We went up to Blankville that evening, arriving late. I confess that I felt a thrill as of cold steel, and peered over my shoulder as we walked up the hill from the depot; but my companion was guilty of no such weakness. He kept as sharp a lookout as the light of a setting moon would permit, but it was only with a view to making himself familiar with the premises. We passed the Argyll mansion on our way to my boarding-place; it was too late to call; the lights were extinguished, except the faint one always left burning in the hall, and in two or three of the chambers. A rush of emotion oppressed me, as I drew near it; I would fain have laid my head against the pillars of the gateway and wept--tears such as a man may shed without reproach, when the woman he loves suffers. A growing anxiety possessed me to hear of Eleanor, no report of her mental or physical condition having reached me since that piercing shriek had announced the parting of her heart-strings when the strain of final separation came. I would have gone to the door a moment, to make inquiries, had I not inferred that a knock at that late hour must startle the family into nervous anticipations. The wan glimmer of the sinking moon struck under the branches of the silent trees, which stood about the dark mass of the stately mansion; not a breath stirred the crisp foliage. I heard a leaf, which loosened itself and rustled downward to the sod. "It is a fine old place," remarked my companion, pausing because my own steps had come to a standstill. I could not answer; he drew my arm into his, and we went on. Mr. Burton was growing to me in the shape of a friend, instead of a detective-officer. That night I gave up my room to him, taking a hall-bedroom adjoining. After breakfast we went forth into the village, making our first call at the office. Mr. Argyll was there, looking thin and care-worn. He said that he was glad to have me back, for he felt unfit for business, and must let the mantle of labor drop upon my shoulders hereafter.