They stood upon the brink of the winding stream, so charming in its ornamental character, so facile for mischief. At a signal from the Duke, a boat swiftly appeared. A boat-cloak was handed up by the man in charge of the boat, and Margaret was closely muffled in it; she was then lifted into the small vessel, and the Duke stepped lightly in after her--one moment more, and the boat glided silently but swiftly away. The lights streamed brilliantly from the windows of the villa mansion. Strains of joyous music issued from the crowded saloons, and in noisy hilarity the dancers whirled with rapid steps round the gorgeously decorated apartments. All within their scope seemed to be instinct with joy and happiness. When the boat disappeared, there came from the shadow of the trees in the garden the figure of a man. It was Mr. Grahame. He had wandered as in a dream from the heated rooms thronged with gay visitors, not one of whom he cared for or who cared for him, and while leaning thoughtfully, brooding over his desperate position, against a tree, he had witnessed the meeting of the Duke and his daughter Margaret. He cared not to interrupt them, but glided back into his house like a thief; no one observed him enter. He slunk to his dressing-room; his valet was not there. He hastily divested himself of his full-dress habiliments, and put on some plain clothing. When thus attired he crept down the servants’ staircase, darted through the basement passage, and passed unobserved, by the servants’ entrance, into the front of his mansion, and made his way through the throng of carriages assembled there. He went on through the Regent’s Park up towards Hampstead, passed over its dreary heath--the earth and shrubs looking black beneath the gloomy sky. He paused when he reached the “Castle,” and turned his bloodshot eyes towards the spot he had left thus abruptly and secretly. He shuddered, and struck down the hill towards Hendon, passing, with shivering frame and tottering steps, along the narrow pathway between the prickly, scrubby heath-bushes. “I have been advised,” he muttered, “never to inhale chloroform, as it would inevitably prove fatal to me. It is well my chemist included it in the articles in my medicine chest; it will afford me an easy release from life and its horrors, and, if I manage well, leave no clue to the manner of my death.” At a lone spot, by the side of a pool, he sat him down, and bowing his head upon his knees, pressed his hands upon his scorching forehead, and wept scalding, bitter, bitter tears. CHAPTER VIII.--THE ABDUCTION AND ITS PUNISHMENT. Thee will I bear to a lovely spot, Where our hands shall be joined, and our sorrows forgot; There thou yet shall be my bride. Byron.