It appeared that “Master Alec,” as Martin still, from old habit, persisted in calling him, had been in hiding at the Tower for upwards of a month, in fact, ever since about two days before—quite unintentionally on his part—he so frightened Bessie Ogden on the terrace. The upper room of the old structure, ordinarily used by Martin as a bedroom, had been fitted up with a few extra articles of furniture and given up to his use; while Dulcie, the keeper’s daughter, had looked after his meals. More than once Martin had heard him asseverate that he had only returned to the Chase in order to right a great wrong—to send fraud and villainy to the right-about, and that as soon as the task he had set himself was accomplished he should go back to the place from whence he had come. What he had meant thereby Martin did not know. During the day Alec had never stirred out of the Tower; only after nightfall had he ventured abroad, and then only in the traditional guise of the Grey Monk—a character which in his younger days, when home from school or college, he had assumed more than once out of sheer love of mischief. As to the means by which Alec had been enabled to obtain access to the Chase after the household had retired for the night, that was his own secret, and one which he had never divulged to the keeper. Extreme was Sir Gilbert’s disappointment and chagrin when told that his son had finally quitted the Tower only about forty hour’s previously. This had happened during Martin’s absence from home, but the latter was already aware that his guest’s visit would presently come to an end, and that, although he continued to linger on like one who found it impossible to tear himself away from the home of his boyhood, his task was accomplished and there was nothing more left him to do. “But if you were away at the time, how do you know that my son left the Tower when you say he did?” demanded the Baronet. “Because I found this note, sir, waiting for me when I got home,” responded the keeper. Sir Gilbert took the proffered note with an eagerness he made no effort to dissemble. “DEAR OLD MARTIN,” it ran, “I am off to-night—Tuesday—and whether we shall ever see each other again is more than I can say. My hearty thanks are due to you and Dulcie for the hospitality you have shown me, and the many kindnesses I have received at your hands. You may be sure that both of you will be often in my thoughts when I am thousands of miles away, and I will not so far wrong you as to think you will forget me. I implicitly trust you to still preserve the same strict secrecy as heretofore with regard to my presence at the Chase. On no account must the faintest whisper of the truth escape the lips of either of you. More on this point I know that I need not write.