The Maze was an old-fashioned, curious house inside, full of angles and passages and nooks and corners. Its rooms were small, and not many in number, the principal ones being fitted up with dark mahogany wainscoting. The windows were all casement windows with the exception of two: into those, modern sashes of good size had been placed by the late owner and occupant, Mr. Throcton. At Mr. Throcton\'s death the property was put up for sale and was bought by Sir Joseph Andinnian, furniture and all, just as it stood. Or, it may rather be said, was bought by Lady Andinnian; for the whim to buy it was hers. Just after the purchase had been entirely completed Lady Andinnian sickened and died. Sir Joseph, ill at the time, did nothing whatever with the new place; so that on his death it came into the possession of his heirs in exactly the same state as when it was purchased. They let it be also, and it remained shut up. According to what Mr. Smith informed Miss Blake--and he was in the main correct, though not quite--Mrs. Grey had come to it and taken possession while Mrs. Andinnian lay ill at Foxwood and her son Karl was in attendance on her. But the little fable the agent had made use of--that he had gone over to the Maze to receive the premium from Mrs. Grey on taking possession--had no foundation in fact. He had certainly gone to the Maze and seen the lady called Mrs. Grey, but not to receive a premium, for she paid none.

The two rooms into which sash windows had been placed were--the one that faced Miss Blake when she had penetrated to the confines of the Maze on that unlucky day, and within which she had seen the unconscious Mrs. Grey; and the one above it. They were at the end of the house, looking towards the entrance gates. Into this upper room the reader must pay a night visit. It was used as a sitting-room. The same dark mahogany wainscoting lined the walls as in the room below, the furniture was dark and heavy-looking; and, in spite of the sultry heat of the night, the shutters were closed before the window and dull crimson curtains of damask wool were drawn across them. There was nothing bright in the appendages of the room, save the lighted lamp on the table and a crystal vase of hothouse flowers.

Seated at the table at work--the making of an infant\'s frock--was
Mrs. Grey. Opposite to her, in the space between the table and the fire-place, sat Sir Karl; and by her side, facing him--Adam Andinnian.

It is more than probable that this will be no surprise; that the reader has already divined the truth of the secret, and all the miserable complication it had brought and was bringing in its train. It was not Adam Andinnian who had died in that fatal scuffle off Portland Island--or more strictly speaking, off Weymouth--but one of the others who had been concerned in it.

Yes, there he sat, in life and in health; his speech as free, his white and beautiful teeth not less conspicuous than of yore--Sir Adam Andinnian. Karl, sitting opposite with his grave, sad face, was not in reality Sir Karl and never had been.

But Adam Andinnian was altered. The once fine black hair, which it had used to please him to wear long in the neck, was now short, scanty, and turned to grey; his once fine fresh colour had given place to pallor, and he was growing a beard that looked grey and stubbly. Decidedly old-looking now, as compared with the past, was Adam Andinnian. He wore evening dress: just as though he had been attired for a dinner party--say--at Foxwood Court. Mrs. Grey--as she was called, though she was in reality Lady Andinnian wore a summer dress of clear white muslin, through which might be seen her white neck and arms. It was the pleasure of her husband, Sir Adam, that in the evening, when only he dared to come out of his hiding-shell, they should keep up, in attire at least, some semblance of the state that ought to have been theirs.

"I can tell you, Karl, that I don\'t approve of it," Sir Adam was saying, with all his old haughty bearing and manner. "It\'s a regular scandal. What business has any one to set up such a thing on my land?"

"It\'s Truefit\'s land for the time being, you know, Adam. He gave the consent."

"A parcel of foolish people--be-vanitied boys of self-called priests, and be-fooled girls, running and racing to the place four or five times a day under pretence of worship!" continued Sir Adam, getting up to pace the room in his excitement, as though he would have burst through its small confines. "I won\'t permit it, Karl."

He seemed to have got somewhat shorter, and his walk had a limp in it. But he was the same hasty, fiery, Adam Andinnian. A man cannot well change his nature.

"I do not see how it is to be prevented," was Karl\'s answer. "It will not do in our position, to raise a stir over anything, or to make enemies. I daresay it will bring itself to an end some way or other."

"The whole parish is making fun of it, I find: Ann hears it talked of when she goes on errands. And it is a downright insult on Mr. Sumnor. What a curious-minded person that Miss Blake must be! Rose"--Sir Adam halted close to his wife--"if ever you put your foot inside this St. Jerome\'s I\'ll not forgive you."

She lifted her eyes to his from the baby\'s frock. "I am not likely to go to it, Adam."

"The empty-headed creatures that girls are, now-a-days! If
bull-baiting came up, they\'d run off to it, just as readily as the good girls of former days would run from any approach of evil to take shelter under their mother\'s wing. Does your wife frequent St. Jerome\'s, Karl?"

"Oh no."

"She shows her sense."

Karl Andinnian smiled. "You have not lost the old habit, Adam--the putting yourself into a heat for nothing. I came over this evening to have some serious talk with you. Do sit down."

"Yes do, Adam," added his wife, turning to him; "you will get the pain in your hip again. Do you wish me to go away?" she added to Karl, as she prepared to gather up her working materials.

"No, no, Rose: it\'s only the old story, I know--the wanting to get rid of me," interposed Sir Adam, sitting down himself. "Stay where you are, wife. Now for it, Karl.--Wait a moment, though" he added, ringing the bell.

It was answered by the same staid, respectable-looking servant seen by Miss Blake; the same confidential woman who had lived with Mrs. Andinnian at Weymouth--Ann Hopley.

"Ann, I am as thirsty as a fish," said her master. "Bring up a bottle of soda-water and a dash of brandy."

"Yes, sir," she replied--not daring now or at any other time to give him his title.

He opened the soda-water himself when it was brought, put in the brandy, drank it, and sat down again. Karl Andinnian began to speak, feeling an innate certainty that his words would be wasted ones.

But some explanation of the past is necessary, and it may as well be given here.

When Karl Andinnian went down from London to Weymouth upon the news of his brother\'s attempted escape and death, he found his mother in a dreadful state of distress--as already related. This distress was not put on: indeed such distress it would not be possible to assume: for Mrs. Andinnian believed the public accounts--that Adam was dead. After she had despatched Karl to Foxwood to make arrangements for the interment, the truth was disclosed to her, Sir Adam had escaped with life, and was lying concealed in Weymouth; but he had been terribly knocked about in the scuffle, and in fact had been considered dead. By the careless stupidity of one of the warders, or else by his connivance, Mrs. Andinnian never entirely knew which, he was reported at the prison as being dead--and perhaps the prison thought itself well rid of so obstreperous an inmate. The warders had said one to another from the time he was first put there, that that Andinnian gentleman had "mischief" in him. Further explanation may be given later on in the story: at present it is enough to say that Adam Andinnian escaped.

When Mrs. Andinnian arrived with the body (supposed to be her son\'s) at Foxwood, she then knew the truth. Adam was not dead. He was lying somewhere in great danger; they would not, from motives Of prudence, allow her to know where; but, dead he was not. Not a hint did she disclose of this to Karl; and he stood by her side over the grave, believing it was his brother that was placed in it. She called him Sir Karl; she never gave him a hint that his succession to the title and estates was but a pseudo one; she suffered him to depart in the false belief. Perhaps she did not dare to speak of it, even to him. Karl went abroad, re-met Lucy Cleeve, and became engaged to her. He caused the marriage settlements to be drawn up and signed, still never dreaming that he had no legal right to settle, that the revenues were not his. Only when he went down to Foxwood, a day or two before his marriage, did he become acquainted with the truth.

That was the dread secret disclosed to him by his mother; that, in her fear, she had made him take an oath to keep--"Adam is not dead." Just at the first moment Karl thought her intellects must be wandering: but as she proceeded in a few rapid words to tell of his escape, of his dangerous illness, of his lying even then, hidden away from the terrors of the law, all the dreadful position of his ill-fated brother rushed over Karl as in one long agony. He saw in vivid colours the hazard Adam was running--and must ever run, until either death or recapture should overtake him; he saw as if portrayed in a mirror the miserable future that lay before him, the lonely fugitive he must be.

To Karl Andinnian\'s mind, no fate in this world could be so miserable. Even death on the scaffold would to himself have been preferable to this lifetime of living dread. He had loved his brother with a keen love; and he felt this almost as a death-blow: he could have died in his love and pity, if by that means his brother might be saved. Mingling with this regret had come the thought of his own changed position, and that he ought not to marry.

This he said. But Mrs. Andinnian pointed out to him that his position would not be so very materially altered. Such was her conviction. That she herself, by connivance with one of the warders, had mainly contributed to the step Adam had taken, that she had been the first to put it into his head, and set him on to attempt it, she was all too remorsefully conscious of. Now that he had escaped, and was entered in the prison rolls as dead, and lay hidden away in some hole or corner, not daring to come out of it, or to let into it the light of day, she saw what she had done. Not even to her might his hiding-place be disclosed. She saw that his future life must be, at the very best, that of a nameless exile--if, by good fortune, he could make his escape from his own land. If? His person was rather a remarkable one, and well known to his enemies the police force. Not one, perhaps, but had his photograph. A fugitive in some barren desert, unfrequented by man, where he must drag on a solitary life of expatriation! Not much of his income would be needed for this.

"You will have to occupy Foxwood as its master; you must be Sir Karl to the world as you are now," spoke Mrs. Andinnian; "and it is your children who will inherit after you. There is no reason whatever for breaking off your marriage, or for altering any of the arrangements. You will have to pay a certain sum yearly to Adam out of the estate. He will not need it long, poor fellow; a man\'s life, banned to the extent his will be, eats itself away soon."

Hemmed in by perplexities of all kinds, Karl\'s interview with his mother ended, and he went forth with his care and trouble. His own trouble would have been enough, but it was as nothing to that felt for his brother. He dared not tell the truth to Colonel Cleeve or to Lucy, or impart the slightest hint that his brother was alive; he almost as little dared, for Lucy\'s sake, to break off the marriage. And so it took place.

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