"Your boxes? Certainly not, Mrs. Penn. Why, you are the chief sufferer! It would be a new thing to search places for the articles lost out of them." But Mrs. Penn pressed it. It was not pleasant, although she had lost a bit of lace: and she thought the boxes should all share alike, excepting those belonging to the Chandos family: it would be more satisfactory to our minds. Mr. Chandos repeated his No, courteously, but somewhat imperatively, and left the room with the officer. "Did you offer your boxes for their inspection?" she asked of me. "Of course not. They know quite well I should not be likely to take the things." "I may say the same of myself. But I cannot help remembering that you and I are the only strangers in the place; and it makes me, for my part, feel uncomfortable. Such a thing never before happened in any house where I have been." "At any rate, Mrs. Penn, _you_ must be exempt from suspicion." "It is not altogether that. I look at it in this light. These servants are searched: they are proved innocent; at least nothing is found upon them to imply guilt. They may turn round and say—why don't you search these two strangers?—and talk of injustice. However—of course Mr. Chandos must do as he pleases: he seems sole master here." "Do not fear that he will suspect either you or me, Mrs. Penn. And Lady Chandos, as I gather, knows nothing of the matter." The search and the commotion had the effect of delaying dinner. It was late when the men departed, and I got tired of being alone in the oak-parlour. Mr. Chandos had gone out somewhere. Putting a shawl over my shoulders, for the evenings were not so warm as they had been, I went out and walked down the avenue. All in a minute, as I paced it, it occurred to me that Mr. Chandos might be coming home. Would it look as though I had gone to meet him! Love was making me jealously reticent, and I plunged thoughtlessly into the shady walks opposite, trusting to good luck to take me back to the house. Good luck proved a traitor. It lost my way for me: and when I found it again I was at the far end of the pine-walk. To my dismay. The superstitions attaching to this gloomy walk flashed into my mind. Outside, it had been a grey twilight; here it was nearly as dark as night: in fact, night had set in. There was nothing for it but to run straight through: to turn back would be worse now: and I should inevitably lose myself again. I was about half way up the walk, flying like the wind, when in turning a corner I ran nearly against Mr. Chandos, who was coming quickly down it. But, in the first moment I did not recognise him; it was too dark. Fear came over me, my heart beat wildly and but for catching hold of him I must have screamed. "I beg your pardon, sir," I said, loosing him. "I did not know you quite at first."