This time, it was a woman; and she civilly directed him—showing him a short cut, which would bring him she said, within a short distance of Chater Hall. He thanked her, and was turning away, when she came rapidly nearer to him, and peered into his face; cried his name, in a sort of shriek; struck at him; and ran off towards some cottages, where lights were gleaming, screaming—“Murder!” He lost no time in getting away from the spot, and ran as hard as he could in the direction she had indicated. He had heard the deep boom of a church clock strike ten some time before, and his one desperate fear was that he might arrive too late to prevent the robbery. At that thought, he redoubled his efforts, and did not stop until he saw the huge bulk of Chater Hall looming up against the sky. Hunted—wretched—forlorn—exhausted, the unhappy man stood, for a few moments, leaning against a tree, and contemplating the place that was rightfully his. He was even in a mood to curse the father who had banished him, and who was sleeping, peacefully enough, in the churchyard near at hand. He almost wished that his own troubles were ended, and that he was beyond the reach of pursuit. “It’s hard,” he muttered, savagely—“that I, who have never wronged any living creature knowingly, should be in this plight now. If I had had the chance that was given to my brother, should I have used it better—or have I merely kept out of temptation, because temptation kept out of me? Heaven knows! But, while I stand here cursing my fate, those wretches have got to work, I’ll be bound, and may be clear away again before I reach the place. Now to remember the roads I traversed before—and yet to keep out of the sight of all men, and”—he added, as an after-thought—“all women!” With these words, he crept round, as near as he dared, to the front of the house, and struck off cautiously from there in the direction of the cottage. Now it happened that night that Madge Barnshaw, being wholly occupied with sad thoughts, and having no friendly being in whom she could confide, or to whom she felt disposed to tell the tragic story which was by this time in every mouth, had gone early to her room, leaving Miss Vint—her distant cousin and guardian—nodding over the fire. Arthur Barnshaw, who had arrived from town only the day before, was in the room he called his “den,” reading and smoking, and the house was very quiet. Miss Vint, being very comfortable, fell asleep. When she awoke, the fire had long gone out, and the room was chilly. Miss Vint rose, shuddering and yawning, and, having extinguished the light, went out into the hall; took her candle, and slowly and sleepily mounted the stairs to her chamber.