“He is my midnight visitor!” exclaimed Flora. “He is the vampyre;—this Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre.” “Good God! What can be done?” “I know not. I am nearly distracted.” “Be calm, Flora. If this man be really what you name him, we now know from what quarter the mischief comes, which is, at all events, a point gained. Be assured we shall place a watch upon him.” “Oh, it is terrible to meet him here.” “And he is so wonderfully anxious, too, to possess the Hall.” “He is—he is.” “It looks strange, the whole affair. But, Flora, be assured of one thing, and that is, of your own safety.” “Can I be assured of that?” “Most certainly. Go to your mother now. Here we are, you see, fairly within doors. Go to your mother, dear Flora, and keep yourself quiet. I will return to this mysterious man now with a cooler judgment than I left him.” “You will watch him, Charles?” “I will, indeed.” “And you will not let him approach the house here alone?” “I will not.” “Oh, that the Almighty should allow such beings to haunt the earth!” “Hush, Flora, hush! we cannot judge of his allwise purpose.” “’Tis hard that the innocent should be inflicted with its presence.” Charles bowed his head in mournful assent. “Is it not very, very dreadful?” “Hush—hush! Calm yourself, dearest, calm yourself. Recollect that all we have to go upon in this matter is a resemblance, which, after all, may be accidental. But leave it all to me, and be assured that now I have some clue to this affair, I will not lose sight of it, or of Sir Francis Varney.” So saying, Charles surrendered Flora to the care of her mother, and then was hastening back to the summer-house, when he met the whole party coming towards the Hall, for the rain was each moment increasing in intensity. “We are returning,” remarked Sir Francis Varney, with a half bow and a smile, to Charles. “Allow me,” said Henry, “to introduce you, Mr. Holland, to our neighbour, Sir Francis Varney.” Charles felt himself compelled to behave with courtesy, although his mind was so full of conflicting feelings as regarded Varney; but there was no avoiding, without such brutal rudeness as was inconsistent with all his pursuits and habits, replying in something like the same strain to the extreme courtly politeness of the supposed vampyre. “I will watch him closely,” thought Charles. “I can do no more than watch him closely.” Sir Francis Varney seemed to be a man of the most general and discursive information. He talked fluently and pleasantly upon all sorts of topics, and notwithstanding he could not but have heard what Flora had said of him, he asked no questions whatever upon that subject. This silence as regarded a matter which would at once have induced some sort of inquiry from any other man, Charles felt told much against him, and he trembled to believe for a moment that, after all, it really might be true.