'The question, certainly, does arise. It struck me on the first perusal,' answered the attorney. 'His address is rather a wide one, too--London! Do you know his club, Captain Lake?' 'The _Wanderers_. He has left the _United Service_. Nothing for me, by-the-way?' 'No letter. No.' '_Tant mieux_, I hate them,' said the captain. 'I wonder how my sister is this morning.' 'Would you like a messenger? I'll send down with pleasure to enquire.' 'Thank you, no; I'll walk down and see her.' And Lake yawned at the window, and then took his hat and stick and sauntered toward Gylingden. At the post-office window he tapped with the silver tip of his cane, and told Miss Driver with a sleepy smile-- 'I'm going down to Redman's Farm, and any letters for my sister, Miss Lake, I may as well take with me.' Everybody 'in business' in the town of Gylingden, by this time, knew Captain Lake and his belongings--a most respectable party--a high man; and, of course, there was no difficulty. There was only one letter--the address was written--'Miss Lake, Redman's Farm, near Brandon Park, Gylingden,' in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards. Captain Lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her face gently, and smiled, and thanked her in his graceful way--and, in fact, left an enduring impression upon that impressible nature. Turning up the dark road at Redman's Dell, the gallant captain passed the old mill, and, all being quiet up and down the road, he halted under the lordly shadow of a clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter he had just taken charge of. It contained only these words:-- 'Wednesday. 'On Friday night, next, at half-past twelve.' This he read twice or thrice, pausing between whiles. The envelope bore the London postmark. Then he took out his cigar case, selected a promising weed, and wrapping the laconic note prettily round one of his scented matches, lighted it, and the note flamed pale in the daylight, and dropped still blazing, at the root of the old tree he stood by, and sent up a little curl of blue smoke--an incense to the demon of the wood--and turned in a minute more into a black film, overrun by a hundred creeping sparkles; and having completed his mysterious incremation, he, with his yellow eyes, made a stolen glance around, and lighting his cigar, glided gracefully up the steep road, under the solemn canopy of old timber, to the sound of the moaning stream below, and the rustle of withered leaves about him, toward Redman's Farm. As he entered the flower-garden, the jaundiced face of old Tamar, with its thousand small wrinkles and its ominous gleam of suspicion, was looking out from the darkened porch. The white cap, kerchief, and drapery, courtesied to him as he drew near, and the dismal face changed not. 'Well, Tamar, how do you do?--how are all? Where is that girl Margery?' 'In the kitchen, Master Stanley,' said she, courtesying again.