The silence of the house struck Theodore Dalbrook painfully as he followed the footman across the hall and along a corridor which led to the drawing-room—that death-like silence of a roomy old mansion in which there are neither children nor guests, only one lonely inhabitant waited upon by solemn-visaged servants, drilled to a phenomenal quietness, and keeping all their good spirits for the remoteness of the servants’ hall, shut off by double doors and long passages. Saddened by that atmosphere of gloom, he entered his cousin’s presence, and stood with her small cold hand in his, looking at the face which had changed so sorely from that vivid beauty which had shone upon him in the low light of the sinking sun on that summer evening not three months ago. As he looked the memory of the bride’s face came between him and the face of the widow, and for a moment or two he stood speechless. The clearly-cut features were pinched and sharpened, wasted by long nights of weeping and long days of silent regret. The dark eyes were circled by purple shadows, and the oval cheeks were sunken and pallid. All the colour and richness of that southern beauty had vanished, as if some withering blight had passed over the face. “It was very good of you to think of me before you left Dorchester,” she said, gently. She pushed forward a chair for her cousin, before she sat down; and Theodore seated himself opposite to her with the wicker work-table between them. He wondered a little to see that satin-lined receptacle gorged with bright coloured silks, and pieces of unfinished embroidery; for it seemed to him that there was a touch of frivolity in this light ornamental needlework which hardly harmonized with her grief-stricken countenance. “You could not suppose that I should leave without seeing you,” he said; “I should have come here weeks ago, only——” “Only you wanted to give me time to grow calm, to teach myself to look my trouble straight in the face,” she said, interpreting his thought. “That was very thoughtful of you. Well, the storm is over now. I am quite calm, as you see. I dare say some people think I am _getting over it_. That is the usual phrase, is it not? And so you are going to the Bar, Theodore. I am glad of that. You are clever enough to make a name as my father did. It will be slow work, I suppose; but it will be a field worthy of your ambition, which a solicitor’s office in a market-town never would be.” “I have felt the want of a wider field for a long time; and I shall feel more interest in a barrister’s work. But I hope you don’t think I am conceited enough to expect to get on as well as your father.” “I don’t know about that. I think you must know you are a clever man. I have been wishing to see you for a long time, Theodore, only I was like you—I wanted to give myself time to be calm. I want to talk to you about—the murderer.” “Yes. Have you heard anything? Has there been any discovery?”