Chandos Winslow thought for a few moments deeply, and then replied, holding out his hand to General Tracy, "I thank you most deeply for your kindness; but let me entreat you not to suffer anything I have said to cast a suspicion upon others. I have no one to accuse. I meant not in the least to imply that I am aware of any facts connected with this sad event. I have my own reasons for the course I follow; but to explain them would be to debar myself from that course. What you are pleased to do in the matter, I cannot help; but pray let no inquiries be founded upon or directed by anything I have said." The old officer bowed his head gravely, but merely replied, "What can we do to give you amusement during your confinement?" "Oh, books, General," answered the prisoner; "that is the only solace allowed me here. If you could send me some of those at my cottage, you would indeed confer a great favour; for time flies heavily when my own dull thoughts bear down his wings; but I have often found that the current of imagination, when directed by authors that we love, has a buoyancy which bears our dull thoughts away upon the stream, till we lose sight of them in distance." "You shall have your whole library before to-morrow night," replied General Tracy; "and now farewell. I will see you again; but if in the meantime I can serve you in any way, write to me at once." Thus saying, he left him; and immediately on his arrival at Northferry-house, he inquired strictly of all the servants if they had seen any one go out into the garden or return from it on the night of the murder, and at the hour when it was supposed to have taken place. Only one person, the second footman, recollected any circumstance of the kind, and he could give no definite information. He said, however, that just after sunset, as he was shutting the dining-room windows, he saw somebody pass into the house through the conservatory. He thought it was like the figure of Sir William Winslow, but he could not affirm that it was so; and with this confirmation, weak as it was, General Tracy was forced to be satisfied for the time. CHAPTER XXV. Rose Tracy sat in her own room, with her head resting on her hand. The tears were streaming from her eyes; and yet the expression of her countenance was not altogether that of grief. It seemed more as if her heart and feelings had been touched for another, than as if she were affected by personal sorrow. Such indeed was the case. The letter before her was from Horace Fleming. It was the first she had ever received from him; and it was couched in language which was guarded by delicate feeling towards her sister, while it plainly suffered to appear the deep anguish of spirit which he himself endured. After wiping the tears from her eyes, she re-read several detached passages from the letter, which we may as well place before the reader:--