Two men, the one an architect and the other an archaeologist, met on the steps of the great house at Prior's Park; and their host, Lord Bulmer, in his breezy way, thought it natural to introduce them. It must be confessed that he was as well as breezy, and had no very clear connection in his mind, beyond the sense that an architect and an archaeologist begin with the same series of letters. The world must remain in a doubt as to whether he would, on the same principles, have presented a diplomatist to a dipsomaniac or a ratiocinator to a rat catcher. He was a big, fair, bull-necked young man, in outward gestures, unconsciously flapping his gloves and flourishing his stick.  
"You two ought to have something to talk about," he said, cheerfully. "Old buildings and all that sort of thing; this is rather an old building, by the way, though I say it who shouldn't. I must ask you to excuse me a moment; I've got to go and see about the cards for this Christmas my sister's arranging. We hope to see you all there, of course. Juliet wants it to be a fancy-dress affair—abbots and crusaders and all that. My ancestors, I suppose, after all."
 
"I trust the abbot was not an ancestor," said the archaeological gentleman, with a smile.
 
"Only a sort of great-uncle, I imagine," answered the other, laughing; then his rather eye rolled round the ordered landscape in front of the house; an artificial sheet of water with an nymph in the center and surrounded by a park of tall trees now gray and black and frosty, for it was in the depth of a severe winter.
 
"It's getting jolly cold," his lordship continued. "My sister hopes we shall have some skating as well as dancing."
 
"If the crusaders come in full armor," said the other, "you must be careful not to drown your ancestors."
 
"Oh, there's no fear of that," answered Bulmer; "this precious lake of ours is not two feet deep anywhere." And with one of his flourishing gestures he stuck his stick into the water to demonstrate its shallowness. They could see the short end in the water, so that he seemed for a moment to lean his large weight on a breaking staff.
 
"The worst you can expect is to see an abbot sit down rather suddenly," he added, turning away. "Well, au revoir; I'll let you know about it later."
 
The archaeologist and the architect were left on the great stone steps smiling at each other; but whatever their common interests, they presented a considerable personal contrast, and the fanciful might even have found some contradiction in each considered individually. The former, a Mr. James Haddow, came from a in the Inns of Court, full of leather and parchment, for the law was his profession and history only his hobby; he was indeed, among other things, the and agent of the Prior's Park estate. But he himself was far from drowsy and seemed wide awake, with shrewd and prominent blue eyes, and red hair brushed as as his very neat costume. The latter, whose name was Leonard Crane, came straight from a crude and almost cockney office of builders and house agents in the neighboring suburb, sunning itself at the end of a new row of jerry-built houses with plans in very bright colors and notices in very large letters. But a serious observer, at a second glance, might have seen in his eyes something of that shining sleep that is called vision; and his yellow hair, while not long, was unaffectedly untidy. It was a manifest if truth that the architect was an artist. But the was far from explaining him; there was something else about him that was not definable, but which some even felt to be dangerous. Despite his dreaminess, he would sometimes surprise his friends with arts and even sports apart from his ordinary life, like memories of some previous existence. On this occasion, nevertheless, he hastened to any authority on the other man's hobby.
 
"I mustn't appear on false pretences," he said, with a smile. "I hardly even know what an archaeologist is, except that a rather remnant of Greek suggests that he is a man who studies old things."
 
"Yes," replied Haddow, grimly. "An archaeologist is a man who studies old things and finds they are new."
 
Crane looked at him for a moment and then smiled again.
 
"Dare one suggest," he said, "that some of the things we have been talking about are among the old things that turn out not to be old?"
 
His companion also was silent for a moment, and the smile on his face was fainter as he replied, quietly:
 
"The wall round the park is really old. The one gate in it is Gothic, and I cannot find any trace of destruction or restoration. But the house and the estate generally—well the romantic ideas read into these things are often rather recent romances, things almost like fashionable novels. For instance, the very name of this place, Prior's Park, makes everybody think of it as a moonlit mediaeval abbey; I dare say the spiritualists by this time have discovered the ghost of a there. But, according to the only study of the matter I can find, the place was simply called Prior's as any rural place is called Podger's. It was the house of a Mr. Prior, a , probably, that stood here at some time or other and was a local . Oh, there are a great many examples of the same thing, here and everywhere else. This suburb of ours used to be a village, and because some of the people the name and pronounced it Holliwell, many a poet indulged in fancies about a Holy Well, with spells and fairies and all the rest of it, filling the drawing-rooms with the Celtic . Whereas anyone acquainted with the facts knows that 'Hollinwall' simply means 'the hole in the wall,' and probably referred to some quite trivial accident. That's what I mean when I say that we don't so much find old things as we find new ones."
 
Crane seemed to have grown somewhat inattentive to the little lecture on and novelties, and the cause of his restlessness was soon apparent, and indeed approaching. Lord Bulmer's sister, Juliet , was coming slowly across the lawn, accompanied by one gentleman and followed by two others. The young architect was in the illogical condition of mind in which he preferred three to one.
 
The man walking with the lady was no other than the Prince Borodino, who was at least as famous as a diplomatist ought to be, in the interests of what is called secret . He had been paying a round of visits at various English country houses, and exactly what he was doing for diplomacy at Prior's Park was as much a secret as any diplomatist could desire. The obvious thing to say of his appearance was that he would have been extremely handsome if he had not been bald. But, indeed, that would itself be a rather bald way of putting it. Fantastic as it sounds, it would fit the case better to say that people would have been surprised to see hair growing on him; as surprised as if they had found hair growing on the of a Roman emperor. His tall figure was buttoned up in a tight-waisted fashion that rather his potential bulk, and he wore a red flower in his buttonhole. Of the two men walking behind one was also bald, but in a more partial and also a more fashion, for his mustache was still yellow, and if his eyes were somewhat heavy it was with and not with age. It was Horne Fisher, and he was talking as easily and idly about everything as he always did. His companion was a more striking, and even more , figure, and he had the added importance of being Lord Bulmer's oldest and most intimate friend. He was generally known with a severe as Mr. Brain; but it was understood that he had been a judge and police official in India, and that he had enemies, who had represented his measures against crime as themselves almost criminal. He was a brown skeleton of a man with dark, deep, sunken eyes and a black mustache that hid the meaning of his mouth. Though he had the look of one wasted by some tropical disease, his movements were much more alert than those of his lounging companion.
 
"It's all settled," announced the lady, with great , when they came within hailing distance. "You've all got to put on masquerade things and very likely skates as well, though the prince says they don't go with it; but we don't care about that. It's freezing already, and we don't often get such a chance in England."
 
"Even in India we don't exactly skate all the year round," observed
Mr. Brain.
"And even Italy is not primarily associated with ice," said the
Italian.
"Italy is primarily associated with ices," remarked Mr. Horne Fisher. "I mean with ice cream men. Most people in this country imagine that Italy is entirely populated with ice cream men and organ grinders. There certainly are a lot of them; perhaps they're an invading army in disguise."
 
"How do you know they are not the secret emissaries of our diplomacy?" asked the prince, with a slightly scornful smile. "An army of organ grinders might pick up hints, and their monkeys might pick up all sort of things."
 
"The organs are organized in fact," said the flippant Mr. Fisher.
"Well, I've known it pretty cold before now in Italy and even in
India, up on the Himalayan slopes. The ice on our own little round
pond will be quite by comparison."
Juliet Bray was an attractive lady with dark hair and and dancing eyes, and there was a and even in her rather imperious ways. In most matters she could command her brother, though that nobleman, like many other men of vague ideas, was not without a touch of the when he was at bay. She could certainly command her guests, even to the extent of decking out the most respectable and reluctant of them with her mediaeval masquerade. And it really seemed as if she could command the elements also, like a witch. For the weather steadily hardened and sharpened; that night the ice of the lake, in the moonlight, was like a marble floor, and they had begun to dance and skate on it before it was dark.
 
Prior's Park, or, more properly, the surrounding district of Holinwall, was a country seat that had become a suburb; having once had only a dependent village at its doors, it now found outside all its doors the signals of the expansion of London. Mr. Haddow, who was engaged in historical researches both in the library and the locality, could find little assistance in the latter. He had already realized, from the documents, that Prior's Park had originally been something like Prior's Farm, named after some local figure, but the new social conditions were all against his tracing the story by its traditions. Had any of the real remained, he would probably have found some lingering legend of Mr. Prior, however remote he might be. But the new population of clerks and artisans, constantly shifting their homes from one suburb to another, or their children from one school to another, could have no continuity. They had all that forgetfulness of history that goes everywhere with the extension of education.
 
Nevertheless, when he came out of the library next morning and saw the wintry trees round the frozen pond like a black forest, he felt he might well have been far in the depths of the country. The old wall running round the park kept that inclosure itself still entirely rural and romantic, and one could easily imagine that the depths of that dark forest faded away indefinitely into distant vales and hills. The gray and black and silver of the wintry wood were all the more severe or as a contrast to the colored groups that already stood on and around the frozen pool. For the house party had already flung themselves impatiently into fancy dress, and the lawyer, with his neat black suit and red hair, was the only modern figure among them.
 
"Aren't you going to dress up?" asked Juliet, indignantly shaking at him a horned and towering blue headdress of the fourteenth century which framed her face very becomingly, fantastic as it was. "Everybody here has to be in the Middle Ages. Even Mr. Brain has put on a sort of brown gown and says he's a monk; and Mr. Fisher got hold of some old potato sacks in the kitchen and sewed them together; he's supposed to be a monk, too. As to the prince, he's glorious, in great robes as a . He looks as if he could poison everybody. You simply must be something."
 
"I will be something later in the day," he replied. "At present I am nothing but an antiquary and an attorney. I have to see your brother presently, about some legal business and also some local he asked me to make. I must look a little like a when I give an account of my ."
 
"Oh, but my brother has dressed up!" cried the girl. "Very much so. No end, if I may say so. Why he's bearing down on you now in all his glory."
 
The noble lord was indeed marching toward them in a magnificent sixteenth-century costume of purple and gold, with a gold-hilted sword and a cap, and manners to match. Indeed, there was something more than his usual expansiveness of bodily action in his appearance at that moment. It almost seemed, so to speak, that the on his hat had gone to his head. He flapped his great, gold-lined cloak like the wings of a fairy king in a pantomime; he even drew his sword with a flourish and waved it about as he did his walking stick. In the light of after events there seemed to be something and about that , something of the spirit that is called fey. At the time it merely crossed a few people's minds that he might possibly be drunk.
 
As he strode toward his sister the first figure he passed was that of Leonard Crane, clad in Lincoln green, with the horn and baldrick and sword appropriate to ; for he was standing nearest to the lady, where, indeed, he might have been found during a disproportionate part of the time. He had displayed one of his buried talents in the matter of skating, and now that the skating was over seemed disposed to prolong the . The Bulmer playfully made a pass at him with his sword, going forward with the lunge in the proper fencing fashion, and making a somewhat too familiar Shakespearean about a and a Venetian coin.
 
Probably in Crane also there was a excitement just then; anyhow, in one flash he had drawn his own sword and parried; and then suddenly, to the surprise of everyone, Bulmer's weapon seemed to spring out of his hand into the air and rolled away on the ringing ice.
 
"Well, I never!" said the lady, as if with indignation.
"You never told me you could fence, too."
Bulmer put up his sword with an air rather bewildered than annoyed, which increased the impression of something irresponsible in his mood at the moment; then he turned rather to his lawyer, saying:
 
"We can settle up about the estate after dinner; I've missed nearly all the skating as it is, and I doubt if the ice will hold till to-morrow night. I think I shall get up early and have a spin by myself."
 
"You won't be disturbed with my company," said Horne Fisher, in his weary fashion. "If I have to begin the day with ice, in the American fashion, I prefer it in smaller quantities. But no early hours for me in December. The early bird catches the cold."
 
"Oh, I shan't die of a cold," answered Bulmer, and laughed.
 
* * *
 
A considerable group of the skating party had consisted of the guests staying at the house, and the rest had tailed off in twos and threes some time before most of the guests began to retire for the night. Neighbors, always invited to Prior's Park on such occasions, went back to their own houses in motors or on foot; the legal and archeological gentleman had returned to the Inns of Court by a late train, to get a paper called for during his with his client; and most of the other guests were drifting and lingering at various stages on their way up to bed. Horne Fisher, as if to deprive himself of any excuse for his refusal of early rising, had been the first to retire to his room; but, sleepy as he looked, he could not sleep. He had picked up from a table the book of antiquarian topography, in which Haddow had found his first hints about the origin of the local name, and, being a man with a quiet and capacity for being interested in anything, he began to read it steadily, making notes now and then of details on which his previous reading left him with a certain doubt about his present conclusions. His room was the one nearest to the lake in the center of the woods, and was therefore the quietest, and none of the last echoes of the evening's festivity could reach him. He had followed carefully the argument which established the derivation from Mr. Prior's farm and the hole in the wall, and disposed of any fashionable fancy about and magic wells, when he began to be conscious of a noise audible in the frozen silence of the night. It was not a particularly loud noise, but it seemed to consist of a series of thuds or heavy blows, such as might be struck on a wooden door by a man seeking to enter. They were followed by something like a faint creak or crack, as if the obstacle had either been opened or had given way. He opened his own bedroom door and listened, but as he heard talk and laughter all over the lower floors, he had no reason to fear that a summons would be neglected or the house left without protection. He went to his open window, looking out over the frozen pond and the moonlit statue in the middle of their circle of darkling woods, and listened again. But silence had returned to that silent place, and, after straining his ears for a considerable time, he could hear nothing but the of a distant departing train. Then he reminded himself how many nameless noises can be heard by the wakeful during the most ordinary night, and shrugging his shoulders, went wearily to bed.
 
He awoke suddenly and sat up in bed with his ears filled, as with thunder, with the echoes of a cry. He remained for a moment, and then sprang out of bed, throwing on the loose gown of sacking he had worn all day. He went first to the window, which was open, but covered with a thick curtain, so that his room was still completely dark; but when he tossed the curtain aside and put his head out, he saw that a gray and silver daybreak had already appeared behind the black woods that surrounded the little lake, and that was all that he did see. Though the sound had certainly come in through the open window from this direction, the whole scene was still and empty under the morning light as under the moonlight. Then the long, rather hand he had laid on a window sill gripped it tighter, as if to master a , and his peering blue eyes grew with fear. It may seem that his emotion was exaggerated and needless, considering the effort of common sense by which he had conquered his nervousness about the noise on the previous night. But that had been a very different sort of noise. It might have been made by half a hundred things, from the chopping of wood to the breaking of bottles. There was only one thing in nature from which could come the sound that echoed through the dark house at daybreak. It was the awful articulate voice of man; and it was something worse, for he knew what man.
 
He knew also that it had been a shout for help. It seemed to him that he had heard the very word; but the word, short as it was, had been swallowed up, as if the man had been or snatched away even as he . Only the mocking reverberations of it remained even in his memory, but he had no doubt of the original voice. He had no doubt that the great bull's voice of Francis Bray, Bulmer, had been heard for the last time between the darkness and the lifting dawn.
 
How long he stood there he never knew, but he was startled into life by the first living thing that he saw stirring in that half-frozen landscape. Along the path beside the lake, and immediately under his window, a figure was walking slowly and softly, but with great composure—a stately figure in robes of a splendid ; it was the Italian prince, still in his cardinal's costume. Most of the company had indeed lived in their costumes for the last day or two, and Fisher himself had assumed his frock of sacking as a convenient dressing gown; but there seemed, nevertheless, something unusually finished and formal, in the way of an early bird, about this magnificent red cockatoo. It was as if the early bird had been up all night.
 
"What is the matter?" he called, sharply, leaning out of the window, and the Italian turned up his great yellow face like a mask of .
 
"We had better discuss it downstairs," said Prince Borodino.
 
Fisher ran downstairs, and encountered the great, red-robed figure entering the and blocking the entrance with his bulk.
 
"Did you hear that cry?" demanded Fisher.
 
"I heard a noise and I came out," answered the diplomatist, and his face was too dark in the shadow for its expression to be read.
 
"It was Bulmer's voice," insisted Fisher. "I'll swear it was
Bulmer's voice."
"Did you know him well?" asked the other.
 
The question seemed , though it was not illogical, and
Fisher could only answer in a fashion that he knew Lord
Bulmer only slightly.
"Nobody seems to have known him well," continued the Italian, in level tones. "Nobody except that man Brain. Brain is rather older than Bulmer, but I fancy they shared a good many secrets."
 
Fisher moved abruptly, as if waking from a trance, and said, in a new and more vigorous voice, "But look here, hadn't we better get outside and see if anything has happened."
 
"The ice seems to be thawing," said the other, almost with .
 
When they emerged from the house, dark stains and stars in the gray field of ice did indeed indicate that the frost was breaking up, as their host had the day before, and the very memory of yesterday brought back the mystery of to-day.
 
"He knew there would be a thaw," observed the prince. "He went out skating quite early on purpose. Did he call out because he landed in the water, do you think?"
 
Fisher looked puzzled. "Bulmer was the last man to like that because he got his boots wet. And that's all he could do here; the water would hardly come up to the of a man of his size. You can see the flat weeds on the floor of the lake, as if it were through a thin of glass. No, if Bulmer had only broken the ice he wouldn't have said much at the moment, though possibly a good deal . We should have found him stamping and damning up and down this path, and calling for clean boots."
 
"Let us hope we shall find him as happily employed," remarked the diplomatist. "In that case the voice must have come out of the wood."
 
"I'll swear it didn't come out of the house," said Fisher; and the two disappeared together into the twilight of wintry trees.
 
The stood dark against the colors of sunrise, a black fringe having that feathery appearance which makes trees when they are bare the very reverse of rugged. Hours and hours afterward, when the same , but delicate, was dark against the greenish colors opposite the sunset, the search thus begun at sunrise had not come to an end. By successive stages, and to slowly groups of the company, it became apparent that the most extraordinary of all gaps had appeared in the party; the guests could find no trace of their host anywhere. The servants reported that his bed had been slept in and his skates and his fancy costume were gone, as if he had risen early for the purpose he had himself . But from the top of the house to the bottom, from the walls round the park to the pond in the center, there was no trace of Lord Bulmer, dead or alive. Horne Fisher realized that a chilling premonition had already prevented him from expecting to find the man alive. But his bald brow was wrinkled over an entirely new and problem, in not finding the man at all.
 
He considered the possibility of Bulmer having gone off of his own accord, for some reason; but after weighing it he finally dismissed it. It was inconsistent with the unmistakable voice heard at daybreak, and with many other practical obstacl............