“You see, it is fifteen miles from here to Dulverton,” said Mr. Simmonds. “Possibly he did not start till six o’clock; then he had to make a _détour_, so as to call at Stoke Pero and deliver a message to one of Julia’s friends, and that would make his homeward journey eighteen or twenty miles, and thirty-five miles there and back is a longish ride. Besides, his horse, Old Maggie, is none too good for a long trot over this hilly country. Fill up, my friends! Here’s to our future squire, Charles Benwell!” He raised the goblet to his lips, but had not commenced to quaff, when looking towards the door, he saw the absent Charley advancing toward the table, looking extremely pale. All in the room rose in greeting, but he turned from them, and unbuckling the clasp of his riding-cloak, walked to an alcove, formerly an immense fire-place, but now used as a closet for hanging outdoor coats, wraps, and accoutrements, a curtain being drawn across it. To their surprise, every one present noticed, as he turned, that his deep white collar (which was the fashion of those days) was saturated with blood, and as they noted this, and had the words on their lips to speak to him about it, he disappeared into the alcove by walking, as it seemed, _right through the curtain_, and not drawing it aside in the usual way! The assembled guests stood aghast. What could it mean? For a long time not a man stirred. But at length the spell was broken by a young fellow named William Rayner advancing to the curtain sword in hand: he snatched it suddenly aside. _The recess was empty!_ Charles Benwell had apparently vanished through the solid wall! The curtain fell from Rayner’s grasp as he stood immovable with amazement. Then came another long pause; a consultation; a replenishment of glasses; and finally the conclusion was arrived at that it was the apparition of Julia’s lover they had seen. Fear now settled on them all, and as they sat, talking in hushed tones and glancing nervously about, the curtain guarding the alcove was seen to move. It bulged out slightly as if caught by a draught of air, and then again its long, sombre folds trailed upon the floor and were still again. No one moved from the spot where he happened to be sitting or standing, but all eyes were fixed in horror on the agitated tapestry. _Again it swayed._ This time the bold Will Rayner rose, and drawing his sword, was joined by some of the others, also sword in hand. Rapidly they advanced across the intervening space, and Rayner, plucking hold of the fabric with his left hand, drew it aside with a quick jerk. Wonder of wonders, in place of the white-faced Benwell there stood his scowling rival, Wynne Clarge. His right wrist was bared, and his sword point, which was advanced towards the spectators, was seen to be covered with blood. As they looked with startled eyes, the blood slowly dripped to the floor, drip--drip--drip!