“Great Heaven!” he cried; “I didn’t know her!” The ghost that he had seen upon the previous night was the ghost of the woman he had so long been looking for--his cousin Susan. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVIII. “OH, MY AMY! MINE NO MORE!” Francis Tredethlyn drove his friend down to Richmond at a rattling pace, but he scarcely spoke half-a-dozen words throughout the journey; and Harcourt Lowther, keeping the watchful eye of the master upon his pupil, saw that something was amiss. Now although the Cornishman’s guide and Mentor had his plans, very definite plans, as clearly drawn out as the great Duke’s arrangements for Waterloo,--which wondrous victory was _not_ quite the lucky accident our neighbours imagine it to have been; yet he was far too wise a diplomatist to ignore the sublime opportunities which chance sometimes throws in the way of a schemer, shattering the complicated machinery so dexterously and patiently put together, and opening a new and easy way to success over the ruins of the old road. Mr. Lowther was quite prepared to make good use of any accident which seemed likely to help him. He was like a chess-player who takes his place before the board with a perfect plan of action mapped out in his mind, and who may see his entire scheme overthrown, his most brilliant arrangements stultified by the first move of his adversary, but who will win the game nevertheless, after his enemy’s fashion, if not after his own, being no enthusiastic advocate of pet theories, but only a man of the world, resolutely bent on success. Upon this particular afternoon Harcourt saw that something had gone amiss with his friend, and he was bent on discovering what the something was. With this view he had resort to that imaginary instrument which his companions of Bohemia called the “pump-handle;” but on letting down a moral plummet into the depths of Mr. Tredethlyn’s mind, he found himself in much deeper water than usual, and quite unable to reach the bottom.