k again to places I had left behind--it was at the
distance of forty miles from L---- that I last heard of her that second
day. She had been sitting alone by a little brook only an hour before.
I was led to the very spot by a woodman--it was at the hour of twilight
when he beheld her; she was leaning her face on her hand, and seemed
weary. He spoke to her; she did not answer, but rose and resumed her
way along the banks of the streamlet. That night I put up at no inn; I
followed the course of the brook for miles, then struck into every path
that I could conceive her to have taken,--in vain. Thus I consumed
the night on foot, tying my horse to a tree, for he was tired out, and
returning to him at sunrise. At noon, the third day, I again heard of
her, and in a remote, savage part of the country. The features of the
landscape were changed; there was little foliage and little culture, but
the ground was broken into moulds and hollows, and covered with patches
of heath and stunted brushwood. She had been seen by a shepherd, and
he made the same observation as the first who had guided me on her
track,--she looked to him "like some one walking in her sleep." An hour
or two later, in a dell, amongst the furze-bushes, I chanced on a
knot of ribbon. I recognized the colour Lilian habitually wore; I felt
certain that the ribbon was hers. Calculating the utmost speed I could
ascribe to her, she could not be far off, yet still I failed to discover
her. The scene now was as solitary as a desert. I met no one on my way.
At length, a little after sunset, I found myself in view of the sea.
A small town nestled below the cliffs, on which I was guiding my weary
horse. I entered the town, and while my horse was baiting went in search
of the resident policeman. The information I had directed to be sent
round the country had reached him; he had acted on it, but without
result. I was surprised to hear him address me by name, and looking at
him more narrowly, I recognized him for the policeman Waby. This young
man had always expressed so grateful a sense of my attendance on his
sister, and had, indeed, so notably evinced his gratitude in prosecuting
with Margrave the inquiries which terminated in the discovery of
Sir Philip Derval's murderer, that I confided to him the name of the
wanderer, of which he had not been previously informed; but which it
would be, indeed, impossible to conceal from him should the search in
which his aid was asked prov