"But he is lost, George. He went into the Friar's Keep that unhappy night in February; and he was never seen to come out again. He never did come out again, as most people here believe; I, for one. What other word is there for it but lost?" "It sounds like a fable," said George North. "Like a tale out of those romance books you used to read, Charlotte." "I thought so when I came here first and heard it." "Did that account you sent me contain all the details? "I think it did. One cannot give quite so elaborate a history in writing a letter as by word of mouth. Little particulars are apt to be dropped out." "You had better go over it to me now, Charlotte: all you know from the beginning. Omit not the smallest detail." Madame Guise obeyed at once. The opening her mouth to impart this dreadful story, dreadful and more dreadful to her day by day, was something like the relief afforded to a parched traveller in an African desert, when he comes upon the well of water he has been fainting for, and slakes his thirst. Not to one single human being had Charlotte Guise been able to pour forth by word of mouth this strange story all through these months since she heard it: the need to do it, the pain, the yearning for sympathy and counsel, had been consuming her all the while as with a fever heat. She told the whole. The arrival of Anthony at the Dolphin Inn, and his presenting himself to his family--as heard from John Bent. The ill-reception of him by Mr. Castlemaine when he spoke of a claim to Greylands' Rest; the refusal of Mr. Castlemaine to see him subsequently, and their hostile encounter in the field; the strolling out by moonlight that same night of Anthony and the landlord; their watching (quite by chance) the entrance of Mr. Castlemaine into the Friar's Keep, and the hasty following in of Anthony, to have it out, as he impulsively said, under the moonbeams; and the total disappearance of Anthony from that hour. She told all in detail, George North listening without interruption. "And it is supposed that the cry, following on the shot that was almost immediately heard, was my poor brother's cry?" spoke George, the first words with which he broke the silence. "I feel sure it was his cry, George." "And Mr. James Castlemaine denies that he was there?" "He denies it entirely. He says he was at home at the time and in bed." "Suppose that it was Anthony who cried; that he was killed by the shot: would it be easy to throw him into the sea out of sight?" "Not from the Keep. They say there is no opening to the sea. Mr. Castlemaine may have dragged him across the chapel ruins and filing him from thence." "But could he have done that without being seen? John Bent, you say, was outside the gates, waiting for Anthony."