Merton had not been to The Place. Not one word had he said about the difficulty in Herring’s affairs, and the loss of the three thousand pounds. Violet was utterly ignorant that her fortune was gone. She spoke very bitterly of Merton. “If he had loved poor papa,” she said, “he would never have persecuted his faithful servant,” for nothing could shake her belief in Jenkins’ innocence, and she did all she could to comfort the poor gardener’s desolate wife. Merton, on his part, did not care to approach her after the share he had had in the commitment of Jenkins, and because he hesitated, he dreaded to face her, and to tell her that her fortune, entrusted to his hands, was gone. He blamed himself greatly, and yet he would not own it. He ought to have hastened to Herring’s death-bed. Had that dying man but left one written word, to say that Albert had had the money, all would have been well. In the fierce attempt to revenge his old friend, he had irreparably injured that friend’s daughter, and he dreaded the inevitable disclosure. He put it off till the last, hoping against hope, and doing all that his lawyer’s ingenuity could suggest to recover some part of the amount. In endeavouring to succeed in this, he pressed hard—very hard—upon the Herring family. He pushed them sorely, and spared not. He was bitterly exasperated against them. Unjustly, he openly accused them of a plot to rob his client and dishonour him. He abused the dead man as one who had repented too late upon his death-bed. He would take everything—down to the smallest article. Neither the persuasions of the sons, the tears of the daughters, nor the silent despair of the widow could move him. Of all this Violet knew nothing. It happened that one evening not long after the lamp had been lit at The Place, that there was heard a slight tapping or knocking at the front door. Now, this door was close to the window where the terrible deed had been committed. By this door the bride had stepped forth in all her gay attire; by this door the corpse of her father had been carried forth. Villagers, and all isolated people, are superstitious; the beliefs of those days, when all people were more isolated than they are now, linger amongst them. By common consent, this door was avoided by day and night. A dread destiny seemed to hang over those who passed beneath its portal. It had been kept locked since the funeral—no one had used it. Violet and Aymer, sitting in the breakfast-parlour—which was the most comfortable room in the house—were reading, and looked up mutually at the sound of those unwonted knocks. They listened. There was a pause; and then the taps were repeated. They were so gentle, so muffled, that they doubted the evidence of their ears—and yet surely it was a knocking. The servants in the kitchen heard the taps, and they cowered over the fire and looked fearfully at each other.