And here was another mystery: Dora never learnt the good news which Pallant had brought to Edermont. The little man had fainted with excess of joy, and was carried off to bed by Joad; while Pallant took his leave of Dora, and was escorted by her to the gate. He smiled as she turned the key of the lock.  
"No need for that now," said he, passing through the gate. "Mr. Edermont can sleep in peace without bolt or bar."
 
"On account of what you have told him to-day?"
 
", Miss Carew; on account of what I have told him to-day."
 
Dora looked at his mouth, at his bold blue eyes, and asked a question which had been in her mind since she had seen him from the window.
 
"Were you sent by Lady Burville to tell this news, Mr. Pallant?"
 
"No; I came of my own accord. May I ask what you know of Lady Burville?"
 
"I know nothing," said Dora gloomily. "I wish I did."
 
"Why, Miss Carew?"
 
The girl did not reply. Pallant was a stranger to her, and she did not care to tell him of her belief that the fatal name of Lady Burville had made trouble between herself and Allen. Pallant noticed her .
 
"I see you do not wish to speak to me openly," he said, sneering, "yet you may be glad to do so some day. Good-day, Miss Carew, and remember my words."
 
His horse was tethered to the wall, and on bidding her farewell he mounted to ride off. From the saddle he looked down at her fair face and smiled. Then he made a strange remark:
 
"I shall give you one last warning, Miss Carew: Beware of Allen Scott!"
 
The girl stared after him in surprise. Was all the world in to torture her with hints and mysteries? Joad, Edermont, Allen and Mrs. Tice all knew of something about which they refused to speak. It would seem that Pallant--a complete stranger--was also of the same knowledge. What did he mean by his warning? What had he to do with Allen Scott, or even with Edermont? Dora felt as though she were spied upon by a hundred eyes; as though she were playing a mechanical part in some terrible drama, without knowing plot, or actors, or end. She was ignorant, and therefore helpless.
 
For the next few days she tried to learn from Joad and her what all these doings meant. Both of them refused to speak, and the tension of Dora's nerves was only relaxed by a letter from Allen, in which he stated that he would return on the second of August, and would see her the next day.
 
"He means to explain," thought the girl, putting the welcome letter away in her desk. "In two or three days I shall know why he quarrelled with my guardian, and why Mr. Pallant warned me against him. But I must scold Allen for his neglect."
 
The communication relieved her greatly. Of late she had been so bewildered and that she had almost doubted whether Allen loved her truly. Yet he had told her so a hundred times, and she was satisfied that he truly, from that subtle instinct which never deceives a woman. He loved her, he adored her, and none other than she would ever be his wife. Before that belief the prophecies of Mrs. Tice and Edermont, the strange warning of Pallant, counted as nothing. Dora believed that Allen loved her, and could explain away all the mysteries of the past weeks. In that belief she was content to wait.
 
And all this time Mr. Edermont was surprisingly bright. A weight appeared to have been lifted off his shoulders, and he looked ten years younger. He was scarcely past fifty, notwithstanding his white locks and beard; and he began to talk of leaving his and going out to mix with the world once more. Dora knew that he had a large income, and could afford to live in the most manner. It had often been a surprise to her that he had lived so long in and almost . From circumstances she gathered that he had for years been labouring under a of death by violence, hence his anxiety that the house should be carefully locked up. Now that dread had been removed--as he more than hinted--by a communication from Pallant, and he could take life easily. Looking back on the fears which had haunted him these twenty years, Dora no longer wondered at the and terror of the creature. Rather was she astonished that with so terrific a shadow to fight he had kept himself out of a lunatic . Stronger men than he to such influences.
 
From force of habit Edermont still locked up the house at night; he still sent Joad to the cottage over the road; but he no longer trembled at that tremendous prayer of the Litany, nor did he look round the church searching for a possible danger. Whatever the mystery of his life could be--and Dora was quite unable to guess it--that mystery had been done away with, and Edermont talked of fraternizing again with his fellow-creatures.
 
One thing struck her as odd. When he recovered from the excess of joy caused by the communication of Pallant, he wrote a letter, and this he was particular to post himself. As a rule, Joad attended to the of such rare epistles as were sent from the Red House, so Dora was astonished that her guardian should be so anxious about this especial letter. It occurred to her that it might possibly have been sent to Lady Burville, with whom she felt certain her guardian was connected in some underhanded way. But she had never learnt if her belief were correct. What she did learn, however, was that Edermont wrote to Allen at Canterbury during the last days of July; also, he sent a third letter, but to whom Dora did not know. The first and last of these communications were posted with his own hand; the middle one had been delivered to Joad in the usual way.
 
On the night of the second of August, Edermont dismissed Joad as usual, and locked the gates according to custom. Then he returned to bolt and bar the house. In his study he found Dora awaiting him.
 
"You have not seen to the little postern," she said.
 
"No matter," he replied impatiently. "I suppose it is locked; if not--why, I can afford to leave it as it is and sleep in peace. There is no more danger for me now."
 
"Of what danger are you talking, Mr. Edermont?"
 
"What is that to you?" he retorted with weak . "Why are you here? Go to bed and leave my business alone!"
 
"I will go to bed when you have answered me one question."
 
"Only one?" he . "You are more moderate than most women. Well?"
 
"Why have you written to Allen Scott?"
 
"Who told you I had done so?"
 
"Mr. Joad."
 
"He is too !" cried Edermont angrily. "If he does not take care I shall dismiss him! What right had he to show you that letter?"
 
"Because he knows that I am engaged to Allen."
 
"I tell you the engagement must be broken off."
 
"Why, Mr. Edermont?" asked Dora indignantly.
 
"Allen will tell you. I wrote to him to call and see me. When he comes you shall speak to him in my presence, and from his own lips you shall hear that he can never be your husband."
 
"Until then I decline to consider the engagement as broken," said Dora, very pale, but firm. "I am not going to be your dupe, Mr. Edermont. I shall force you to explain."
 
"I--I forbid you to--to speak to me like this!" cried Edermont, shrinking back.
 
"I shall speak as I choose--I am tired of your selfish tyranny; and if Allen does not make me his wife, I shall go out into the world to earn my own living. At least I have enough to live on."
 
"Enough to live on?" he replied slowly. "Perhaps yes, perhaps no."
 
"What do you mean, sir?" she demanded imperiously.
 
A smile played over the face of Mr. Edermont, and he his shoulders.
 
"Wait till Allen comes: then you may learn more than you care to listen to. Now go to bed. By the way, what about your toothache?"
 
"Toothache?"
 
"Joad said something about it," was Edermont's impatient remark; "you told him that toothache kept you awake at night."
 
"Very true. My nights have been for the last few weeks. I have heard that sounding chime in the hall clock ring from midnight till dawn. But my tooth is better to-night, thank you. I have no pain, so there is every hope that I shall have a good night's rest."
 
"I am glad of that, my dear," said Edermont in a softer tone than was usual with him. "I would be fond of you, Dora, if you would let me. Remember, all these years I have stood in the place of a father to you."
 
"I do not forget that, Mr. Edermont," answered Dora ; "you have been goodness itself. The parents I have lost could not have been kinder to me."
 
"Perhaps not so kind," said Edermont, sitting on the chair in front of his desk. "I need not talk to you about your parents, Dora."
 
"Why not, Mr. Edermont? I should like to know----"
 
"A great many things," interrupted the old man gloomily; "but for reasons of my own, which you may learn some day, I am not prepared to gratify your curiosity; and after all," he added in a significant tone, "it would do you no good to hear the story."
 
"It would do me this much good," said Dora spiritedly: "I should learn the obstacle which is a bar to my marriage with Allen."
 
"What would be the use of your knowing the obstacle, Dora? You will never get rid of it--take my word for that. Now good-night."
 
"Good-night," replied Dora, thinking it useless to argue further.
 
"I think you might kiss me before you go," Edermont. "I stand in the place of your father."
 
Without a word, Dora returned and touched the forehead of the old man with her fresh young lips. As she passed through the door, a glance back showed her a picture which never left her memory in afterlife. Edermont, his noble head with its white hair leaning on his hand, sat by the bureau in gloomy thought. A single candle served rather to show than to the darkness; and in the of pale hollowed out of the gloom the man looked like some famous portrait by an old master. The burden of years was visible in his silvery hair and beard of snow; the burden of sorrow marked itself in the hollow eyes, the wrinkled cheek and forehead, the wasted hands. He looked the incarnation of eld as seen in that light, in that tenebrous atmosphere. Dora never forgot that sight.
 
Once in her room, she lost no time in getting to bed. Her sleepless nights of the past week had worn her out; and now that the pain had left her tooth, she was glad to take advantage of the . At first she thought about her guardian and his ; afterwards of Allen's strange behaviour; lastly, her thoughts wandered to Joad's sly looks and hinted terrors, until sleep rolled like a wave over her weary brain, and she became of the material world. Nature revenged herself for many vigils, and her into sound .
 
How long she had been asleep she did not know, but suddenly, for some reason, she woke with a start, and sat up in the bed, her nerves strung to their utmost tension, all on the alert. It seemed to her that she had heard a cry for help, a wild appeal for mercy; but now that she was listening with all her will, she could hear nothing. All was dark and quiet: not a sound broke the silence of the still night. After a moment or two, Dora believed that she had mistaken a dream for a reality, and, laughing softly at her own , lay down again to sleep. As her head touched the pillow, the deep bell of the hall clock chimed "one." Remembering how often she had heard those dreary tones in the past week, Dora smiled to herself, and was soon fast asleep again. When she again woke it was dawn.
 
Someone was knocking furiously at the door of the bedroom. Dora leaped out of her bed, unlocked it, and flung it wide open. Meg Gance, the cook, stood shaking on the threshold, as pale as a ghost.
 
"Miss Dora! O Lord, miss!" the terrified woman. "The master is--is--is dead!"
 
"Dead?" replied Dora in a dazed tone.
 
"Murdered! And his head! O Lord! 'tis bashed in like a !"