Mr. Chattaway was pretty nearly beside himself that night. When he found that Rupert Trevlyn was not in the house, vague fears, to which he did not wait to give a more tangible name, rushed over his imagination. Had Rupert stolen from the house to meet this dangerous stranger clandestinely? He--Chattaway--scarcely knowing what he did, seized his hat and followed the stranger down the avenue, when he left the Hold after his fruitless visit. Not to follow him openly and say, "What is your business with Rupert Trevlyn?" Cords would not have dragged Mr. Chattaway into that dreaded presence until he was sure of his ground. He stole down with a fleet foot on the soft grass beside the avenue, and close upon the lodge he overtook the stranger. Mr. Chattaway glided into the trees. Peeping from his hiding-place, he saw the stranger pause before the lodge window: heard him accost Rupert Trevlyn; watched him enter. And there he had been since,--altogether in an agony both of mind and body. Do as he would, he could not hear their conversation. The sound of voices came upon him through the open window, but not the words spoken: and nearer he dared not go. Hark! they were coming out. Chattaway's eyes glared and his teeth were set, as he cautiously looked round. The man's ugly red umbrella was in one hand; the other was laid on Rupert's shoulder. "Will you walk with me a little way?" he heard the stranger say. "No, not this evening," was Rupert's reply. "I must go back to the Hold." But he, Rupert, turned to walk with him to the gate, and Mr. Chattaway took the opportunity to hasten back toward the Hold. When Rupert, after shaking hands with the stranger and calling out a good evening to the inmates of the lodge as he passed, went up the avenue, he met the master of Trevlyn Hold pacing leisurely down it, as if he had come out for a stroll. "Halloa!" he cried, with something of theatrical amazement. "I thought you were in bed!" "I came out instead," replied Rupert. "The evening was so fine." "Who was that queer-looking man just gone out at the gates?" asked Mr. Chattaway, with well-assumed indifference. Rupert answered readily. His disposition was naturally open to a fault, and he saw no reason for concealing what he knew of the stranger. He was not aware that Chattaway had ever seen him until this moment. "It is some one who has come on a visit to the parsonage: a clergyman. It's a curious name, though--Daw." "Daw? Daw?" repeated Mr. Chattaway, biting his lips to get some colour into them. "Where have I heard that name--in connection with a clergyman?" "He said he had some correspondence with you years ago: at the time my mother died, and I was born. He knew my father and mother well: has been telling me this at old Canham's." All that past time, its events, its correspondence, flashed over Mr. Chattaway's memory--flashed over it with a strange dread. "What has he come here for?" he asked quickly.