A few moments sufficed to place Henry and Mr. Marchdale in that antique room, where, from the effect of the moonlight which was streaming over it, the portrait on the panel looked exceedingly life like. And this effect was probably the greater because the rest of the room was not illuminated by the moon’s rays, which came through a window in the corridor, and then at the open door of that chamber upon the portrait. Mr. Marchdale held the piece of cloth he had close to the dress of the portrait, and one glance was sufficient to show the wonderful likeness between the two. “Good God!” said Henry, “it is the same.” Mr. Marchdale dropped the piece of cloth and trembled. “This fact shakes even your scepticism,” said Henry. “I know not what to make of it.” “I can tell you something which bears upon it. I do not know if you are sufficiently aware of my family history to know that this one of my ancestors, I wish I could say worthy ancestors, committed suicide, and was buried in his clothes.” “You—you are sure of that?” “Quite sure.” “I am more and more bewildered as each moment some strange corroborative fact of that dreadful supposition we so much shrink from seems to come to light and to force itself upon our attention.” There was a silence of a few moments duration, and Henry had turned towards Mr. Marchdale to say something, when the cautious tread of a footstep was heard in the garden, immediately beneath that balcony. A sickening sensation came over Henry, and he was compelled to lean against the wall for support, as in scarcely articulate accents he said— “The vampyre—the vampyre! God of heaven, it has come once again!” “Now, Heaven inspire us with more than mortal courage,” cried Mr. Marchdale, and he dashed open the window at once, and sprang into the balcony. Henry in a moment recovered himself sufficiently to follow him, and when he reached his side in the balcony, Marchdale said, as he pointed below,— “There is some one concealed there.” “Where—where?” “Among the laurels. I will fire a random shot, and we may do some execution.” “Hold!” said a voice from below; “don’t do any such thing, I beg of you.” “Why, that is Mr. Chillingworth’s voice,” cried Henry. “Yes, and it’s Mr. Chillingworth’s person, too,” said the doctor, as he emerged from among some laurel bushes. “How is this?” said Marchdale. “Simply that I made up my mind to keep watch and ward to-night outside here, in the hope of catching the vampyre. I got into here by climbing the gate.” “But why did you not let me know?” said Henry. “Because I did not know myself, my young friend, till an hour and a half ago.” “Have you seen anything?” “Nothing. But I fancied I heard something in the park outside the wall.” “Indeed!” “What say you, Henry,” said Mr. Marchdale, “to descending and taking a hasty examination of the garden and grounds?” “I am willing; but first allow me to speak to George, who otherwise might be surprised at our long absence.”