“It is, it is, Theodore. I cannot know rest or comfort while his death remains unpunished. I cannot lie down in peace at night while I know that the wretch who killed him is walking about, rejoicing in his wickedness, glad to have destroyed that blameless life, laughing at our feeble love which can let our dead go unavenged.” “If cudgelling these poor brains of mine could bring me any nearer to the truth, Juanita,” Theodore said, with a troubled sigh, “I should have helped you better; but so far I can see no ray of light in the thick darkness. I do not think any efforts of ours will solve the mystery. Only some accident, some inconceivable imprudence on the part of the murderer can put us on his track.” And then he thought with horror of Ramsay’s idea that a hatred so malignant as that which had killed Godfrey Carmichael might reveal itself in some new crime. He thought of the young mother bending over her infant’s cradle in some unguarded room—calm in the fancied safety of her English home. He thought of her wandering alone in park or wood, while that rabid hatred lurked in the shadow, waiting and watching for the moment of attack. The horror of the idea chilled him to the heart, but he was careful not to hint at that horror to Juanita. He seized the first opportunity of being alone with Lady Jane, and imparted his fears, founded upon that suggestion of Cuthbert Ramsay’s to her. The kind creature was quick to take alarm, and promised to see that Juanita was guarded at all hours by all precautions that could be taken without alarming her. “She is surrounded with old and faithful servants,” said Lady Jane; “a hint to them will put them on their guard; but if you thought it wiser I would take her away from this place—take her away from England, if necessary. It is horrible to think of living at the mercy of an unknown foe.” “My friend’s notion may be groundless. The crime of last year may have been an isolated act—the inspiration of madness. In our efforts to account for the unaccountable we may invent theories which torture us, and which may yet have no ground in fact. Only it is as well to think of possibilities, however hideous.” He spent one night at the Priory, and before departure next morning presented his offering of a fine George the Second mug to his godson, Godfrey James Dalbrook—who in his present stage of existence seemed to his godfather a scarcely distinguishable morsel of humanity smothered in overmuch cambric and Valenciennes.