Dismally cogitating he continued his way, and suddenly a new uneasiness was added to his apprehensions. Something was moving alongside him--keeping pace with him--flitting in and out at a little distance amongst the trees. It was spectral and soft-footed--a suggestion rather than a shape; but when he paused to look more closely, it was always gone. Still, if he moved again, there it was undiscernible in the dark thickset, slipping forward on a level with him, and so noiselessly that sometimes he thought it a mere trick of his fancy. The tension on his nerves under this shadowy ordeal grew at length so taut, that he was fain to stop and cry out, if only for the relief of hearing his own voice in that ghost-haunted solitude. “Who are you?” he shouted. “Why are you dogging me like this?” “_Like this_?” a little laughing echo threw back--and silence closed upon him again. He felt the thrill of sweat prickle down his neck; but, stubbornly pushing forward, of a sudden he saw the drive swerve into open space--a twinkle of light gleamed upon him--and there, grown out of the dark before his eyes; was a long low house of crinkled white, with either end fashioned into a protruding gable. Too weary and out of humour with the situation to note anything but that here presumably his quest ended, he drew up at a central porch with a peaked roof, and seeing a dark iron-studded door before him, rained a shower of blows on it with the butt of his riding-whip. A step hurried along the passage within--there was the click of a latch, and the figure of a tall man, holding a candle over its head, appeared in the opening. As the two stood thus a moment, a white shape came out of the darkness, passed horse and traveller, and, with a tiny laugh, fled into the house and vanished. CHAPTER VI. Any man but a Bayard is apt to lose the accent of courtesy in the rebound from a sudden fright. Mr. Tuke fell back a pace, breathing quickly. Then he advanced in quick fury, so that the man in the doorway shrunk before him. “Are you Whimple?” he demanded in a harsh voice, with a slight tremor in it. “At your good service, sir.” The caretaker spoke up timidly, and made an involuntary motion of retreat. “Who was that that went in before me--that has been stalking me all up the drive?” “Ah, sir! You must hold her excused. I did not know she was out. It is my sister Darda.” “The fiend take the jade! I’ll have her out bag and baggage if she trifles with me. Here, sir--do you know who I am? Take my horse and see that he has food and water.” He stalked angrily past the shrinking figure and made his way into the passage. “Go, now,” he said with an impatient stamp, “and join me when your service is done.” The man went forth silently, and the new-comer turned to look about him. It seemed that his most dour apprehensions were realized in that first view of his surroundings.