“I hate them,” exclaimed Juanita, shuddering. “I always had an uncomfortable feeling about them, a feeling of strange cold eyes looking at us in secret enmity; but now I abhor them. There is a girl’s face—a cruel face—that I used rather to admire when I was a child, and sometimes dream about; and on the last night but one—of—my happy life—I looked at that picture with Godfrey, and told him my feeling about that face, and he told me the pitiful story of the girl whose portrait we were looking at. The creature had a sad life, and died in France, poor and broken-hearted. Two hours later I heard a strange step upon the terrace—while Godfrey and I were sitting in the library—a stealthy, creeping step, coming near one of the open windows, and then creeping away again. When we looked out there was no one to be seen.” “And this was the night before—Sir Godfrey’s death?” “Yes. I told my father about it—after—after my trouble; and when he questioned the gardeners he discovered that footprints had been seen by one of them on the damp gravel the morning after I heard that ghost-like step. They were strange footprints the man was sure, or he would not have noticed them—the prints of a shoe with a flat heel—not of a large foot,—but they were not very distinct, and he went over them with his roller, and rolled them out, and thought no more about the fact till my father questioned him. The next day was dry and warm, as you know, and the gravel was hard next night. There were no footprints seen—afterwards.” “Did the gardener trace those marks beyond the terrace—to the avenue, for instance?” “Not he. All he did was to roll them out with his iron-roller.” “They suggest one point—that the murderer may have been lurking about on the night before the crime.” “I am sure of it. That footstep would not have frightened me if there had been no meaning in it. I felt as a Scotchman does when he has seen the shadow of the shroud round his friend’s figure. It is a point for you to remember, Theodore; if you mean to help me.” “I do mean to help you.” “God bless you for that promise,” she cried, giving him her hand, “and if you want any further information about the Strangways there is some one here who may be useful. Godfrey’s old bailiff, Jasper Blake, lived over ten years at Cheriton. He only left there when the Squire died, and he almost immediately entered the service of Godfrey’s father. If you can stay till the evening I will send for him, and you can ask him as many questions as you like.” “I will stay. There is a moon rather late in the evening, and I shall be able to get back any time before midnight. But, Juanita, as an honest man, I am bound to tell you that I believe you are following an _ignis fatuus_—you are influenced by prejudices and fancies, rather than by reason.” CHAPTER X. “The snow Of her sweet coldness hath extinguished quite The fire that but even now began to flame.”