ring mortar and cautiously throw them at the window. When
one of these little fragments of mortar rattled against the glass the
whole window was quickly obscured by a shadow as if the night wanderer
had rushed to it in order to look out. Gerzson felt absolutely certain
that he must be observed for there he stood clinging fast on to the
moulding. A few moments afterwards the shadow disappeared suddenly from
the window and again the moonlight shone uninterruptedly through it.

Gerzson determined to remain where he was, to see what would come of it.

In a short time the shadow reappeared in front of the moonlight, the
window was silently and very slightly raised, and through the slit
fluttered a rolled up piece of paper.

This missive fell from the moulding of the bastion down into the moat.
Mr. Gerzson scrambled down after it, grabbed at it in the dark and
sticking it into his pocket, returned to the dwelling of the priest.

Not wishing to arouse the clergyman, he went to his carriage which stood
in the stable and lit the lamp in order to read the mysterious missive.

The letter was written on a piece of paper torn out of an album. He
recognized Henrietta's handwriting, and the contents of the note were as
follows: "Good kind Gerzson! I implore you, in the name of all that is
sacred, to depart from hence this instant. Depart on foot by bye
paths--the priest will guide you. If you do not wish me to lose my
reason altogether, tarry here no longer. I am very unhappy, but still
more unhappy I should be if you were to remain here. Avoid us--and
forget me forever--your affectionate--respectful--friend who will ever
mention you in her prayers--and whom you have treated as a
daughter--HENRIETTA."

Gerzson's first feeling on reading this letter was one of
relief--evidently Henrietta was not angry with him or she would not have
alluded to herself as his daughter! There must therefore have been some
other reason for her turning back other than the squabble between them
which Hatszegi had so industriously circulated. Well, he would settle
accounts with Hatszegi presently.

What he found especially hard to understand, however, was the mysterious
warning contained in the letter.

"Well, my dear parson," he said to himself, "I very much regret having
to arouse you from your slumbers, but there's nothing else to be done,"
and, unscrewing the coach lamp, he took it with him and went towards the
house.

The hall door was closed,