By and-by they reached the house and Nance went away to her own room. She lay down on her bed and made a great effort to shut away all thought. This was by no means easy. There was much to think about—much to puzzle and perplex her. Her husband’s mysterious absence; the near vicinity of the poor insane lady; the strange words which the lady had used: “I am here as a blind. Ask Adrian Rowton what goes on in the cellars at night.” What did it all mean? What could it mean? Nancy’s heart beat with great throbs—she felt excited and terribly overwrought. Her adventures, however, were by no means at an end. She was just falling off into a restful doze, when the door of her bedroom was softly opened, and her maid, Hester, advanced across the room on tiptoe. Nancy’s antipathy to this girl was decidedly on the increase, and she now raised her head and spoke almost irritably. “What is it, Hester?” she said. The girl approached the bedside with alacrity. “I just came in to find out whether you were asleep or not, madam,” she said. “I am glad you are awake, for there is a man downstairs. I suppose he is a gentleman, but I cannot say. Anyhow he has called to see you. He said I was to tell you that Mr. Crossley was below.” “Crossley,” said Nance with a start. She sat up in bed. A queer look came into her eyes. “When did he call?” she asked the girl. “Half an hour ago, ma’am, I believe. Vickers has shown him in the library. He said he would wait your convenience.” “Go to Vickers and tell him to say to Mr. Crossley that I will be with him in a few minutes,” replied Nance. The girl left the room, walking with her usual absolutely noiseless tread. “Mr. Crossley,” murmured Nance. All her depression left her on the moment. Her thoughts were completely turned into a new channel. Since her father’s death she had lived in a dream of excitement, of adventure, of golden bliss. It was true lurid lights were coming into this dream of hers; but the subject of all her young life hitherto had been banished from view. Now she remembered it with a pang and a thrill—a pang of deep pain and self-reproach, a thrill of excitement. She thought of her father when he lay dying. She remembered the mission which had been given to her. Her promise to her dying father was abundantly recalled by the mere mention of Crossley’s name. She had taken off her dress, but she soon replaced it. She brushed out her beautiful hair, gave one glance at herself in the long mirror and ran downstairs. Nance knew Crossley, the detective—she had often seen him before. During the six years she had lived with her father at the Grange, he had come to see them as a rule three or four times a year. At each interview she had been present. It was perfectly true that she and her father had indeed stood side by side in their intense eagerness to track the man who had sent Anthony to an early grave. She was with her father now, heart and soul. Her beautiful eyes shone as she entered the library.