under promise not to tell," he answered. "You may hear to-morrow."

CHAPTER XIX.

BROUGHT TO BAY.

It was the last day of the old year, and though burning with curiosity
to know what discovery George and I had unwittingly made beyond the
whereabouts of the secret chamber, I forbore to ask any questions.
Remembering that after this date Miles and his mother could no longer
count on being left in undisputed possession of the whole estate, I did
not like to make any inquiries which might revive this painful subject;
so, with an effort, I resolved to possess my soul in patience, and wait
till either Miles or Mr. Denny should volunteer some explanation.

The latter had arrived at the house not long after breakfast, and
appeared to have come to spend the day. From some remarks which he
made, I understood that he had been in Welmington the day before, and
had travelled home through the night. Considering that he was an
elderly man, and that this was the middle of winter, it struck me that
whatever business he had had to transact must have been both important
and urgent. In some indefinable manner the impression grew in my mind
that something was brewing--whether trouble or otherwise I could not
say; but there was a subdued air of excitement about the house, in
which Miles, his mother, and the lawyer all seemed to share. Though I
cannot but own that it aroused my curiosity, I stuck to my former
determination to mind my own business, and not try to poke my nose into
matters in which I had no concern.

At dinner even Mr. Denny, usually so sharp and alert, seemed at times a
trifle preoccupied; while Mrs. Coverthorne was evidently in a state of
nervous tension. She made a forced attempt to keep up the
conversation, but it was plain that she was merely talking for the sake
of talking, and that her thoughts were far from the subject of her
remarks. Still, whatever might have been weighing on her mind, her
look seemed to denote a change from when I had seen her in the summer:
it was as though some burden of care had been recently lifted from her
shoulders.

When the table had been cleared, we still sat on in the oak-panelled
parlour--Mr. Denny thoughtfully sipping his wine, Miles notching a
small fragment of firewood with his pocket-knife, and his mother making
a pretence to sew, though at times I saw her hand shake so that she
could not possibly direct her needle. As no one else made a move, I,
too, remained in