“I am extremely sorry, but you had no lamp to your carriage. I certainly did not expect to meet anyone on this rough bit of road. What is the matter, doctor? What patient has called you out such a night as this?” “I am just returning from the Grange,” said Dr. Read; “have you not heard?” “Heard what?—is anyone ill there?—surely not Miss Nancy!” “Bless you, Nancy Follett is well enough, unless indeed, poor child, she dies of her sorrows. What an old ruffian that father of hers is? Well, he is dying now: his grief is evidently bringing him to his grave. By the way, talking of mysteries, I believe I have got a clue to the shadow which hangs over the old Grange.” “And what is that?” asked Rowton, a tone of interest coming into his voice. “Why, they say that this old man, Dr. Follett, is no other than the well-known physician of the name who performed such wonderful cures in Harley Street some years back—you must have heard of the great Dr. Follett.” “Can’t say that I have,” answered Rowton. “Well, well,” said Dr. Read testily, “I thought all the world knew of him. I never for an instant suspected that this cross-grained old fellow could be he, but I believe it is a fact. It seems that the man had an awful shock: his only son was mysteriously murdered. Of course there may not be a word of truth in it, but something must have happened—did you speak, sir?” Rowton had said “Good God” under his breath. He was quite quiet now. “I think your informant must be mistaken,” he said after a pause. “I know the Folletts very well, and neither father nor daughter have ever alluded to a murdered son or brother—murdered! Good Heavens! Nancy Follett would surely have told me of a tragedy of that sort.” “Well,” said Dr. Read, “there is some shadow over those two lives, and the shadow is killing the old man. Poor fellow, his days are numbered; it is only a question of hours.” “I am surprised, shocked, and sorry,” said Rowton. “I was at the Grange only a week back and then Dr. Follett looked as well as ever.” “As ill, you mean,” said the doctor. “He has been breaking up fast for the last six months. The mystery, or shadow, or whatever it is, is killing him, for the man is not really old. Have you ever noticed the extraordinary gloom on his face?” “Yes, and no,” replied Rowton. “I thought him a queer old card, but to be frank with you, I don’t go to the Grange to study old Dr. Follett.” The moon shone out at this moment, and Dr. Read favoured the bold outline of the young man who stood by his side with a keen glance. “That girl is as fine a creature as ever breathed,” he said with apparent inconsequence; “take care, young sir, that you do not do her an injury; but now I must be off. Follett is dying because there is a shadow over him and the shadow is killing him. Well, I must not stay here any longer. Good night to you, Mr. Rowton.” “One moment before you go, doctor. Is Miss Nancy all alone?”