“I have not any objections,” said Bob, much amused at the horseman’s strange freak. “But where can we change?” “Oh, this old barn will do, but we must be quick,” said the stranger, dismounting. Bob soon exchanged clothes with the horseman; but he couldn’t help but remark that his companion had a very large amount of gold coin about him. The stranger told him he had been out collecting for a very large London firm. “There,” said Phillip, surveying Bob, “those clothes will make a man of you.” “Mine alter _your_ looks very much,” said Bob, laughing. “Never mind that, my boy. I can afford to play such queer pranks, for I am rich. It will take my father quite by surprise to see me dressed in this manner.” “And so it will mine when I go again.” “Why not go to-night? Come, cheer up; put this purse in your pocket, and have a pull at my brandy flask; it will cheer you up. Go to him at once; he can’t be always angry with you.” The stranger’s words were so kind and encouraging that, after he had galloped off, Bob determined to go boldly to his father’s house, and demand a lodging for the night. The stranger’s brandy had aroused him, and made him feel rather flattered with his altered and gentlemanly appearance. Thinking thus, he walked across the fields towards Four Ash Farm; but as he approached the dwelling he felt a sense of deep depression from some unknown cause—a feeling of chilliness and fear took possession of him. He walked boldly up to the back door, however, and found it wide open. Instead of the dogs joyfully yelping when he approached them, they rushed at him to the full length of their chains, howling most dismally. He entered the house. All was unearthly quiet. “I will not disturb any one,” thought the prodigal son, “but creep into the parlour, and sleep on the sofa until morning.” This he did on tiptoe, for fear of being heard, and was soon fast asleep. In less than half-an-hour Betty returned, and with her two village constables. They went upstairs to the farmer’s bed-room, conducted by old Betty. She knocked at her master’s bed-room door three times. There was no answer. No light was burning. She opened the door, and peeped in. No one was there. She next looked into Master Robert’s old bed-room. Next moment she screamed aloud, and fell staggering to the floor. “Murdered! murdered!” she cried. The two officers went in, and turned deadly pale, as they beheld the lifeless body lying ghastly and gory before them. “Murdered! murdered!” screamed the servant, again and again, in piercing tones. The dreadful sounds aroused Robert. He leaped from the sofa, and rushed upstairs. “Oh, here is Mr. Bolton; kind good gentleman; oh, tell us who did this?” said Betty, weeping. “It is _not_ Mr. Bolton,” said one of the officers; “it is Bob Bertram.” “What means this?” gasped Bob, pushing by the officers into his own old bed-room. “What means all this screaming when my father lies sick in bed?”