"Sure, sister, she was not ill-looking," said the gentler Sophia, who had been a toast in her youth; "she had a good figure and dark hair and eyes. I admired her complexion, Jane! it was like cream, and a dimple here," finished Sophia, touching her chin, "a pretty-pretty dimple." "Sophia!" "Well, it was a pretty dimple, jane. No one can deny that." In this description I espied Rose Strent, especially as regards the dimple. I had noticed it myself. Evidently there was an understanding between this woman and Felix which had led to her taking up her quarters in the Fen Inn with her father--if indeed the landlord was her father, a fact I was beginning to doubt. I set the garrulous ladies off on another tack. "Do you know anything about the Fen Inn, Aunt Jane?" "The Lone Inn, child! Never name it! In my youth it was the scene of a terrible murder, and since that time no one has lived in it, save one man." "It is now in ruins," said Sophia, with bated breath, "and is said to be haunted." "Does anyone go near it?" "No one: I don't think there is a man in the country who would venture near the Lone Inn after dark. Two years ago a stranger refurnished and repaired it. But he did not stay longer than a week." "What became of him?" "He disappeared," said Aunt Sophia, nodding her head solemnly, "vanished altogether. It was supposed that he was drowned in the marshes. The house is still furnished, I believe, but no one goes near it." "What about the landlord?" "It's in Chancery," said Aunt Jane wisely; "it has no landlord." After this discussion I went to bed with plenty to think about. I saw well enough that Strent and his daughter had taken up their abode in the ruined house for a certain purpose. That purpose was, I verily believe, to encompass the death of Francis Briarfield, and now that it was accomplished they disappeared. As Aunt Sophia said, the furniture of the former proprietor was still there, so a touch or two had rendered the house habitable. This accounted for their unwillingness to receive me as a guest, and for the mildewed aspect of the rooms which had struck me so forcibly. A second tragedy had accentuated the evil reputation of the house. But while the first tragedy was known to all, the second was known only to myself and to--Felix Briarfield. I felt certain that he was connected in some way with the unexpected death of his brother. Francis had been lured to that lonely inn for the purpose of being murdered, and the crime had been accomplished by Strent and his daughter. So far as I knew, Felix had not been near the house on the night in question, yet he was without doubt morally guilty of the crime. Olivia, believing him to be her lover Francis, did not place much faith in my story, but surely, when she was convinced by the sight of the dead body, and I had torn the mask from the face of Felix, she would let me deal with him as he deserved.