He replaced the volume on the shelf, and we left the church; he locked the door and replaced the key under the gravestone; we mounted our horses, and after riding with me about half the way to the Moat, he took his leave at a point where our roads, diverged. I resolved to devote that very evening, partly in the hope of distracting my thoughts, to the reading of my grandmother’s letters. CHAPTER XLVI. MY FOLIO. When I reached home I found Charley there, as I had expected. But a change had again come over him. He was nervous, restless, apparently anxious. I questioned him about his mother and sister. He had met them as planned, and had, he assured me, done his utmost to impress them with the truth concerning me. But he had found his mother incredulous, and had been unable to discover from her how much she had heard; while Mary maintained an obstinate silence, and, as he said, looked more stupid than usual. He did not tell me that Clara had accompanied them so far, and that he had walked with her back to the entrance of the park. This I heard afterwards. When we had talked a while over the sword-business--for we could not well keep off it long--Charley seeming all the time more uncomfortable than ever, he said, perhaps merely to turn the talk into a more pleasant channel-- By the way, where have you put your folio? I’ve been looking for it ever since I came in, but I can’t find it. A new reading started up in my head the other day, and I want to try it both with the print and the context.’ ‘It’s in my room,’ I answered, ‘I will go and fetch it.’ ‘We will go together,’ he said. I looked where I thought I had laid it, but there it was not. A pang of foreboding terror invaded me. Charley told me afterwards that I turned as white as a sheet. I looked everywhere, but in vain; ran and searched my uncle’s room, and then Charley’s, but still in vain; and at last, all at once, remembered with certainty that two nights before I had laid it on the window-sill in my uncle’s room. I shouted for Styles, but he was gone home with the mare, and I had to wait, in little short of agony, until he returned. The moment he entered I began to question him. ‘You took those books home, Styles?’ I said, as quietly as I could, anxious not to startle him, lest it should interfere with the just action of his memory. ‘Yes, sir. I took them at once, and gave them into Miss Pease’s own hands;--at least I suppose it was Miss Pease. She wasn’t a young lady, sir.’ ‘All right, I dare say. How many were there of them?’ ‘Six, sir.’ ‘I told you five,’ I said, trembling with apprehension and wrath. ‘You said four or five, and I never thought but the six were to go. They were all together on the window-sill.’ I stood speechless. Charley took up the questioning. ‘What sized books were they?’ he asked. ‘Pretty biggish--one of them quite a large one--the same I’ve seen you, gentlemen, more than once, putting your heads together over. At least it looked like it.’