“Tell her you have an idea of who the murderer is.” “But I have no idea.” “But _I_ have.” “Good God! what do you mean?” “Don’t mistake me! An impression has been produced on my mind--that’s all. Call it a freak or fancy; worth trying perhaps as a bold experiment, and worth nothing more. Come a little nearer. My housekeeper is an excellent woman, but I have once or twice caught her rather too near to that door. I think I’ll whisper it.” He did whisper it. In breathless wonder, Alban heard of the doubt which had crossed Doctor Allday’s mind, on the evening when Mirabel had called at his house. “You look as if you didn’t believe it,” the doctor remarked. “I’m thinking of Emily. For her sake I hope and trust you are wrong. Ought I to go to her at once? I don’t know what to do!” “Find out first, my good fellow, whether I am right or wrong. You can do it, if you will run the risk with Miss Jethro.” Alban recovered himself. His old friend’s advice was clearly the right advice to follow. He examined his railway guide, and then looked at his watch. “If I can find Miss Jethro,” he answered, “I’ll risk it before the day is out.” The doctor accompanied him to the door. “You will write to me, won’t you?” “Without fail. Thank you--and good-by.” BOOK THE SEVENTH--THE CLINK. CHAPTER LVIII. A COUNCIL OF TWO. Early in the last century one of the picturesque race of robbers and murderers, practicing the vices of humanity on the borderlands watered by the river Tweed, built a tower of stone on the coast of Northumberland. He lived joyously in the perpetration of atrocities; and he died penitent, under the direction of his priest. Since that event, he has figured in poems and pictures; and has been greatly admired by modern ladies and gentlemen, whom he would have outraged and robbed if he had been lucky enough to meet with them in the good old times. His son succeeded him, and failed to profit by the paternal example: that is to say, he made the fatal mistake of fighting for other people instead of fighting for himself. In the rebellion of Forty-Five, this northern squire sided to serious purpose with Prince Charles and the Highlanders. He lost his head; and his children lost their inheritance. In the lapse of years, the confiscated property fell into the hands of strangers; the last of whom (having a taste for the turf) discovered, in course of time, that he was in want of money. A retired merchant, named Delvin (originally of French extraction), took a liking to the wild situation, and purchased the tower. His wife--already in failing health--had been ordered by the doctors to live a quiet life by the sea. Her husband’s death left her a rich and lonely widow; by day and night alike, a prisoner in her room; wasted by disease, and having but two interests which reconciled her to life--writing poetry in the intervals of pain, and paying the debts of a reverend brother who succeeded in the pulpit, and prospered nowhere else.