As I straightened myself up the storm broke, and a perfect torrent of rain poured down upon me. Hastily sheathing my sword, I left the priest where he was, and made for the house in a run, the package clutched in my hand. Had it not been for the light that streamed from the windows, I would never have found it in the darkness; but I reached the porch, after a brief dash of a few minutes, the wind tugging and fighting at my heels as if to impede my progress, loath to see me escape from its fury. Hastily slipping the bundle in my doublet, I stepped upon the veranda and passed into the hall. DeNortier, pale and distraught, was standing in the door, surveying with lusterless eye the storm. "'Tis an awful gale," he said, on perceiving me. "See the surf," and he pointed out to where the great waves pitched and tossed below us. "Terrible," I answered. "The wind roars like the culverins of a fleet." Passing him, I made my way up to my own room. Lighting the candle and fastening the door, I looked around me. All was quiet and silent, and going to the window, I drew the curtain across it. Then seating myself under the light, while the storm howled and roared outside, I cut the fastenings and opened the package. Drawing out a paper, I looked at it. It was a brief account of the coming of Hampden to the title and estate of his uncle, written by someone evidently well acquainted with the state of affairs which existed. But it was of no interest to me, and laying it aside, I picked up the next one. An account of the disappearance of Sir Thomas Winchester. "He had been murdered, most probably by robbers.... A great loss to London society. A diligent search has been made for him, but as yet without avail...." I threw it aside with a smile. Evidently this was Dunraven's work, for though no name was signed to the paper, I had no doubt that he was the author. My lord wished it thought that I was dead, and most likely at that moment, with a solemn face, he was engaged in searching for my remains. If ever man had been fitted by nature to play two parts with consummate ease and skill, it was Dunraven. Several other papers I saw; seemingly a diary of every movement of mine, and also of DeNortier's, from day to day, setting out the minutest instances of our lives, as though we ourselves had penned it. The rest seemed to be the same; all but the last, a small, dainty billet, precisely penned, in a flowing hand, to the Viscount James Henry Hampden. I had seen that writing before; a faint odor as of some sweet flower yet clung to the paper. I had oft smelt just such a perfume, sweet, delicate. There was only one whom I knew, around whose dainty figure there lingered such an odor as this. Opening it with a hand which despite my efforts trembled, I read the few brief lines it contained. Only an acceptance to a ball, written months before, and signed with the name--Margaret Carroll.