After once again consulting some memoranda in his pocket-book, Jacob re-enclosed the letter in its envelope. As he did so he observed with satisfaction that the writing had completely disappeared. Slipping this letter with another of his own into his pocket, he now rushed almost on the wings of the wind to the nearest post-office. He opened the door and went in—the mail was just being packed. “Am I in time to post two letters?” “Just in time, master, if you look sharp,” said the postmaster. “Here, give ’em to me and I’ll drop ’em into the bag myself.” Jacob did so; the letters were thrown on the top of a heap of others, and the postmaster began to tie up the bag. Jacob went out of the post-office with a perfectly radiant face. “Well, Jacob Short, you’ve done a nice stroke of business to-day,” he muttered to himself; “and now I fancy your residence at Rowton Heights has very nearly come to an end.” His mind was completely relieved with regard to the letter which he had abstracted from Her Majesty’s mail in the little village near Rowton Heights. After all, it would go by exactly the same post to town. He now went to the police station, gave a circumstantial account of the events of the last night, and, as he expected, was soon accompanied by two or three of her Majesty’s constabulary back to Rowton Heights. The rest of the day was passed, as might be imagined, in hopeless confusion and excitement. Jacob saw very little of his master and mistress. He was not required to wait at lunch, but was busily occupied taking notes with the police, who required someone to help them. Most of the guests had left or were leaving the Heights, the ladies being, many of them, in a state of panic, and everyone earnestly wishing to get away from a place over which a tragedy seemed now to hang. The news of the mad lady being confined in the Queen Anne wing had got abroad; that fact, the abstraction of the jewels, and the loss of the child, seemed quite to change the aspect of the place. Rowton Heights was no longer gay, cheerful, the home of brightness and frivolity. Detectives and superintendents of police kept coming and going; the entire house was searched from cellar to attic, the Queen Anne wing not being excepted. Nothing of the least importance was, however discovered, and not the faintest clue to the lost child was obtained. Rowton, who had busied himself all day seeing to his guests and hastening their departure, came into the room where his wife and Lady Georgina were seated, about six o’clock in the evening. “I cannot stand this inaction any longer,” he said. “I mean to go up to town to-night myself.” “Oh, take me with you,” said Nance, springing to her feet; “the fact is, I am quite afraid to stay here alone.” He fixed his eyes gloomily upon her—they were slightly bloodshot; his face was more or less flushed. He looked so agitated and upset that Lady Georgina seemed scarcely to know him.