It was now nearly dark, and Lucius was anxious to obtain a speedy release from the sick room, lest the time should creep on towards the hour at which Mr. Otranto’s minions were to seek for admittance at the little back door. He made some excuse therefore for bidding his patient ‘good-night’ soon after this. There would be time for him to see that the coast was clear, and to keep watch for the coming of the two men. He met Lucille in the corridor, coming up-stairs for the night, at least two hours earlier than usual—a most opportune retirement. She gave a little start at meeting him, and her look was more of surprise than pleasure. ‘You here, Lucius!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yes, dear; I have been with your grandfather. I heard you were lying down, and would not disturb you. I hope you feel refreshed by that long rest.’ ‘As much refreshed as I can be while I have such cause for anxiety. I am going to my room early, so as to be near my grandfather.’ ‘That is wise; only remember you must try to sleep. You must not be watching and listening all night. If Mr. Sivewright wants anything he will call you. Good-night, my dearest.’ He folded her in his arms, and pressed a tender kiss upon the sad lips; but her only response to his caress was a weary sigh. There was something amiss here; what, he knew not; but he felt she had some sorrow which she refused to share with him, and the thought wounded him to the quick. He left her perplexed and unhappy. The old clock on the staircase struck eight as Lucius passed it. He had an hour to wait before the arrival of the detectives. What to do with himself during that time, he knew not. The lower part of the house was wrapped in darkness, save for the feeble glimmer of a candle in the great kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Wincher were seated at their frugal supper. Lucius looked and beheld them regaling themselves on a stony-looking Dutch cheese and an overgrown lettuce—a gigantic vegetable, which they liberally soused with vinegar. From Mrs. Wincher, Lucius obtained a candle, which he carried to the parlour—a room that looked empty and desolate without Lucille. There was the sofa upon which she had rested; there her book; there her work-basket.