nset reddening the scene
without, and shedding upon the flowers its tenderest tints of fair
array, Fabian reminds himself of each word she had said, of each
smallest smile and glance that had belonged to her, and at this moment
hates her with a hatred that is exceptionally bitter.

Then a little wave flows over his soul, and he tells himself how that he
is unjust, and a stranger cannot be reasonably expected to think him
innocent of a crime he himself has been unable to refute.

The day wanes. Twilight falls; a flush of soft violet color deepens the
sky. The sound of footsteps echoes again in the long hall without; they
have returned from the carp and the new tennis ground, and are asking
eagerly for their tea. The sun has gone down behind the Western hills,
and the stained-glass windows are throwing a sombre light over the
antlers and Gothic chairs, and mediaeval furniture, in which the halls
delight. Fabian, hearing the footsteps, pulls himself together somewhat
roughly, and, opening a door that leads to a passage in little use,
makes his way to a distant office, where he tells himself, bitterly, he
is "far from the madding crowd," and free from intrusion.

Dulce and Portia, crossing the hall, go down the north corridor that
leads to the library Fabian has just vacated. A heavy crimson curtain
conceals a door on one side, and, as they pass, a figure, emerging from
behind it, brushes somewhat brusquely against Portia, filling her with
sudden alarm.

This figure, as it appears in the vague gloaming, is bowed and bent, and
altogether uncanny.

Portia, shrinking closer to Dulce, lays her hand upon her arm.

"Ah! what was that?" she says, fearfully.

"Only Gregory Slyme," returns Dulce, quickly, "you are not frightened at
_him_, poor old thing, are you? Have you not seen him before?"

"No," says Portia, with a shudder and a backward glance at the shrunken
figure creeping away down the corridor as if ashamed of itself.

"No?--that is strange; but he has affected his own room a good deal of
late."

"But who is he?" anxiously.

"He was Uncle Christopher's secretary for years, and calls himself that
still, but Fabian does all the writing now."

"What a start he gave me," says Portia, putting her hand hurriedly to
her heart as though in pain. "A chill seemed to rush all through my
blood. It was as though I had met something that had worked, and would
work, me harm!"

"Fanciful baby," says Dulce, with very superi