The mare was excited at finding herself on the road in the clear cool night, with the moonlight in her eyes, and was gayer than Fareham liked to see her under so precious a load; but Angela was no longer the novice by whose side he had ridden nearly two years before. She handled Queen Bess firmly, and soon settled her into a sharp trot, and kept her at it for nearly three miles. The hour Fareham had spoken of was not exceeded by many minutes when Chilton Abbey came in sight, the grey stone walls pale in the moonlight. All things—the long park wall, the pillared gates, the open spaces of the park, the depth of shadow where the old oaks and beeches spread wide and dark, had a look of unreality which contrasted curiously with the scene as she had last beheld it in all its daylight verdure and homeliness. She dropped lightly from her horse, so soon as they drew rein at an angle of the long irregular house, where there was a door, half hidden under ivy, by which Lord Fareham went in and out much oftener than by the principal entrance. It opened into a passage that led straight to the library, where there was a lamp burning to-night. Angela saw the light in the window as they rode past. He opened the door, which had been left on the latch, and nodded a dismissal to the groom, who went off to the stables, leading their horses. All was dark in the passage—dark and strangely silent; but this wing was remote from the chief apartments and from the servants’ offices. “Will you take me to my sister at once?” Angela asked, stopping on the threshold of the library, when Fareham had opened the door. A lamp upon the tall mantelpiece feebly lighted the long low room, gloomy with the darkness of old oak wainscot and a heavily timbered ceiling. There were two flasks of wine upon a silver salver, and provisions for a supper, and a fire was burning on the hearth. “You had better warm yourself after your night ride, and eat and drink something before you see her.” “No, no. What, after riding as fast as our horses could carry us! I must go to her this moment. Can you find me a candle?”—looking about her hurriedly as she spoke. “But, indeed, it is no matter; I know my way to her room in the dark, and there will be light enough from the great window.” “Stop!” he cried, seizing her arm as she was leaving the room; “stop!” dragging her back and shutting the door violently. “Your sister is not there.” “Great God! what do you mean? You told me your wife was here—ill—dying perhaps.” “I told you a lie, sweetheart; but desperate men will do desperate things.” “Where is my sister? Is she dead?” “Not unless the Nemesis that waits on woman’s folly has been swifter of foot than common. I have no wife, Angela; and you have no sister that you will ever care to own. My Lady Fareham has crossed the narrow sea with her lover, Henri de Malfort—her paramour always—though I once thought him yours, and tried to kill him for your sake.”