A few days went by, and at last the evening before the day when I was to return to London arrived. Phyllis's mother had gone to bed a short time before, as she had complained of headache, and Allen suddenly proposed, as the night was a perfect one, that we should go out and enjoy a moonlight stroll. Phyllis laughed with glee at the suggestion, and ran at once into the hall to take a wrap from one of the pegs. "Allen," she said to her lover, who was following her, "you and I will go first." "No, young lady, on this occasion you and I will have that privilege," said Sir Henry. He had also come into the hall, and, to our astonishment, announced his intention of accompanying us in our walk. Phyllis bestowed upon him a startled glance, then she laid her hand lightly on his arm, nodded back at Allen with a smile, and walked on in front somewhat rapidly. Allen and I followed in the rear. "Now, what does my father mean by this?" said Allen to me. "He never goes out at night; but he has not been well lately. I sometimes think he grows queerer every day." "He is very far from well, I am certain," I answered. We stayed out for about half an hour and returned home by a path which led into the house through a side entrance. Phyllis was waiting for us in the hall. "Where is my father?" asked Allen, going up to her. "He is tired and has gone to bed," she answered. "Good-night, Allen." "Won't you come into the drawing-room?" he asked in some astonishment. "No, I am tired." She nodded to him without touching his hand; her eyes, I could not help noticing, had a queer expression. She ran upstairs. I saw that Allen was startled by her manner; but as he did not say anything, neither did I. The next day at breakfast I was told that the Curzons had already left the Abbey. Allen was full of astonishment and, I could see, a good deal annoyed. He and I breakfasted alone in the old library. His father was too ill to come downstairs. An hour later I was on my way back to London. Many things there engaged my immediate attention, and Allen, his engagement, Sir Henry, and the old family curse, sank more or less into the background of my mind. Three months afterwards, on the 7th of January, I saw to my sorrow in the _Times_ the announcement of Sir Henry Clinton's death. From time to time in the interim I had heard from the son, saying that his father was failing fast. He further mentioned that his own wedding was fixed for the twenty-first of the present month. Now, of course, it must be postponed. I felt truly sorry for Allen, and wrote immediately a long letter of condolence. On the following day I received a wire from him, imploring me to go down to the Abbey as soon as possible, saying that he was in great difficulty.