With the tea-things, disappeared Mr. Chandos; and a sensation of loneliness fell upon me. At what? At his exit, or at my previous alarm in the pine-walk? I might have asked myself, but did not. He came back again shortly, remarking that it was a fine night. "Have you been out, sir?" "No. I have been to my mother's rooms." "Is she better this evening?" "Much the same." He stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand lifted to his head; evidently in deep thought, a strange look of anxiety, of pain, in the expression of his countenance. I went over to a side table to get something out of my workbox; and, not to disturb him by going back again, I softly pulled aside the muslin window-curtain to look out for a minute on the dusky, still night. What was it made me spring back with a sudden movement of terror and a half-cry? Surely I could not be mistaken! That _was_ a face close to the window, looking in; the dark face of a man; and, unless I was much mistaken, bearing a strong resemblance to that of Mr. Edwin Barley. "What is it?" asked Mr. Chandos, coming forward. "Has anything alarmed you?" "Oh, sir! I saw a face pressed close to the window-pane. A man's face." Without the loss of a moment, Mr. Chandos threw up the window, and had his head out. All I felt good for was to sit down in a chair out of sight. He could see no one, as it appeared, and he shut the window again very quietly. Perhaps his thoughts only pointed to some one of the servants. "Are you sure you saw any one, Miss Hereford?" "I am very nearly sure, sir." "Who was it?" In truth I could not say, and I was not obliged to avow my suspicions. Mr. Chandos hastened outside, and I remained alone, as timid as could be. A curious and most unpleasant suspicion was fixing itself upon my mind, dim glimpses of which had been haunting me during tea—that Mr. Edwin Barley's object was me. That it was himself who had been in the pine-walk, and again now at the window, I felt a positive conviction. He must have recognised me; this stealthy intrusion at odd times, seasonable and unseasonable, must be to watch me, to take note of my movements, not of those of the owners of Chandos. But for his motive I searched in vain. "I cannot see or hear any one about," said Mr. Chandos, when he returned; "all seems to be quite free and still. I fancy you must have been mistaken, Miss Hereford." I shook my head, but did not care to say much, after the notion that had taken possession of me. Words might lead to deeper questions, and I could not for the world have said that I knew Edwin Barley. "Possibly you may be a little nervous to-night," he continued, ringing the bell; "and at such times the fancy considers itself at liberty to play us all sorts of tricks. My having told you what I did this morning relating to myself, may have taken hold of your imagination." "Oh, no; it has not."