ocket and gave her half a crown.

"I suppose you don't mind my looking round the house," I suggested. "I
should like to see it once more before I leave Bath."

"Well," she said hesitatingly, "I'm afraid it's against orders, but----"

The woman who hesitates is lost; she let me in.

I went with her straight down to the sitting-room. It was locked, but
she had the key for cleaning purposes, and let me in.

"It looks very dreary now, don't it, sir," she queried, "in spite of
all the china and finery and that?"

Yes, she was right, the room by daylight looked very dismal; the broken
looking-glass over the mantelpiece did not improve its appearance.

I would have given a good deal to have been able to open the safe again
if I had had the key with me and to see if it contained any further
secrets, but this, for the present, was out of the question.

I had, however, the satisfaction of knowing that the place was well
guarded, and was not likely to be interfered with perhaps for years. I
went into the other rooms--the sergeant and his wife were occupying the
kitchens--and found nothing there but dust. One or two were locked up,
but it was perfectly impossible to see what was in them. An inspection
of the keyholes revealed only darkness. I came down from the top
storey with a sigh at its desolation.

I left the old place and walked rather sadly down the long street back
to my hotel.

I wondered as I went what had become of the poor wounded old lady;
whether she had died and her body was thrust away somewhere in hiding
without Christian burial, or did she by some miracle still live? But
this latter suggestion seemed an utter impossibility from the state in
which I had left her. So I packed up, and on the next morning, with my
two cousins, left the tower of Bath Abbey behind and started _en route_
for Bannington Hall, the Mid Norfolk mansion of Lord St. Nivel.

The Vanboroughs were relatives of my mother's; she was one of that
noble family, and the present peer's aunt. Dear soul, she had long
since gone to her rest, following my father, the Chancery Judge, in
about a year after his own demise.

The Vanboroughs were celebrated for their beauty, and my mother had
been no exception to the rule. My rather stern, sad features had, I
suppose, come from my father, but still I think I had my mother's eyes,
and a look of her about the mouth when I smiled.

At least my cousin, Ethel Vanborough, said I had.

There w