After a few minutes' lying on the threshold of her carriage-bedroom with the rain beating upon her soaking dress, Beatrice rose with an effort and opened the door. It was never locked, as no one would be likely to enter. The matches and a candle were on a table by the bed, where she had left them, and soon she had a light. Beside the candlestick lay a folded piece of paper, and opening this, she read a line or two in Alpenny's crabbed handwriting.

"I find you have gone out. I am going also, and will not be back for three days. Durban will return to-morrow and look after you."

There was no signature, but of course she recognised the calligraphy easily, as it had a distinctive character of its own. The contents of the note rather surprised the girl. In the first place, Alpenny made no remark as to her having taken the key; and in the second, it was strange that he should depart thus unexpectedly, leaving The Camp absolutely unguarded, even by a dog. Beatrice knew well enough that her stepfather frequently went away on business, and at times very unexpectedly, but she had never known him to take so hasty a departure. However, after a glance at the note, she determined to go to bed, being too weary to think of anything; too weary even to reflect that she was alone in that lonely Camp, and that the gate had been open when she arrived. A memory of the stranger with the black patch over his eye certainly made her lock her door, and see that the windows were well fastened; but when she had accomplished this for her own safety, she had only sufficient strength remaining to throw off her wet clothes and get into bed. And there she speedily fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, while the storm raged louder than ever. Her last thought was a hope, that Vivian had reached the Grange in safety.

When she awoke next morning it was ten, as the tiny cuckoo clock on the wall told her, and the sun was streaming in through the chinks of the window-shutters. She still felt weary, and her limbs ached a trifle, but for a moment or so she could not think how she came to be so tired. Then the memory of all that had happened rushed in on her brain, and she sprang from bed to open the door and windows. In a minute the sunlight was pouring cheerfully into the bedroom, and Beatrice was rapidly dressed, feeling hungry, yet at the same time anxious.

And much need she had to be. Her stepfather knew that she had gone out, and must have known that she had taken the key of the smaller gate, for which he would immediately look. He would certainly make himself most unpleasant, and she anticipated a bad quarter of an hour when he returned. Also, Vivian might have got into trouble with the man who had watched them meet under the Witches' Oak. Then, again, the gate of The Camp had been open when she returned, and a stranger had left the place hurriedly. All these things were very strange and disquieting, and Beatrice ardently wished that Durban was back, so that she might speak to him and be reassured. But it was probable that Vivian would come to The Camp that morning in order to learn if she had arrived safely; then they could renew the interrupted conversation, and come to an understanding.

The interview with Paslow perplexed Beatrice when she thought over it. Vivian's talk had been disjointed, and he had given her no satisfaction, answering her questions in a vague manner. That he should have proposed at so awkward a moment, and in so awkward a manner, also puzzled the girl. From what she could recall of the scrappy conversation it had been like one in a nightmare; and, indeed, the whole episode was far removed from the commonplace. The meeting-place under the ill-omened tree--the few hurried words--the rush of Vivian towards the strange man--and then her own headlong flight through the damp, dark woods--these thoughts made her very uncomfortable. It was more like romance than real life, and Beatrice did not care for such sensational events.

When dressed, she said her prayers and felt more composed; then stepped out into the broad, bright sunshine. After the storm everything looked fresh and vividly green: the world had a newly washed look, and the air seemed to be filled with vital energy, as though it were indeed the breath of life. But Beatrice soon saw evidence of the storm's fury. Huge boughs were stripped from the trees round The Camp, the flower-beds presented a draggled appearance, and the sundial had been blown down. For the rest, everything looked the same at usual. When she glanced at the dungeon, she saw that the door was closed and the blind was down, although this latter was a trifle askew. Beatrice could have gratified her curiosity by looking into the counting-house through the twisted blind; but she had seen sufficient of it on the previous day, and felt more inclined to eat than to waste her time peering into Alpenny's sanctum. With the idea of getting breakfast, she went to the kitchen, and speedily had the fire alight. Durban never locked the door of the kitchen carriage, so there was no difficulty in entering.

Beatrice found plenty of food in the cupboard, and made herself some strong coffee and an appetising dish of bacon and eggs. It was too much trouble to take the food to the dining-car, so she spread a cloth on the kitchen table, and made a very good meal. When she had finished, she washed the dishes and put them away; then went out again, feeling much better, and all signs of fatigue disappeared from her young and elastic frame. But for the evidences of the storm, she would have thought the past events of the night, those of a dream.

To pass the time, Beatrice swept out her bedroom and made the bed, then attended to the garden. Every now and then she would glance at the gate, expecting that Vivian Paslow would enter. But by twelve o'clock he had not come, and she felt very disappointed. Then she began to feel alarmed. What if he had met the man and had fought with him? What if the man had hurt him? She asked herself these questions, and half determined to go over to Convent Grange in order to get answers. But she did not wish to leave The Camp until Durban came back, since Alpenny was absent. Still the desire to hear and see Paslow was overwhelming, and she was just about to yield to her curiosity and leave The Camp to look after itself when she heard the rapid vibration of the electric bell, and knew that someone was at the gate. In a moment she was flying across the lawn, her heart beating and her colour rising.

"Vivian! Vivian!" sang her heart, and she threw open the gate, which was still unlocked. To her surprise, she beheld outside no less a person than Mrs. Snow!

The vicar's wife looked more amiable than usual and less grim. She was not very tall, and was dressed in dull slate-coloured garments very ugly and inexpensive, and likely to wear well. A straw hat trimmed with ribbons of the same sad hue surmounted her sharp, thin face, which was that of the miser species, hard and sour. Mrs. Snow had never been a pretty woman, and never an agreeable one, and as she faced Beatrice with what was meant to be a smile, she looked like a disappointed spinster. Yet she was the wife of the vicar, and the mother of Jerry, so she certainly should have looked more pleasant. But Mrs. Snow was a woman who took life hard, and made it hard for others also. If she could not enjoy herself, she was determined that no one else should. Whatever sins the vicar had committed--if any--the poor man was bitterly punished by having such a household fairy at his fireside.

"Mrs. Snow!" gasped Beatrice, who was immensely astonished, as well she might be, seeing that the vicaress had never before deigned to pay The Camp a visit.

"Yes, my dear Miss Hedge," said the lady, with a suavity she was far from feeling, as the girl's fresh beauty annoyed her. "You are no doubt surprised to see me. But I have come to see Mr. Alpenny as my husband's richest parishioner. Last night's storm has damaged the spire of our church, so I have started out at once to collect subscriptions for its repair. There is nothing like taking Time by the forelock, Miss Hedge."

"My father is out," said Beatrice coldly, "and will not be back for a few days. Then you can ask him, Mrs. Snow."

"May I not put you down for a trifle?"

"I have no money," replied Beatrice, annoyed by the greed and persistence of her visitor. "Will you come in?"

She did not wish to invite the lady in, but Mrs. Snow showed so very plainly that she intended to enter, that Beatrice could do no less. In silence she led the way to the Snow Parlour, and the vicar's wife was presently seated on the linen-covered sofa, glancing with sharp eyes round the pretty place. It need hardly be said that she glanced with inward disapproval and outward praise. She wanted money for the spire, and therefore had to be polite; but that did not withhold her from inwardly finding all the fault she could.

"A most charming place," said Mrs. Snow, still trying to make herself agreeable.

"I am glad you think so," replied Beatrice, wondering why her unexpected visitor was so very polite; and mindful of Mrs. Snow's past behaviour, the girl could not think that the vicaress was making herself thus pleasant in order to get money for the spire. Besides, the spire had only been damaged on the previous night, and it seemed strange that the woman should begin to hunt for subscriptions for its restoration already. No! Beatrice came to the conclusion, and very rightly, that Mrs. Snow had another motive in paying attention to the girl she had so severely snubbed.

"I have intended to call ever so many times," went on Mrs. Snow, not to be daunted by the frosty manner of her hostess, "but my husband, poor man, is not very well, and I have to attend to a great deal of the parish work."

"There is no need to apologise, Mrs. Snow. I see very few people."

"But those you see are really charming!" gushed the vicaress. "I, of course, allude to Mr. and Miss Paslow."

"They are friends of mine."

"And of mine also, Miss Hedge. Though I will say that this engagement of my son to Miss Paslow does not please me. I really thought"--here Mrs. Snow cast a searching look on the girl's face--"that my son admired you."

"Oh no. He has always been devoted to Miss Paslow."

"His devotion is misplaced," snapped Mrs. Snow, some of the veneer of her gracious manner wearing away. "I shall never consent to such a marriage."

"You must tell that to Miss Paslow and to your son," said Beatrice coldly; "I have nothing to do with it."

"Well"--Mrs. Snow hesitated--"I thought that you, being a friend of Miss Paslow's, might point out how foolish her conduct is."

"It is not my place to interfere," said Miss Hedge in a frosty manner, and beginning to gain an inkling as to why the vicaress had paid this unforeseen visit.

"Of course not. I should never ask you to do anything disagreeable, Miss Hedge. I hope you will come and see me at the Vicarage. Now that I have found you out, I really must see more of you."

"It is very kind of you, Mrs. Snow; but I never go out. My father does not wish me to."

"So eccentric dear Mr. Alpenny is!" murmured the vicaress. "I was in town only two weeks ago, and Lady Watson mentioned how strange he was. You know Lady Watson, of course?"

"I never set eyes on her. I don't even know the name."

"That is strange," and Mrs. Snow really did look puzzled; "she knew all about you."

Beatrice started. "What is there to know about me?"

"Oh, nothing--really and truly nothing. Only that Mr. Alpenny married your mother and adopted you when she died. I was not here when Mrs. Alpenny died, but I believe she is buried in our churchyard."

"I have seen the tombstone," said Beatrice coldly. "And how does this Lady Watson come to know about me?"

"She was a school friend of your mother's--so she said."

"Oh!" Beatrice felt her face flush. Here was a chance of learning something that neither Durban nor Alpenny would tell her. "I should like to meet Lady Watson."

"You shall, my dear Miss Hedge. She is coming in a few weeks to stop at the Vicarage."

"I shall be happy to see her." Beatrice had to swallow her pride before she could say this, as Mrs. Snow had really treated her very badly. But she was anxious to learn something of her mother, and to find out if she had any relatives, as she was determined not to marry Ruck, and knew that if she did not, Alpenny was quite capable of turning her out of doors. Of course Durban would always look after her, but Beatrice wished to be independent even of Durban. At the moment she never thought of Vivian and his hasty proposal, but it came back to her memory when Mrs. Snow introduced his name.

"I hear that Mr. Paslow is thinking of moving from this place," said Mrs. Snow. "Such a pity! so old a family. The Paslows have been in the Grange since the reign of Henry VIII. It was originally a convent, you know, and the Paslow of those days was presented with it, by the king--so shocking, wasn't it? He turned out the nuns and lived in the place himself. That is why it is called Convent Grange."

"So Miss Paslow told me," responded Beatrice, rather weary of this small-talk, and wondering why it was being manufactured.

"But Mr. Paslow is poor," pursued Mrs. Snow, "and can't keep the place up. I expect he'll go to the colonies, or some such place. So you can easily see why I don't want my son to marry his sister."

Beatrice felt very much inclined to tell her garrulous visitor that Vivian had inherited money, and would probably clear off the mortgages and live in the style of his forefathers. But she restrained her inclination, as it was none of her business, and rose to intimate that the interview was at an end. But Mrs. Snow still sat on.

"Really a lovely place, Convent Grange," she chattered, "although sadly out of repair. Haunted, too, they say, although I don't believe in ghosts myself. But I hear an Indian colonel was murdered there some twenty-four years ago, and his ghost is said to haunt the room he was killed in."

"I never heard that," said Beatrice, wondering why Dinah had never imparted so comparatively modern a tragedy to her.

"I dare say not," said Mrs. Snow tartly; "the Paslows don't like talking about the matter. I heard about it from an old shepherd who keeps sheep on the Downs. Orchard is his name, and he was the butler of Mr. Paslow's father, who was alive when Colonel Hall was murdered."

"I never heard of a shepherd being a butler."

"You mean that you never heard of a butler turning a shepherd," said Mrs. Snow; "neither did I. But I understand that the poor man's nerves were so wrecked by the sight of the dead body that the doctors of those days ordered him to take the open-air cure. So he became a shepherd. A most superior man."

"Who murdered Colonel Hall?"

"No one ever found out. His throat was cut, and he was discovered dead in his bed. I believe a casket of jewels was stolen at the time, and was never found. But even if the Paslows didn't tell you about this, I wonder your father did not, dear Miss Hedge, as he was here at the time, and a visitor at the Grange."

"My stepfather never tells me anything."

"How dull you must be. He really is so eccentric. Lady Watson knew him years and years ago, and says that he is quite a gentleman. He was at Rugby with her husband, Sir Reginald, who is dead. But he took up this money-lending business, which really is not respectable, besides which, it is quite forbidden by the Mosaic law. Well, I must be going." Mrs. Snow rose, still smiling. "But you really must come over to the Vicarage, and let me make your life more gay. I shall also try and induce your father--no, stepfather--to come over."

"I don't think you'll be able to manage that," said Beatrice dryly, and wondering what all this alarming sweetness meant; "my stepfather never goes out."

"He did over twenty years ago. Ask him about his visit to Convent Grange, and about Colonel Hall's murder. It caused a great sensation, although the criminal was never found. But who is this?" Mrs. Snow stepped out into the sunshine as she spoke, and pointed her slate-coloured parasol towards Durban, who was standing near. He must have approached very softly, and must have heard every word the vicaress said for the last few minutes. His dark face looked unnaturally white, and he cast a nervous glance at the visitor. Beatrice noticed nothing, however, and ran to him at once.

"Oh, Durban, I am so pleased to see you. Father has gone away. See, he left this note, and----"

"I'll take my leave, so as not to interrupt you," said Mrs. Snow graciously; "then you can talk to the man. What a charming place!" She looked round severely and walked from one carriage to another. "Your bedroom, a dining-room, another bedroom"; then she stopped at the dungeon and tried the door. "Oh, Bluebeard's chamber! I must not look in here."

"It is the master's counting-house, lady," said Durban, who was close at her heels and seemed anxious for her to go.

"How delightful! A counting-house in a dark wood--just like 'Alice in Wonderland.' May I look in at the window? Mr. Alpenny is from home, so he can't object," and before any one could stop her she was peeping through the window, where the blind was askew. Then she gave a cry of alarm. "Miss Hedge, your father is within. He is lying on the floor." She stood on tiptoe. "Oh! he is dead. I see blood!"

"Impossible!" cried Beatrice, rushing forward and pushing the meddling woman aside.--"Yes Durban!--Oh, great Heavens!"

The servant came running up and also glanced in. Then, with an exclamation of horror, he ran into the kitchen and came out with a bunch of skeleton keys. Both the women, pale and terrified, stood beside him while he fitted these into the lock. None would open the door, and he flung them away with a smothered oath. For a moment he paused, then ran into the wood. Mrs. Snow turned to Beatrice.

"Your father has been murdered. I shall tell the police."

"Yes, do!" said Beatrice, clasping her hands. "I never knew. When I came home last night, he left a note saying that he would go away for a few days, and----"

"Here is the man with a log," interrupted Mrs. Snow.

Indeed, it was Durban who came, dragging after him a large beam. With a strength of which Beatrice had never thought so stout a man was capable, he caught this in the middle, and, retiring for a few paces, made a run at the door. It burst open with the shock, and, dropping the beam, Durban went inside. Mrs. Snow drew Beatrice back.

"It is not for you to see," she said sharply.

"How dare you stop me!" said the girl, angry at the liberty, and pushing Mrs. Snow away, she ran forward.

Durban tried to keep her out, but she managed to gain a glimpse of a stiff figure lying on the floor under the mahogany desk.

"Oh, good Heavens!" shrieked the girl; "his throat has been cut!"

"So was Colonel Hall's!" muttered Mrs. Snow, and stole a glance at Durban, which made the man turn even greyer than he already was.