“How I have loved you when I dry your tears, And calm your wild remorse and anxious fears, And point your hopes to brighter future years.” St. George read the sad words over and over till they were imprinted on his memory. They had the greatest fascination for him in their hopeless love and sorrow. He tried to write some verses in reply to them, but after many efforts he was chagrined to find that he did not possess the least poetic faculty. He could rhyme “love” with “dove” to be sure, but the lines were not even. He threw aside the pencil, crying, tenderly: “Oh, my little love, how cruelly you have misunderstood me! But only let me find you again, bonnie Floy, and I will show you that I, too, can love with changeless constancy.” But oh, how far away that blessed time seemed; for Floyd Landon failed to find any clew to the beautiful runaway, and at last he appeared at the house saying rather abruptly that he wished to give up the case. CHAPTER XLVI. “THE HOUSE IS HAUNTED.” Beresford could find no words in which to express his surprise and chagrin. He could only stare, speechlessly, at the detective waiting for an explanation. He saw that Landon looked pale and nervous. “You are ill!” he exclaimed, at last, as if that explained all. “No, I am not ill, but--I--have had--a great shock--so that I can not bring myself to go on with the search for Miss Fane. You must employ some one else.” “But who can succeed where you have failed, Landon? You, the bravest, cleverest detective in New York!” The detective smiled, as if gratified at this praise, then sighed: “You would not call me brave if you knew all. You could hardly credit it, that a New York detective, in this prosaic nineteenth century, could feel a fear of--the supernatural!” He paled and shuddered as at some ghastly recollection, then continued: “I am coward, I confess it, Mr. Beresford. I that never flinched at the sight of danger in mortal shape, have struck my colors and fled from--ghosts!” “Explain!” cried the young man, anxiously; then seeing the extreme pallor of his visitor, hastily rang for wine. “Drink; you will feel better,” he said. Landon gulped down half a glass, and the color returned to his pallid face, as he said: “I have been searching Suicide Place again for Miss Fane.” “Yes?” eagerly. “I have not found the missing girl, Mr. Beresford, but I have learned that the gossips of Mount Vernon told the truth when they declared that Suicide Place is haunted by evil spirits!” Every word dropped separately with awful emphasis, and Landon’s face, white and solemn, with deep, troubled eyes, attested his implicit faith in his own declaration. Beresford was too shocked to reply. He waited mutely for more. Landon drained his glass, and continued: “When I had searched New York vainly for a week, I concluded that Miss Fane had perhaps ventured back to Suicide Place. I went down there three days ago. The very first night I made a startling discovery.”