Passing a window on the staircase, immediately below the level of her own room, Miss Vint stopped suddenly, and became very wide awake. Clearly and distinctly, in the death-like silence which pervaded everything, Miss Vint had heard a voice—muffled and cautious—apparently proceeding from below. What the words were that were spoken, she could not say; but she had distinctly heard a voice—and that voice the voice of a man. Before the worthy lady had had time to decide what to do, another voice—as muffled and cautious as the first—answered; only, in this case, it appeared to come from above—almost as though (but the idea was, of course, too ridiculous to be entertained) the first speaker had been outside, in the garden, and the second at an open window, speaking down at him. Miss Vint’s first natural thought was to rush downstairs, and summon Arthur Barnshaw to her assistance. But it was a long way downstairs, and there was a dark and ghostly corridor to be traversed before she could reach him. On the other hand, her room was quite close; she had but to dash up three steps, open the door, plunge in, and find herself in safety. Accordingly, Miss Vint took the plunge; flung open the door—shut it hurriedly—and locked it on the inside. At the same instant, Miss Vint’s candle was softly blown out, and a strong firm hand was placed over Miss Vint’s mouth—a hand which pressed her, not too ceremoniously, against the door she had locked. “Not a word,” whispered a voice, huskily. “Scream—and I’ll knock yer bloomin’ brains out. I ain’t alone; there’s pals o’ mine outside, as mightn’t be so considerate of a lady’s feelin’s. Now—are yer goin’ to be quiet?” Miss Vint nodded her head, as well as she could for the steady pressure of the hand upon her mouth, and the man relaxed his hold. She could just dimly discern his figure, looming large above her, in the dim light which came from outside the window. “What do you want?” asked Miss Vint, in a frightened whisper. “We’ve got wot we want,” replied the man, in a low voice—“an’ nobody ain’t ’urt a bit. I found my way into the young lady’s room, without wakin’ of ’er—an’ now I’ll wish you good-night. On’y mind”—the man paused, for a moment, to give his words greater effect—“I’ve got something ’ere wot’ll keep yer quiet, if I ’ears any noise from yer.” Miss Vint felt something hard and cold touch her forehead. “My good man,” whispered Miss Vint, tremulously, “you may be sure I will not place you under the necessity for doing violence upon me. I would only beg that you will join your companions—I hesitate, in your presence, to call them depraved, although I fear they are not what they should be—and leave me in peace. Your friends are evidently impatient to see you.” This last was in reference to a low whistle, which sounded from the lawn.