Not a word was said to Laura when she returned as to the scene which had occurred in her absence. She was in the gayest of spirits, and merrily about her purchases and her arrangements, wondering from time to time when Haw would come. As night fell, however, without any word from him, she became uneasy.  
“What can be the matter that he does not come?” she said. “It is the first day since our engagement that I have not seen him.”
 
Robert looked out through the window.
 
“It is a night, and raining hard,” he remarked. “I do not at all expect him.”
 
“Poor Hector used to come, rain, snow, or fine. But, then, of course, he was a sailor. It was nothing to him. I hope that Raffles is not ill.”
 
“He was quite well when I saw him this morning,” answered her brother, and they relapsed into silence, while the rain pattered against the windows, and the wind screamed amid the branches of the elms outside.
 
Old McIntyre had sat in the corner most of the day biting his nails and into the fire, with a brooding, expression upon his wrinkled features. Contrary to his usual habits, he did not go to the village inn, but off early to bed without a word to his children. Laura and Robert remained chatting for some time by the fire, she talking of the thousand and one wonderful things which were to be done when she was mistress of the New Hall. There was less philanthropy in her talk when her future husband was absent, and Robert could not but remark that her carriages, her dresses, her receptions, and her travels in distant countries were the topics into which she threw all the enthusiasm which he had heard her upon refuge homes and labour organisations.
 
“I think that greys are the nicest horses,” she said. “Bays are nice too, but greys are more showy. We could manage with a brougham and a landau, and perhaps a high dog-cart for Raffles. He has the coach-house full at present, but he never uses them, and I am sure that those fifty horses would all die for want of exercise, or get livers like Strasburg geese, if they waited for him to ride or drive them.”
 
“I suppose that you will still live here?” said her brother.
 
“We must have a house in London as well, and run up for the season. I don't, of course, like to make suggestions now, but it will be different afterwards. I am sure that Raffles will do it if I ask him. It is all very well for him to say that he does not want any thanks or honours, but I should like to know what is the use of being a public if you are to have no return for it. I am sure that if he does only half what he talks of doing, they will make him a peer—Lord Tamfield, perhaps—and then, of course, I shall be my Lady Tamfield, and what would you think of that, Bob?” She dropped him a stately curtsey, and tossed her head in the air, as one who was born to wear a coronet.
 
“Father must be pensioned off,” she remarked presently. “He shall have so much a year on condition that he keeps away. As to you, Bob, I don't know what we shall do for you. We shall make you President of the Royal Academy if money can do it.”
 
It was late before they ceased building their air-castles and to their rooms. But Robert's brain was excited, and he could not sleep. The events of the day had been enough to shake a stronger man. There had been the revelation of the morning, the strange sights which he had witnessed in the laboratory, and the immense secret which had been to his keeping. Then there had been his conversation with his father in the afternoon, their disagreement, and the sudden intrusion of Raffles Haw. Finally the talk with his sister had excited his imagination, and driven sleep from his . In vain he turned and twisted in his bed, or paced the floor of his . He was not only awake, but abnormally awake, with every nerve highly strung, and every sense at the keenest. What was he to do to gain a little sleep? It flashed across him that there was brandy in the decanter downstairs, and that a glass might act as a .
 
He had opened the door of his room, when suddenly his ear caught the sound of slow and stealthy footsteps upon the stairs. His own lamp was unlit, but a dim came from a moving , and a long black shadow travelled down the wall. He stood motionless, listening intently. The steps were in the hall now, and he heard a gentle creaking as the key was cautiously turned in the door. The next instant there came a of cold air, the taper was extinguished, and a sharp snap announced that the door had been closed from without.
 
Robert stood astonished. Who could this night wanderer be? It must be his father. But what errand could take him out at three in the morning? And such a morning, too! With every blast of the wind the rain beat up against his chamber-window as though it would drive it in. The glass in the frames, and the tree outside creaked and as its great branches were tossed about by the . What could draw any man upon such a night?
 
Hurriedly Robert struck a match and lit his lamp. His father's room was opposite his own, and the door was ajar. He pushed it open and looked about him. It was empty. The bed had not even been lain upon. The single chair stood by the window, and there the old man must have sat since he left them. There was no book, no paper, no means by which he could have amused himself, nothing but a razor-strop lying on the window-sill.
 
A feeling of misfortune struck cold to Robert's heart. There was some ill-meaning in this journey of his father's. He thought of his brooding of yesterday, his face, his bitter threats. Yes, there was some it. But perhaps he might even now be in time to prevent it. There was no use calling Laura. She could be no help in the matter. He hurriedly threw on his clothes, himself in his top-coat, and, seizing his hat and stick, he set off after his father.
 
As he came out into the village street the wind whirled down it, so that he had to put his ear and shoulder against it, and push his way forward. It was better, however, when he turned into the lane. The high bank and the hedge sheltered him upon one side. The road, however, was deep in mud, and the rain fell in a steady swish. Not a soul was to be seen, but he needed to make no , for he knew whither his father had gone as certainly as though he had seen him.
 
The iron side gate of the avenue was half open, and Robert stumbled his way up the gravelled drive amid the dripping fir-trees. What could his father's intention be when he reached the Hall? Was it merely that he wished to spy and prowl, or did he inte............