The villagers hesitated for a moment, in order to be quite sure there was no immediate danger in following Frank Hartleton, and then they quickly thronged the little cottage, which could boast of but two small apartments, so that the whole interior was in a very few minutes examined. The cottage was tenantless. Dame Tatton and her infant charge had both disappeared. The simple rustics gaped at each other in speechless amazement. The bed had evidently been occupied, but there was no sign of confusion or violence—all was orderly and neat—nothing was removed or disarranged. A canary bird was singing gaily in a wicker cage; a cat slept on the hearth; but the Widow Tatton and the mysterious child—now more mysterious than ever—had both disappeared. “I cannot account for this,” said Frank Hartleton. “By Heavens it’s the most singular thing I ever heard of.” “The place has a strange look,” cried one. “A strange look!” said the rest in chorus. “So indeed it has.” “Strange nonsense,” cried Frank. “So you are frightened all of you at an empty-room are you?” “Master Frank,” suddenly shouted one, “look ye here, you were always a main scholar.” Frank turned his attention to a part of the plaster wall indicated by him who spoke, and on it was traced, as if rapidly with a thumb or finger nail these words,— “Help—the Squire and the Savage have—” and that was all. Whoever had written that hurried scrawl had not had time to finish the sentence which would probably have thrown some light upon the inexplicable affair. “There has been some foul play, I am convinced,” cried Frank. “My friends, let us go at once and confront the squire.” “You need not go far, insolent hind!” cried a hoarse voice, and Frank turned suddenly to where the sound proceeded from, saw Squire Learmont himself standing upon the threshold of the cottage. Squire Learmont of Learmont, only as he preferred being called, was a man far above the ordinary standard of height; his figure, however, was thin and emaciated, which, coupled with his height, gave him an ungainly appearance. His complexion was a dead white—there was nothing of the sallow or brown in it—it was ghastly white, and contrasting with his lank black hair which hung far down from his head straight and snake-like without the shadow of a curl, it had a hideous corpse-like appearance. “I am glad,” said Frank, when he had recovered his first surprise at the sudden appearance of Learmont, “I am glad we have not far to go, for the business is urgent.” Learmont waved his hand for him to proceed. “Last night there was a storm,” continued Frank. “Indeed!” sneered Learmont. “That is news this morning.” Frank Hartleton felt his cheek flush with colour, but he controlled his passion and continued,— “A wing of the old house adjoining the smithy was on fire—the house I mean that has been shut up so long because it is thought—” “Who dared think?” cried Learmont, in a voice of violent anger. “Who dared think of me—”