"Have you seen anything of Mr. Ashton?" asked her father, looking up, with one glance at Hawkshaw, and another at the clock on the mantel-piece. "It is past nine. He was only going to the railway station, and has not yet returned. His absence is most singular." Hawkshaw hesitated, and looked at his watch with a confused air, as he muttered: "Past nine--yes, ten minutes." "He was seen to pass the gate with you," said Ethel. "With me?" said Hawkshaw, starting. "Yes." "By whom?" he asked, with some asperity. "Nance Folgate," said Rose. "Ah--true, yes--we took a turn together; and when I saw him last he was going towards the chine." "The chine!" exclaimed the girls together, in a tone of surprise that was not unmingled with alarm. "The chine, at this hour!" repeated Mr. Basset. "It was eight then; and he said he intended to enjoy a quiet weed along the cliffs." "Most strange!" said Ethel, "when he had news of importance to communicate to me." "He cannot be long now. I returned without him, as I felt odd--giddy; the regalias I sometimes smoke here don't agree with me. I used to get such prime ones in Mexico." "You look pale--absolutely ill," said Mr. Basset; "have some wine. What is the matter?" "Thanks," replied Hawkshaw, almost tottering into a chair, and tossing his red cap aside. "The last bottle of our Cliquot is on the sideboard." The cork was soon cut, and Hawkshaw nearly filled a crystal rummer with the foaming champagne, of which he drank thirstily. As he did so, his hand trembled, and the vessel was heard to rattle against his teeth. Whence this unusual emotion, which did not escape the anxious eyes of Ethel. "Oh, Heaven!" thought she in her heart, "if he should have quarrelled with Morley! His manner is so excited, so strange, something unpleasant--terrible--must have happened." Time passed slowly. Half-past nine struck, then ten, but there was no appearance of Morley. Ethel watched at the windows which opened to the lawn; she listened and lingered at the front door. Then Rose and she ventured to the foot of the avenue, now lighted by a clear, cold moon, and gazed down the long green lane, in which she had first met him on his return; but all was still, not a footfall was heard, nor aught but the dew dropping from the leaves. Far into the darkness and silence stretched the vista of that long and shady lane, so famed for its wild roses in summer, its filberts and black brambleberries in autumn, its scarlet hips and haws in frosty winter--a real old English lane. A sound breaks the impressive silence--it is the distant clock of the village church striking the hour of eleven. Anon twelve struck, and no Morley came.