Randal walked home slowly. It was a cold moonlit night. Young idlers of his own years and rank passed him by, on their way from the haunts of social pleasure. They were yet in the first fair holiday of life. Life’s holiday had gone from him for ever. Graver men, in the various callings of masculine labour—professions, trade, the state—passed him also. Their steps might be sober, and their faces careworn; but no step had the furtive stealth of his—no face the same contracted, sinister, suspicious gloom. Only once, in a lonely thoroughfare, and on the opposite side of the way, fell a foot-fall, and glanced an eye, that seemed to betray a soul in sympathy with Randal Leslie’s. And Randal, who had heeded none of the other passengers by the way, as if instinctively, took note of this one. His nerves crisped at the noiseless slide of that form, as it stalked on from lamp to lamp, keeping pace with his own. He felt a sort of awe, as if he had beheld the wraith of himself; and ever, as he glanced suspiciously at the stranger, the stranger glanced at him. He was inexpressibly relieved when the figure turned down another street and vanished. That man was a felon, as yet undetected. Between him and his kind there stood but a thought—a veil airspun, but impassable, as the veil of the Image at Sais. And thus moved and thus looked Randal Leslie, a thing of dark and secret mischief—within the pale of the law, but equally removed from man by the vague consciousness that at his heart lay that which the eyes of man would abhor and loathe. Solitary amidst the vast city, and on through the machinery of Civilisation, went the still spirit of Intellectual Evil. CHAPTER XI. Early the next morning Randal received two notes—one from Frank, written in great agitation, begging Randal to see and propitiate his father, whom he feared he had grievously offended; and then running off, rather incoherently, into protestations that his honour as well as his affections were engaged irrevocably to Beatrice, and that her, at least, he could never abandon. And the second note was from the Squire himself—short, and far less cordial than usual—requesting Mr Leslie to call on him. Randal dressed in haste, and went at once to Limmer’s hotel. He found the Parson with Mr Hazeldean, and endeavouring in vain to soothe him. The Squire had not slept all night, and his appearance was almost haggard. “Oho! Mr young Leslie,” said he, throwing himself back in his chair as Randal entered—“I thought you were a friend—I thought you were Frank’s adviser. Explain, sir; explain.” “Gently, my dear Mr Hazeldean,” said the Parson. “You do but surprise and alarm Mr Leslie. Tell him more distinctly what he has to explain.” SQUIRE.—“Did you or did you not tell me or Mrs Hazeldean, that Frank was in love with Violante Rickeybockey?”