into custody?" repeated Mr. Chandos.

"If you choose to do it, do it," she returned. "Some one of far greater import than I will be shortly taken into custody from this house. I am of the kin of the Barleys: you and they are implacable enemies: all stratagems are fair when the discovery of criminals, hiding from the law, is in question. I have only done my duty; I would do it again. Give me into custody if you like, Mr. Chandos. The tables will soon be turned."

"No, they will not be turned in the sense you would insinuate, and for that reason I can afford to be generous," answered Mr. Chandos. "Had real harm come of this matter, I would have prosecuted you to the utmost rigour of the law. But, as it is beyond your power now, or Mr. Edwin Barley's either, to do us harm, you may go from us scot-free. But I cannot allow you to remain longer at Chandos. Forgive the seeming inhospitality, if I say I would prefer that you should not wait to partake of another meal in the house. Your things shall be sent after you. Or, if you prefer to gather them together, these officers will wait while you do it, and then escort you from my house into that of Mr. Edwin Barley."

"I will not be escorted abroad by police officers," she passionately answered.

"You possess no choice, madam. I have, so far, given you into their charge: and they will take care to undertake it."

A very short while seemed to suffice to put her things together, and Mrs. Penn came forth, attended by the two officers. In some mood of reckless defiance, or perhaps to conceal herself as much as possible from the gaze of the world, she had put on the grey cloak and drawn the hood over her head.

Mr. Chandos recognised her at once, as she had looked that night. He could but be a gentleman, and had gone out to the hall in courtesy when she came down to depart. The sight of her thus startled him for a moment.

"Ah, I should have known you anywhere, Mrs. Penn. What had I or my horse done to you that you should attack us?"

She turned and faced him. It really seemed as though she believed herself in the right in all the past acts, and felt proud to have done so well. All this while, it must be remembered, she supposed George Heneage was alive in the west wing, and would soon be taken from it to a criminal prison. She could afford to make concessions now.

"It was not you or your horse I attacked intentionally. I mistook you for another. For that brother of yours, Mr. Chandos, whose liberty will soon be put beyond jeopardy, and his life after it. Your great likeness to George Heneage, as he looked in those old days at Hallam, is unfortunate. For one thing, it has caused me to hate you; when, to speak candidly, I think in yourself there is not much to hate. You"—turning her flashing eyes on the men—"are seeing me out of the house because I have acted my part effectually in it; a part that Sir Richard Mayne himself would say I was justified in; but there is a greater criminal concealed above, for whom a warrant is, as I expect, already in force."

"You are wrong," said Mr. Chandos. "Were the whole establishment of Scotland Yard to make their appearance here, each with a warrant in his hand, they would scarcely execute it. It has been a long, a weary, and a wearing battle: Edwin Barley against George Heneage: but God has shown himself on the side of mercy."

The words puzzled her a little. "Has he escaped?" she fiercely asked. "Has he left the house?"

"He has not left it, Mrs. Penn; he is in the west wing." She threw up her head with a glow of triumph, and walked rapidly away down the broad walk, the policemen escorting her.

Standing at the back of the hall in utter amazement, partly at seeing Mrs. Penn go forth at all, partly at the object she presented in the grey cloak, was Lizzy Dene. "Miss," she said to me, as I stood just inside the great dining-room, "I should say she must have been the one to frighten Black Knave that night."

"Perhaps she was, Lizzy. Her cloak is grey."

An impulse came over me that I would ask Lizzy Dene the motive of her suspicious conduct in the past. Now that the culprit had turned out to be Mrs. Penn, Lizzy Dene must have been innocent. Stepping within the large dining-room, I asked her there and then.

"Ah," said she, with a sort of fling out of the hands, habitual to her when annoyed or in pain, "I don't mind telling now. I was in trouble at that time."

"What do you mean, Lizzy?"

"I have got a brother, Miss; as steady, well-meaning a man as you'd wish to see," she answered, coming nearer and dropping her voice to a low tone. "He came into this neighbourhood in search of work, he and his wife. Oh, but it's she that's the plague; and a fine worry he has had with her, on and off. She's wild; if there's a wake or a dance within ten miles, she'll be off after it: and at times she has been seen the worse for drink. Not that you'd think it, to look at her; she's a pretty, neat, jaunty young woman; never a pleasanter than she when she chooses. Well, try as he would, he couldn't get work in these parts, except an odd job now and again: and you know, Miss, when everything is going out, and nothing's coming in, it don't take long for any few pounds that may have been saved in an old stocking, to come to an end."

"That's true enough, Lizzy."

"Theirs did. And what should they do when all was gone but come to me to help them. I did it. I helped them till I was tired, till I could help no longer. She, it was, mostly that asked; he'd never have begged a sixpence from me but when driven to it by sheer want. She pestered my very life out, coming here continually, and when I told her I had no more money to give, and it was of no use asking for it, then she prayed for broken victuals. Things had got very low with them. 'Who's that woman that's always creeping here after Lizzy Dene!' the servants said. 'Who's that man that we see her with!' they'd say again. And I did not choose to say who. Both of them had got shabby then, in rags almost; and he, what with the ill luck and her conduct, had been seen twice in drink. My lady is excessively particular that the servants she has about her shall belong to respectable people; Hill, she's always on the watch; and what I feared was that I might be turned from my place. It was not a pleasant life for me, Miss."

I thought it could not have been.

"One afternoon—the same that the accident occurred to Mr. Chandos—Tilda had been up to the house, begging as usual. She vowed, if I would not relieve her with either money or food, to do some damage to the family: but she had been having a drop of beer, and I paid no attention to her, and wouldn't give her anything. I may be giving for ever, I said to her, and she went away, threatening. After she was gone, I kept thinking over what she had said—that she'd do some damage to the family—the words wouldn't go away from me, and I got right down frightened, lest she should put her threat in force. What if she should fire one of the haystacks, or poison the poultry?—all sorts of horrors I kept on imagining. I begged some cold meat of the cook, inventing a story of a poor sick family, and collected some broken bits of bread, with a pinch of tea, and ran out with it all in a basket, at the dusk hour. They were lodging in one of the lanes close by; and when I got there I found Tilda had not been in. I couldn't stop; I gave the things to John, and told him he must keep Tilda away or I should lose my place; he promised he'd do what he could, but added that I knew as well as he did how little she'd be said. In hurrying back through the avenue, with my basket, I came upon Mr. Chandos lying there; you were standing by him. Miss, when I heard what had happened, as true as that we are here, I was afraid that she had done it. I went back and taxed her with it; she had come in then, but she was sullen and would not say yes nor no. I was frightened out of my senses for fear it should come out; and I tried to lay it upon the gipsies. But the next day, when her temper came to her, she vowed and protested that she'd had nothing to do with it. I thought then it really was the gipsies, and wished to bring it home to them. That's the truth, Miss, as I'm here living."

"And what were you doing in my room that night, Lizzy?"

"What night, Miss?"

"When I surprised you, and you appeared so confused. The excuse you made was that you were looking for the ghost."

"And so I was looking for it, Miss," she answered: "I was doing nothing else. One of the girls had said the ghost was abroad that night, and I thought I'd look. Between Tilda and the ghost my time was a bad one just then. I'm sure I was thankful when she and John left these parts. He has got work at the malting in a distant town, and they are doing well. I wish the ghost could be got rid of as easily."

If Lizzy Dene had but known how entirely the poor ghost had gone out of the world for ever! Would Chandos ever lose its belief in it?

"I have told you this, Miss, because I thought you seemed to suspect me; and I didn't deserve it. I'm true to the family, to the backbone, Miss; and so I always will be. My lady has confidence in me; she has known me a long while."

The explanation over, Lizzy Dene left me. I crossed the hall to enter the oak-parlour just in time to see Hickens open the front door to a visitor, and to hear a colloquy. My heart seemed to shrink within me at the voice, for it was Mr. Edwin Barley's. What could have brought him to the house, boldly inquiring for its inmates?

It appeared that Mrs. Penn, on her stealthy visit to his house that morning, had not seen him. Upon inquiring for Mr. Barley she was told he had gone out betimes, shooting. The information took her aback. Go out shooting, when his enemy, for whom he had been searching night and day these ten years, was found to be close at hand, waiting to be apprehended! And she forthwith accused the footman of not delivering to his master the note left at the house the previous night, upon which she had the pleasure of hearing that the note was duly delivered to Mr. Edwin Barley, and turned out to be a circular of the fashions. All she could do then was to write a few lines, giving him the information about George Heneage, with a charge that it should be put into Mr. Barley's hands the instant he set foot in the house. But Mr. Barley did not return to it quickly. The birds were shy that day.

Later, when he was at length going home, his gun in one hand and a brace of pheasants in the other, he encountered a procession. Turning out at the lodge-gates came Mrs. Penn, one policeman walking by her side, another behind; and, following on, Mrs. Penn's luggage in a truck propelled by a man in the Chandos livery. Mr. Edwin Barley naturally stopped; although he had not been on good terms with Mrs. Penn for some years; and inquired the meaning of what he saw.

"You are the only relative I have left in the world, Mr. Edwin Barley; will you, as such, suffer this indignity to be put upon me?" were the first words she spoke. And he, thus called upon, turned in his haughty, menacing manner on the officers. She was his relative, as she said, and he possessed some right feeling.

"What is the meaning of this? Unhand the lady! Why are you guarding her in that offensive manner?"

"We have orders, sir, to see the lady safely away from Chandos."

"Who gave you the orders?"

"Mr. Chandos."

Mr. Edwin Barley said something about making Mr. Chandos retract his orders before the day was over; but the men were not to be intimidated.

"The lady has not been behaving on the square, sir, and we thought at first she would be given into custody. But Mr. Chandos considered it over; and said, as she had been able to effect no great harm, he'd let her go."

Mr. Edwin Barley looked to Mrs. Penn for an explanation. Instead of giving it, she whispered in his ear the information about George Heneage. For the first time for years, Mr. Edwin Barley's face twitched with powerful emotion.

"WHAT do you say?" he asked in his surprise and bewilderment.

"What I say is plain: George Heneage, the murderer of your ward, the indirect murderer of your wife, is in concealment at Chandos," said Mrs. Penn, rather tragically. "The mysteries of that west wing have been cleared to me. Anne Hereford penetrated to it yesterday for some purpose of her own, and saw him: an emaciated being she described him, bearing a striking resemblance to Harry Chandos. Now what do you say to my having entered the house as a detective, Mr. Edwin Barley? And it is for having pursued my investigations that Mr. Chandos has turned me forth in in this ignominious manner."

Mr. Edwin Barley drew in his lips. She said not a word, be it understood, of the illegitimate mode in which she had pursued the said investigation. He turned matters rapidly over in his mind, and then addressed the policeman.

"What were you intending to do with this lady?"

"Our orders were to see her into your house, sir. Nothing more."

"My mission in this part of the world is over," interrupted Mrs. Penn; "I shall leave it for London this afternoon. Until then, say for an hour or two, I shall be glad to find a shelter in your house, Mr. Edwin Barley."

"Very good. After that you are at liberty, I presume, to take orders from me?" he added to the officers. And they signified they were if he had any to give.

"You can then follow me to Chandos. Stay outside the house, and be ready to obey the signal I shall give you. Be prepared to take into custody a criminal who has been evading the law for years, and who will probably make a desperate resistance. What do you say? No warrant? Nonsense. I am in the commission of the peace, and will absolve you of any consequences."

Laying his gun and birds on the top of the luggage, Mr. Edwin Barley turned to Chandos. The policemen, who had not the remotest intention of quitting their prisoner until they had seen her within Mr. Barley's doors continued their way thither. Thus it happened: and the voice of Edwin Barley demanding to see Lady Chandos greeted my dismayed ears as I crossed the hall. Why he should have asked for Lady Chandos, he himself best knew: the demand was an imperative one.

"My lady cannot be seen, sir," was the reply of Hickens. "She is better, I hear; but she is not yet out of her rooms. Sir Harry is within."

"Who do you say is within?" cried Mr. Edwin Barley, probably thinking his ears might deceive him.

"Sir Harry Chandos."

"Sir Harry," repeated Mr. Edwin Barley, wondering doubtless whether Hickens had lost his senses. "What do you mean by calling him that."

"I call him nothing but what's right, sir. He is Sir Harry now, unfortunately: that is unfortunately for poor Sir Thomas. News came this morning, sir, that Sir Thomas has been killed in battle. We have got the house shut up for him."

Mr. Edwin Barley took a step backwards, and looked at the white blinds, closely drawn behind, the windows. The tidings took him by surprise. Having gone out shooting before the letters and papers were delivered, he was in ignorance of the morning's news.

"I am sorry to hear it," he said. "It is an additional blow for Lady Chandos; and she does not need it. Sir Thomas was the best of the three sons: I had no grudge against him. But Mr. Harry Chandos does not take the title, my man."

"Oh yes, he does, sir. He is now Sir Harry Chandos."

"I tell you no," returned Mr. Edwin Barley, with a grim smile. "He is just as much Sir Harry Chandos as I am: it is not he who comes into the title. Let it pass, however."

"Did you want him, sir?" inquired Hickens, quitting at once the controversy like a well-trained servant.

"I do. But I would very much have preferred to see Lady Chandos first."

"That is quite out of the question, sir," concluded Hickens, as he conducted his visitor to the state drawing-room. Oh, but it was a relief to me—shivering just inside the oak-parlour—to hear him pass it!

As will readily be understood, I have to relate things now that did not at the time come under my personal sight or hearing: they only reached me later. Mr. Edwin Barley looked upon his prisoner as his; as much his own, with those two keen policemen posted outside the house and he inside it, as though George Heneage had lain at his feet manacled and fettered. He could not resist the temptation of entering the house that contained his long-evading enemy.

Hickens took out his revenge. Returning with his master to the large drawing-room, he contrived to let it be known that he maintained his own opinion; giving the introduction with great emphasis—

"Mr. Edwin Barley, Sir Harry."