g his youthful bride with an old
housekeeper, and just three weeks later Diane disappeared. Every effort
was made to trace her, but in vain, and it was believed that she had
gone to London. Before the end of the winter our village squire returned
from abroad, and declared that he had recognized Diane in Paris, and
that she was a popular dancer under the name of Merode. About the same
time it was reported in the papers that the vessel on which Gilbert
Morris had set sail, the _Nautilus_, had been lost in a storm, with all
hands on board. There was every reason to credit the report--"

"But it was not true," exclaimed Jimmie. "I can read as much in your
eyes, Mr. Chalfont. What became of Gilbert Morris?"

CHAPTER XXX.

RUN TO EARTH.

The vicar hesitated for a moment, and then looked his companion straight
in the face.

"That unhappy man, Gilbert Morris, was spared by the sea," he answered
in a low voice. "The ship was lost, as reported, but he and two of the
crew were picked up by a sailing vessel and carried to South America.
Months elapsed before they were heard of, and Diane had been gone for
a year when Gilbert Morris returned to Dunwold. The news was a terrible
shock to him, for he had loved his wife with all the depth of a fierce
and fiery nature. His affection seemed to turn to rage, and it was
thought best to keep him in ignorance of the fact that Diane had been
seen in Paris. Brain fever prostrated him, and when he recovered
physically from that his mind was affected--in other words, he was
a homicidal lunatic, with a fixed determination to find and kill his
wife."

"By heavens!" exclaimed Jimmie. "The scent is getting warm! What was
done with the man?"

"He was sent to a private madhouse in Surrey."

"And is he there still?"

"No, he is not," the vicar replied agitatedly. "He succeeded in making
his escape more than a week ago. The matter was hushed up, because it
was hoped that he would come back to Dunwold, and that he could be
quietly captured here. But, in spite of the utmost vigilance, he was
not found or traced; and this very morning I received a letter from
Doctor Bent, the proprietor of the madhouse, stating that he had
furnished the London police with a description of his missing patient."

"That settles it!" cried Jimmie, jumping up in excitement. "Gilbert
Morris is the man!"

"Yes, I fear he is the murderer," assented the vicar. "But, pray sit
down, Mr. Drexell, and we will talk