In these unromantic, plodding, prosaic days of railways, telegraphs, and telephones who would imagine that the fine old family mansion of Dundargue would be the scene of a crime--of a tragedy--suited only to the days of the Sir Malise Graham of the fourteenth century? Yet so it was. Allan was not killed--he was perhaps one of those fellows who are not easily killed--but he was severely injured by the fall and concussion, and it was long before he began to struggle back into a consciousness of existence, as he had fallen partly on his head and left shoulder. The former had suffered from that circumstance, and from the dreadful blow dealt him by Hawke Holcroft; and he was not slow in discovering that his left arm was useless--broken above the elbow. 'Thank heaven, it is not my sword arm!' he whispered, huskily, as he strove to stagger up; but only to sink helplessly down again on the cold stone floor of his prison. He was too weak--too confused to feel either just rage or indignation yet. There was a horrible dream-like sense of utter unreality in the whole situation in which he so suddenly found himself, and some time elapsed before the whole episode with Holcroft--his unfortunate offer to show him this fatal place, the situation and character of which had suddenly suggested the crime--their idling in the picture-gallery, smoking and wandering through corridors, up and down ancient stairs, with eventually a sudden recollection of the whole adventure--surged into his brain, and a gasp of rage escaped him. 'Accursed coward and villain!' muttered Allan, looking upward; but all was darkness there and around him. The hours stole on. He staggered up, and at last began to explore the place in which he found himself--a somewhat needless act, as he knew it but too well, having many a time, when a boy, with fear, awe, and curiosity, lowered down a candle at the end of a string, and seen it swaying to and fro far down below till the damp vapour extinguished the flame. Yet he felt with his right hand the circular wall of massive masonry which enclosed him, carefully again and again, in the desperate hope of finding some outlet, though he knew well by the history and traditions of the place that no such thing could ever have existed; but he could not remain still or withstand the nervous desire for exertion--to be up and doing something; till again he sank on the floor in utter weariness of heart, albeit that heart was aflame with rage. He uttered shouts for help from time to time, till his voice became hoarse and began to fail him, and his spirit too, as he knew the enormous thickness of the old walls around him; and tears of rage almost escaped him as he pondered over the cold and calculating villainy, of which he was now so mysteriously the helpless victim.