One night, Mr. Chewkle, finding the household buried in sleep, rose silently and dressed himself. He felt hastily in his pocket to see whether his purse was there, and chuckled as he felt it, for he was at the moment unconscious that there was nothing in it. By the aid of the small night-lamp which burned in his room, he looked about for portable articles of value, but found none worth the taking. Leaving the light burning he then stole to the window, which was a lattice, opened it, and carefully got without, resting his toes on the stout stems of an old ivy which covered the walls. He closed the window after him, and descended with very little noise to the ground. It was light enough to see Harleydale Woods in the distance, and for them he made swiftly, trusting to fortune for chances of encountering Wilton alone. He felt uneasy at the delay occasioned by his illness, for he knew that Wilton’s death, under all the circumstances which had come to his ears, was of hourly importance to Grahame. He knew not, indeed, but that the lapse of time might have rendered his task useless, still he resolved to go on, and if he encountered the old man alone to address him, to elicit from him Grahame’s actual position, and then act as circumstances might dictate. He gained Harleydale Woods without being seen, chuckling at his successful escape, unconscious, in the midst of the hilarity with which he reflected on having done the landlord, that he had skilfully done himself. Colonel Mires was at the same moment of time hiding in the woods, located at no great distance from Chewkle. His object, though baneful, was of a very different character to that of Grahame’s agent. His passion for Flora had brought him to spend the long nights watching at her window, and the days in vain search of her in hope of meeting her alone. At first he had a scarcely defined purpose in this. He had a vague notion of declaring his passion to her, of imploring her upon his knees, even with tears, to grant to him her coveted hand. He conjured up promises he would make to her--an offer to be her devoted slave, to scour the earth to gratify her lightest wish, to minister to her pleasures, her caprices, her comforts, and secure to her constant happiness at any self-sacrifice. To proffer, indeed, impossibilities with unscrupulous recklessness, unheeding whether one of these inflated propositions would or could be realized, so that he induced her to become his--only his. These intangible impressions conducted him to the vicinity of Flora’s dwelling; but in the secrecy arid solitude to which he for a time devoted himself he had the opportunity of reflection, and to separate the impossible from the probable.