t had attracted the attention of others, and one of
those a detective, or that the walk home after his interview with Mr.
Byrd should have been fraught with a dread to which he scarcely dared to
give a name.

The sight of Miss Dare coming down the path as he reached his own gate
did not tend to greatly allay his apprehensions, particularly as he
observed she was dressed in travelling costume, and carried a small
satchel on her arm.

"Imogene," he cried, as she reached him, "what is the meaning of this?
Where are you going?"

Her face, which wore a wholly unnatural and strained expression, turned
slowly toward his.

"I am going to Buffalo," she said.

"To Buffalo?"

"Yes."

This was alarming, surely. She was going to leave the town--leave it
suddenly, without excuse or explanation!

Looking at her with eyes which, for all their intense inquiry, conveyed
but little of the serious emotions that were agitating his mind, he
asked, hurriedly:

"What takes you to Buffalo--to-day--so suddenly?"

Her answer was set and mechanical.

"I have had news. One of my--my friends is not well. I must go. Do not
detain me."

And she moved quickly toward the gate.

But his tremulous hand was upon it, and he made no offer to open a
passage for her.

"Pardon me," said he, "but I cannot let you go till I have had some
conversation with you. Come with me to the house, Imogene. I will not
detain you long."

But with a sad and abstracted gesture she slowly shook her head.

"It is too late," she murmured. "I shall miss the train if I stop now."

"Then you must miss it," he cried, bitterly, forgetting every thing else
in the torture of his uncertainty. "What I have to say cannot wait.
Come!"

This tone of command from one who had hitherto adapted himself to her
every whim, seemed to strike her. Paling quickly, she for the first time
looked at him with something like a comprehension of his feelings, and
quietly replied:

"Forgive me. I had forgotten for the moment the extent of your claims
upon me. I will wait till to-morrow before going." And she led the way
back to the house.

When they were alone together in the library, he turned toward her with
a look whose severity was the fruit of his condition of mind rather than
of any natural harshness or imperiousness.

"Now, Imogene," said he, "tell me why you desire to leave my house."

Her face, which had assumed a mask of cold impassiveness, confronted him
like that of