Seated at that luxurious table with the hospitable father, the patrician-like mother, the tender sister and brilliant _fiancée_ of him he had slain, with stately-liveried valets in attendance, while longing for the conveyance or carriage that was to take him to the station, he _did_ feel more than once as if he would go mad if it lasted much longer--this acting--this tension of the heart--but, as we say, for a time only. He was too near the scene of his awful crime not to feel his soul shrink with selfish horror and dismay, which made him nervously twist up, roll, and unroll his _serviette_, as it is called in Scotland. Was it only a few hours since he had heard that terrible _thud_ amid the darkness and the clash of the oak trap-door? And there were _his_ family all seated with him--Holcroft--at the same table, all unconscious of what was lying within a few yards of them, and yet not considering him the blackest criminal in the world, but a departing guest to be treated with kindness and courtesy. Thank heaven he would be far away from them ere Allan would be found to be hopelessly gone, and he would see nothing of their growing misery. To drown thought, care, and memory, Holcroft, after the ladies retired to the drawing-room, imbibed systematically more than usual. Ere this, Olive had thought his manner excited--strange only. Unused to see men under the influence of wine, she thought no more of it. But, as Holcroft took to 'lacing' his clicquot with brandy when occasion served, that may account for some of the peculiar remarks to Olive yet to be recorded. From an early period Eveline had conceived a shuddering kind of aversion of Holcroft--an emotion not rare in certain nervous organisations like hers; nor could she have explained why more particularly _now_ his presence, though at table as usual, had filled her with an undefined distrust and dread; yet so it was. But in the drawing-room her own thoughts came more than ever back to her, and these were all of Evan Cameron. 'He is gone!' she was always whispering to herself; 'too probably for ever and for ever. We shall never meet again. How dull my world will seem without Evan, and how old and queer I begin to feel already!' But poor Eveline knew not what a small place the world is--now-a-days especially. 'You seem rather out of sorts,' said Lord Aberfeldie, who had been eyeing 'his old friend's son,' while pushing the decanters towards him; 'I hope there is nothing wrong with you, especially as this is your last evening here.' 'No, nothing very wrong,' stammered Holcroft, scarcely knowing what to say, but driven to shelter himself under what was his normal condition; 'it is only--only----' 'What?' 'I have had more than one annoying letter,' he said, with a kind of gasp, and paused. 'About money--of course?' said Lord Aberfeldie.