Richard Marston led the party to Sir Harry's room. The carpet was still on the floor, the curtains hanging still, in gloomy folds, to the ground. Sir Harry's hat and stick lay on the small round table, where he had carelessly thrown them when he came in from his last walk about Dorracleugh, his slippers lay on the hearthrug before his easy-chair, and his pipe was on the mantelpiece. The party stood in this long and rather gloomy room in straggling disarray, still talking. "There's Pixie," said old Mr. Spaight, who had been a bit of a sportsman, and loved coursing in his youth, as he stopped before a portrait of a greyhound, poking his long nose and spectacles, with a faint smirk, close into the canvas. "Sir Harry's dog; fine dog, Pixie, won the cup twice on Doppleton Lea thirty-two years ago." But this was a murmured meditation, for he was a staid man of business now, and his liking for dogs and horses was incongruous, and no one in the room heard him. Mr. Jarlcot's voice recalled him. "Mr. Marston was speaking to you, Mr. Spaight." "Oh! I was just saying I think nothing could have been more careful," said Mr. Marston, "than the search you made upstairs, in the presence of me and Mrs. Shackleton, on Thursday last?" "No, sir--certainly nothing--it could not possibly have escaped us," answered Mr. Spaight. "And that is your opinion also?" asked Mr. Jarlcot of Richard Marston. "Clearly," he answered. "I'll make a note of that, if you'll allow me," said Mr. Jarlcot; and he made an entry, with Mr. Marston's concurrence, in his pocket-book. "And now about this," said Mr. Jarlcot, with a clumsy bow to Mr. Marston, and touching the door of the safe with his open hand. "You have got the key, sir?" said Marston to the good vicar with silver hair, who stood meekly by, distrait and melancholy, an effigy of saintly contemplation. "Oh, yes," said the vicar wakening up. "Yes; the key, but--but you know there's nothing there." He moved the key vaguely about as he looked from one to the other, as if inviting any one who pleased to try. "I think, sir, perhaps it will be as well if you will kindly open it yourself," said Marston. "Yes, surely--I suppose so--with all my heart," said the vicar. The door of the safe opened easily, and displayed the black iron void, into which all looked. Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed. Of course no one was surprised. But Mr. Blount shook his head, lifted up his hands, and groaned audibly, "I am very sorry." Mr. Marston did not affect to hear him. CHAPTER LXX. A DISAPPOINTMENT.