Then I took a hasty trip to Paris, to the Rue de Sévres, to find, as I had expected, that the Vasari Gallery no longer existed. I visited the offices of the _Temps_, the _Gaulois_, and other newspapers, and studied whole files of journals in order to learn the details of the law-suit between Vasari and the officer, but could discover no mention of it. I found on enquiry at the law courts that the case had never been brought. Next I tried to discover the destination of the famous picture, and learned that it had not been disposed of at public auction, but that the sale had been effected privately between the artist and the purchaser. No one could give me the name of the latter, and so, completely baffled, I returned to England, to find that Vasari was still away from town in some distant place, of which his servant either could not or would not tell me the name. December came, and on the day before Christmas Eve Daphne, her father and myself were established at Silverdale Abbey, a fine castellated building mantled all over with ivy, and embosomed within a spacious and well wooded park. There was already a goodly company of guests present, which was expected to double its number on the morrow. In the temporary absence of the Baronet we were received by his niece, Florrie Wyville, and spent a delightful time as she led us through the many tapestried rooms full of curious old furniture, down carved oak staircases lighted by ecclesiastical-looking casements of stained glass, along broad halls adorned with stags' antlers and suits of armour, out on to stone terraces grey with age and dark with ivy. "Isn't it a dear old place?" she exclaimed enthusiastically when our first tour of exploration was over. "I have been here only a week, and yet I believe I know more about it even than Uncle Hugh knows. It is more than six hundred years old, and was originally a nunnery." "And why is it called Silverdale?" I asked. "There was a silver mine here at one time. I believe part of the Abbey stands over an air shaft belonging to it; and in olden days nuns who broke their vows were thrown down it." "How horrible," said Daphne with a shudder. "Not so horrible as walling them up alive like that poor thing in _Marmion_," Florrie replied, jealous for the good repute of her beloved Abbey. "Does the shaft still exist?" I asked. "I think so, but the passage leading to it was bricked up years ago. I lay awake last night thinking of those old days, and fancying I could hear a ghostly procession of nuns rustling along the hall and chanting---- Why, what is the matter, Miss Leslie? you look quite scared." I diverted the conversation to more cheerful topics, and soon the girls were discussing what characters they should assume in the fancy dress ball to be held at Silverdale on Twelfth-night.