n the air is clear, from the east window of Scarthey keep, the tall
garden front of greystone is visible, in the extreme distance, against
the darker screen of foliage; whitely glinting if the sun is high;
golden or rosy at the end of day.

As its name implies, Pulwick Priory stands on the site of an extinct
religious house; its oldest walls, in fact, were built from the spoils
of once sacred masonry. It is a house of solid if not regular
proportions, full of unexpected quaintness; showing a medley of
distinct styles, in and out; it has a wide portico in the best
approved neo-classic taste, leading to romantic oaken stairs; here
wide cheerful rooms and airy corridors, there sombre vaulted basements
and mysterious unforeseen nooks.

On the whole, however, it is a harmonious pile of buildings, though
gathering its character from many different centuries, for it has been
mellowed by time, under a hard climate. And it was, in the days of the
pride of the Landales, a most meet dwelling-place for that ancient
race, insomuch as the history of so many of their ancestors was
written successively upon stone and mortar, brick and tile, as well
as upon carved oak, canvas-decked walls, and emblazoned windows.

* * * * *

Exactly one week before the disaster, which was supposed to have
befallen Mademoiselle Molly de Savenaye on Scarthey sands, the acting
Lord of Pulwick, if one may so term Mr. Rupert Landale, had received a
letter, the first reading of which caused him a vivid annoyance,
followed by profound reflection.

A slightly-built, dark-visaged man, this younger brother of Sir
Adrian, and vicarious master of his house and lands; like to the
recluse in his exquisite neatness of attire, somewhat like also in the
mould of his features, which were, however, more notably handsome than
Sir Adrian's; but most unlike him, in an emphasised artificiality of
manner, in a restless and wary eye, and in the curious twist of a thin
lip which seemed to give hidden sarcastic meaning even to the most
ordinary remark.

As now he sat by his desk, his straight brows drawn over his
amber-coloured eyes, perusing the closely written sheets of this
troublesome missive, there entered to him the long plaintive figure of
his maiden sister, who had held house for him, under his own minute
directions, ever since the death in premature child-birth of his young
year-wed wife.

Miss Landale, the eldest of the family, ha