When Mr. Rodney went home, he gave Dr. Anthony a most cordial invitation to come over to Chester and visit him. The doctor was not slow to avail himself of the courtesy. It was the beginning of a most pleasant friendship. Perhaps hazel-eyed Effie had something to do with it. It is certain that she enjoyed the non-professional visits of the Maywood physician as much as was consistent with the trouble and anxiety she was enduring. And Dr. Anthony certainly found the fair, dignified young lady very fascinating. He came often to the dainty little cottage home that nestled in the shadow of the tall trees and pretentious towers of Delaney House. He was so gay and cheerful, so determinately hopeful, that he sometimes wiled Effie to a momentary forgetfulness of their loss and sorrow. He made little Max fond of him. He pleased the nervous, fretful, invalid mother still prostrated by her grief and remorse. His even, sunny temper and handsome face always brightened the cottage parlor when they shone in it. All claimed him as a friend and comforter. The New York detective came down promptly to Chester. He was quite willing to undertake the case. He flattered himself that he should unravel the mystery. They showed him the little end room from whence Aline had been so strangely spirited away. He examined it with a great interest. He stood at each of the three windows in turn, and gazed curiously out. The front one gave him a perspective of a quiet little village street. The back one looked out on a brick-paved yard, and a tiny kitchen. The end one presented a more inviting prospect. It showed him the green and flowery garden of Delaney House. The quiet, rustic seats, the cool spray of the fountains, the deep shade of the trees, the delicate fragrance of the flowers, all inspired one with a sense of peace and rest; and the master of all this wealth of summer sweetness, as he walked among the quiet graveled paths, did not inspire one with any suspicion. One envied him, rather, he looked so calm and peaceful, as though the cares and sorrows of the weary world touched him not, hidden as it were, behind his high stone walls and grim, forbidding towers, with their close-shut windows. Yes, here he still walked daily, as on that day when willful Aline had gone to her fate along a path as rosy and flower-strewn as ever delighted the eyes of heedless youth. His dark, grave face gave no hint of the secret he held, and expressed no sympathy nor sorrow for the shadow that had fallen on his neighbor’s house. He appeared calm, grave, indifferent to all things but himself. The New York detective studied the house and the man with a good deal of interest. He asked questions about them, but he stood well back from the window, and did not permit Mr. Delaney, by any chance, to observe his curious glances. He was very cautious. Mr. Rodney was a man of quite acute perceptions. He quickly saw where Mr. Lane’s suspicions were insensibly drifting.