She thus sat then, with her head bent over the book, and her eyes filling again with tears, though she had dried them often, when she thought she heard a noise in the conservatory, which joined the drawing-room on the southern side, and extended up to the plantation which led away toward the park. It was as if something had struck against the window; and, after listening some time with a beating heart, to hear if it returned again, Lucy opened the glass doors, and going into the green-house, gazed out through the windows upon the night. The round, yellow, autumnal moon was shining clear and bright in the sky, and she could see everything upon the lawn and slopes that surrounded the old manor house; the sparkling stream that flowed along at the foot of the declivity, the Grey stone bridge with its Gothic arches and massy piers, and the square tower of the old church beyond, almost as clearly as if it had been day. There was no moving object to be seen in any direction: but she thought she heard a rustling in the shrubbery close by, and with some degree of fear, but more surprise, she retreated into the drawing-room as speedily as possible, closing the doors behind her. A moment or two after, there came a loud ring of the house-bell, and she thought, "That must be mamma returned; but it is odd, I did not hear the carriage." The next moment, however, the butler appeared, saying, "There is a gentleman of the name of Morrison, Miss Lucy, below, who wishes to see you immediately." "Morrison," said Lucy, thoughtfully, "it must be a mistake, Harris. You must mean he wants mamma. I know nobody of the name of Morrison." "No, Miss Lucy," replied the butler; "he asked for you and you only, and I have heard that he was a friend and school-fellow of poor Mr. Tyrrell--Sir Charles Tyrrell, indeed, as I should now call him." Lucy turned a little pale with agitation, but she directed the butler to show the gentleman in; and in another minute Everard Morrison was standing before her. He was pale and somewhat haggard; but perfectly calm and composed. "I beg pardon, Miss Effingham," he said, without sitting down, though she had pointed to a chair, "for intruding upon you in this manner, and at this moment,"--as he spoke, he turned his head over his shoulder, to see that the butler had shut the door--"but I do not know whether you are aware," he proceeded, "that I had the honour of being a schoolfellow of Sir Charles Tyrrell." Lucy could only bow, for she was too much agitated to reply. "I am forced to be abrupt," continued Morrison, "for there is no time to be lost. Sir Charles Tyrrell is, as you know, accused of a horrible crime. There are particular facts, which I cannot explain to you at present, which would prevent him from proving his innocence, except at the expense, and indeed utter destruction of two other persons. Under these circumstances he has judged it better to attempt to escape."